Tomorrow's Book

Some day, I’m going to write a book called, “What Happened to Them.”

It’ll be the stories of the people I’ve known.

Like Howard Katzenstein who became a pediatric oncologist.

And David Shelist who sells expensive blue jeans in downtown Chicago.

And Ascha Drake who I kissed on a hot night in front a Chagall in the South Loop and who worked in Bedstuy as an art teacher before moving to Oakland.

And Brian Schlager who broke his back doing motocross and healed up fine.

And Carrie Connelly who danced in the Chicago ballet and didn’t marry Joe Brent.

And Lisa Young who smoked cigarettes when she baby sat us and taught all the kids to blow smoke rings.

And Mary Mangold who made me crazy hard and said sex hurt too much to have and later lost her son in Afghanistan.

And Robert, the first to lead me out of the bottom of the well made by my own self-centeredness.

And Kerry Lehman who wore socks like Elaine on Seinfeld did and could art direct like crazy.

And Jane from Putney who was posh and blonde and wanted me to do so much more.

And Graham who loved Dylan and told me if we were gay we’d be lovers.

And so many more. Everyone. Including Kenny Carbocci and Kari K. and Beth and woman name Rachael that my grandmother suspected was Jewish.

And Ira and Andy and Georges and Edna and Jose and Glenn and Amy (S) and Glen (of the bookstore) and Liz and Andy (from JWT) and Mahboob and the Brents and John Southworth and Maureen McCarthy and the Wilkie’s and the Sheppard’s across the street and Paul Pfieffer and Cameron Galloway and so many more still to be remembered people.

And maybe even my therapists…. Emily and Howard and Scilla and Peter and Lynn and who knows.

Yep. All of them.

It’ll have pictures and everything and hold their voices in wood.

Because it will be interesting to see the their stories and the larger story they tell when I’m not always putting myself at the center of everything.