he was a sheltered brain from inside the crime belt of detroit. i was at the hiring meeting and when i came to know him later i told him that mostly he was hired because they thought it was cool that he was black. he laughed and said if they were so stupid to give him a job for that reason, he was happy to take advantage of the situation.

his apartment was mostly furnished with sci-fi--books, comics, video tapes. i don't think he was emulating spockian detachment when he told me he didn't understand sex. had no interest in it. i thought about trying to introduce him to it, then realized that if it wasn't true, i wouldn't be doing him a favor, and if it were true, i'd just be violating him.

one day he stayed late after his shift, or maybe it was that he came in early. he had a little book of his drawings with him, like the notebooks 12 year old boys carry around with their smudgy penciled rocket cars, flames shooting out the back. he was designing his dream pod house of the future. he asked me what i wanted in the room he was making for me, and then i knew i had touched him in a way that mattered.

he moved west, hitching along with a guy we called andy boy from the boxes of broccoli delivered to the restaurants kitchen. andy boy was one of the cooks and he smoked a lot of dope and played drums and was in a band, or had friends who were in a band, or maybe just friends with a spare room, or something, somewhere in california. they gave me their address but the letter came back. for a long time i wondered where my friend was but when your name is dave taylor you can hide anywhere.