Chapter Ten (August 18, 2004) (Draft)

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

(Delta Flight to Omaha, Nebraska)

I would never see Stoney again.

I have no pictures of him, and yet his image remains grooved in my mind–my first real love, however ill conceived.

Shortly after we parted, I drew a picture of him from memory. I needed to take something from that relationship, to make sense of that whirlwind month.

I may still have that charcoal somewhere, hidden in my attic.

Seems odd to me now, but I never knew much about him: where he came from; who his parents were; where he was born and where he went to high school; what he thought about; his real politics (though we pretended to be liberals); his religion; and his hopes, dreams, aspirations.

I don’t even know if the full name he gave me was genuine or fake.

In 1969, this is what I knew about Stoney: he liked rocks, rock music, and dope; he was born February 2, 1948 (or maybe 1949), making him an Aquarius; and he was tall and handsome in a dangerous sort of way: large amber eyes, slightly slanted, with long dark eyelashes; porcelain skin; and dark wavy hair, cut fairly short–above his shoulders.

He reminded me of the smooth-talking, slick version of the devil.

This is what I now know about Stoney: he didn’t like or respect women very much.

This is what else I know: The day he split for New York, I was dealt the luckiest hand of my life.

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