This is Douglas. You knew exactly who he was the minute you saw him on the other side of the basement bar: cheap scotch with a beer back, tattered Kerouac paperbacks, pocketknife, LPs of Leadbelly and Johnny Cash. You weren't actually expecting the motorcycle, but to be fair it was hard to picture him riding the subway or taking a cab. "What are you doing in the city, anyway?" you asked and without a word he took you by the hand and put you on the bike and after two hours you were at his cabin (a pond, a barn he restored himself, a stand of pines to hide his homegrown). Three days later you put your clothes back on and he drove you back home. You figured you'd never see him again. You didn't.
(Image by Mario Sorrenti)
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