Sheldon

My friend George tells me that those last two pictures (I’ll post ’em again) were not taken when I was 13 but were from something my college published. He thinks everyone has a steel trap memory like he has always had. Believe me, my memory is a lot better, and a lot handier because it fills in the gaps with fiction. And I’ll stick with fiction over fact any month with 28 days or more.

I don’t know why he addresses me as Sheldon, unless it’s a character on a tv show I never watched, or it could be a notorious liar from our mutual past.

I assure you, dear reader, I have very few memories from Lehman college (the Bronx). I had just graduated from a rough all male school where there were three types of groups: murderers and stick up artists, intellectual geniuses, and everyone else (the prey).

This was 1969. And I didn’t fit into any of these groups, well, maybe leader of the prey group.

When I walked onto Lehman college the only thing I saw were girls. (Most of whom couldn’t beat you up.) For me, it was like going to some lascivious paradise. One girl in particular, I got to know a little bit in my philosophy class. I mostly remember that she always wore white ribbed sweaters, that were a few sizes too small.

One day, the teacher (epistemology) says he’s organizing an anarchy club to discuss (what else, Anarchy) and invites a few of us privately. Ribbed sweater is amongst them. I quickly volunteer.

Long story short: she ends up sleeping with the teacher (who is handing out pot); and the club has exactly two meetings before it devolves into anarchy.