Someone from my distant, murky past has tracked me down. Damn Google, that tool of the devil.
We were in the Theatre Department together back at the University of Southwestern Louisiana, long before it became the University of Louisiana at Lafayette.
He reminded me of our late-night, philosophical/artistic conversations over coffee and endless Marlboro's at the local Pitt Grill.
Hmm, I still do that - only now it's over rum and Benson and Hedges Menthol Lights at the neighborhood dive.
He tells me he's doing well, had lived in Boston (small world, eh?) for twenty-four years, but now he's in Boca Raton.
He has a website showcasing his photography. His name is David.
David. I've known a handful of Davids in my life. They are usually loyal and true, strong and stalwart. Even when they are little and puny, short and fat, or tall and scrawny.
Now I wonder whatever became of Marilyn Stanzel. She was beautiful - like Joan Baez - one of our classmates, David's and mine, a lovely actor. But she went in for the scruffy, bad boys back then. So I never got a piece.
I hope she's well.
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