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[David Morris]

This is the part that gets creepy:

"One night a few weeks later we were walking along Riverside Park. I
spotted them first. “Look,” I said, “the Pynchons.”

We held a brief whispered conference. Should we talk to them again? We
didn’t really have anything to say. Should we follow them, try to hear
what they talk about? She thought this was a little weird. It was a
little weird, but maybe this time I’d encounter the real Pynchon, the
private Pynchon, not the one I’d ambushed into small talk on the
mezzanine of Carnegie Hall.

We hovered a dozen feet behind them, straining to overhear without
being too obvious about it"

[...]

"I’ll admit we followed them all the way home. It was a quiet walk.
Sometimes they spoke to each other, but it was too noisy on the
streets to overhear much of anything. I was almost ready to follow
them into their building, even their apartment, but my fiancée was
growing increasingly mortified. So in the end I was left only with a
few fragments. From an author of such vast linguistic gifts, sprawling
syntax and kaleidoscopic diction, I’d heard a few words that a toddler
might have spoken: flowers, nice moon, cops."