WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN

 I spent about a half hour studying the black and white photograph that an old pledge brother had emailed me. The picture of my Phi Epsilon Pi fraternity pledge class (1958) showed sixteen young men each dressed in sports jacket and necktie. Think Brooks Brothers. Short hair, no beards. 

 The expression “clean cut” comes to mind. All of us are smiling - brandishing orthodontically straightened white teeth - as we look with optimism into the future. 1954 was that kind of time. The place was the University of Illinois - Urbana/Champaign. Father Knows Best was big on TV. Everyone was talking about Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront. Elvis was just getting started. Gas cost about 25 cents a gallon. A new house could be had for a little over $10,000. Grandfatherly President Dwight Eisenhower signed the new social security bill into law. Zealous communist hunter Joe McCarthy was censored by his fellow senators. As I sand, it was that kind of time.

 Of the sixteen college freshmen in the photograph, three have died. The whereabouts of one, Barry Simon, are unknown. There’s Barry in the front row, third from the left. This story is about Barry.

 I met Barry Simon at Senn High School on Chicago’s north side; although we were never what I would call friends. I suppose we didn’t have that much in common and, as I think about it, that relationship didn’t change when we both pledged Phi Ep. Barry struck me as a spoiled rich kid whose parents lived in a luxurious apartment on Lake Shore Drive. He was small in stature, more cute than handsome and he had an annoying habit of giggling when he spoke. When I think of him, the word “soft” comes to mind. Barry had a terrific wardrobe especially cashmere sweaters of which he possessed at least a dozen of various colors and styles. His stylish tie collection was the envy of all of us pledges as well as house members: foulard, striped, solids, flowered - even bows. Occasionally, I would ask Barry if I could borrow one of these beauties. With great reluctance he would sometimes age, but his conditions of quick return and his scrutiny of the returned tie for food stains or rugs use was so rigorous that I stopped asking him, which was, of course, Barry’s preference.

 Barry was an average student enrolled in a School of Commerce. But his interest in business was intense. Everyday a copy of The Wall Street Journal was delivered to Mr. Barry T. Simon (T for Tyler). Barry T. read The Journal from cover to cover. Outside of school books, recreational reading for the rest of us involved purloined glimpses of the few copies of Playboy Magazine that circulated throughout the fraternity house. 

 Why do I note that Barry and I had little in common? After all, we were both Jewish boys from the same high school. We knew many of the same people, attended some classes together. We had even once in awhile dated the same girls. But the connection ended there. I was an athlete - a member of the Senn baseball and track teams. Barry’s father owned several horses, one of which Barry rode on a private bridal path. My friends and I talked endlessly about the Chicago Cubs and Bears. Barry discussed at length on the vagaries of the stock market. My group learned about sex from prostitutes. Barry rarely talked about sex. My bunch played serious poker and smoked cigarettes. Nether of these vices tempted Barry. I wouldn’t say that Barry Simon was a bad guy. He just wasn’t one of my guys.

 Then all at once back in 1954, we were both pledges of the Phi Epsilon Pi fraternity. As I’ve noted; Barry and I didn’t have the same interests. As a matter of fact, I think it would be accurate to say that some of my pledge brothers were tight with Barry. That did not, however, mean that we didn’t get along. As pledge brothers we had to. So we did and that included the very different Barry Tyler Simon. 

 To understand Barry, a brief description of his parents is essential. His father, Lawrence J. Simon ( I never learned what the J stood for) was also well dressed. I didn’t see him often, perhaps three or four times a year but when I did he was always clad in a well-tailored three-piece expensive suit, complemented by a stacked shirt and always a neatly arranged bow tie. His shoes were soft leather, polished to a high shine. He was a bit older than the other dads. Probably in his early sixties. Average in height and somewhat overweight. I got the impression that as a younger man he had been near handsome - before he had gained pounds and lost most of his now gray hair. Lawrence Simon projected success and authority; although, he wasn’t loud or boastful. He was rich and he was well aware that everyone knew it. When I think back these many years, I never saw Mr. Simon without his wife at his side. I don’t know if the expression “trophy wife” was in vogue at that time, but I would say that characterization fit Jenny Simon quite well. She was, I’m guessing, in her early forties, almost as tall as Lawrence and she was not adverse to showing off her long shapely legs. She favored tight-fitting sweaters that emphasized her impressive breasts. And she was pretty with a full sensuous mouth and large hazel eyes. Long honey-blond hair completed the picture. Jenny Simon was hot and as far as one could imagine from the picture of all our other mothers. I suppose that it’s not surprising that everyone of us pledges lusted for Jenny Simon, mother of Barry. Of course, some of us said a word to Barry about our lascivious thoughts. But how could he not know? To complicate Jenny matters, she kind of flaunted her sexuality when she was around us. Very strange though the this temptress - the image of our masturbatory desires was the mother of our prissy pledge brother.

 Mr. Lawrence Simon was a big real estate developer. His company acquired large tracts of then rural property all over the United States and build homes on that property for the expanding suburban population. The rumor was that Lawrence Simon was already a rich man and were on his way to amazing staggering wealth. Mr. Simon’s only son, Barry, was the heir apparent to the Simon fortune. I was vaguely aware of this but it didn’t change my opinion of Barry. He was still sort of a jerk with an amazingly sexy mom.

 It was in our sophomore year that I started to hear gossip about the Simon business. There were hints of financial problems - law suits came to light. Then one day The Wall Street Journal (the newspaper that Barry read religiously) carried a feature article, which stated that the Simon Company was accused by the government of bribing various local officials in order to receive favorable land acquisition deals. The story went on to say that the government meant to show that Lawrence Simon’s criminal behavior would not be condoned. The government intended to make an example of Simon for any other law breaker. Lawrence J. Simon faced the possibility of up to ten years in prison.

 As you might suspect, the effect on Barry of his father’s alleged transgressions was profound. Given how closely his self-confidence was connected to his father’s great wealth and power, how could it have been otherwise? The shame of Lawrence J. became the shame of Barry T. Had he turned to us pledge brothers for solace, he probably would have received our support, even our sympathy. But placing himself in that position of supplicant was impossible for Barry. None of us were surprised when Barry withdrew from school; after a well-publicized trial ended in conviction; his father was sentenced to a prison term of three to five years. The Simon family proceeded to disintegrate. The luscious Jenny expeditiously filed for divorce. The marvelous Lake Shore Drive condo was sold to settle debt and fines - as were all other Simon assets that were searched for and discovered. The story faded, time passed. By my senior year, Lawrence Simon was released from prison. He tried to start another real estate development company without success. The old magic and of course, the old connections were missing. He earned a modest living selling mid-priced homes in one of the very suburbs that he had built years earlier. Some years later, I read his obituary in The Chicago Tribune, which noted that he lived in the middle-class Logan Square neighborhood. He was 71 years old. His only survivor was listed as only child, a son, Barry.

 I’m not sure why I decided to attend the funeral. Maybe out of old respect for the once great man I had known long ago. Maybe I was curious to see Barry who I had not heard from since our university days. So I went to the Pizer Funeral Home on Skokie Blvd. in Wilmette - not sure what I expected. I had anticipated a standard funeral - one which embraced mourners and offered a Rabbi to preside over the solemn occasion. Perhaps a number of speakers who would eulogize the deceased. Not so. This was a much smaller affair, which occupied a rather spare room about the size of a two-car garage. Clean, well-lighted, a soft carpet muffled what sound there were. Metal card chairs had been placed in two rows of seven and at the front of the room, on a wooden easel, was a fine color photograph of Mr. Lawrence J. Simon obviously taken in his hay day. An unctuous attendant asked in a whisper if I wished to sign the visitation book. I did. There were only three other signatures on the lined page. Two of the signers were evidently already gone because the only other mourner in the room other than me was my old fraternity brother, Barry Simon.

 Both of us were then in our early thirties. I was married, the father of two young children and was the creative director of a small, but up-and-coming Chicago advertising agency. My wife andI had recently bought our first home, a four-bedroom ranch style in Highland Park.

 Given other circumstances, I probably would not have recognized Barry. It won’t just that I hadn’t seen him in a dozen years. The changes were more than physical. I introduced myself.

 “Barry, it’s David Markoff. My condolences. I was sorry to hear about your dad.”

 “Thanks for coming, Dave. I recognized you right away even though it’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

 “I know. Time kind of slips away.”

Barry looked around the almost empty room and smiled - a sad smile.

 “Not much of a turnout.” I didn’t know what to say and Barry quickly filled the void.

 “People forget or maybe don’t care. There was a time when hundreds wants to have shown their respects. But, that was then and now is a different story.”

 “I always liked your dad. Had he been ill?” 

 “He had a bad heart. Toward the end he was a very tired man.”

 “I’m sorry to hear that, Barry.”

 “Anyway, I really appreciate that you’re here. Catch me up on what’s been going on in your life.”

I told him about my wife and kids - about the new house and about my job. Barry seemed especially interested in my work.

 “The ad business has always fascinated me.”

 “Well, it has its pluses and minuses. How about you, Barry, what have you been doing?”

 “For awhile after I left school I sold life insurance - a real tough racket. Then after my dad got out of prison, the two of us started a company to build and market houses. But we just couldn’t seem to make a go of it. And we didn’t always see things the same way. Anyway, we closed that business. Dad got a job selling houses and I landed a gig selling printing for Ira Richman. You may remember that Ira’s family owned a big printing company. The job was okay, but it was hard to get ahead in that company with all the family members involved in the business. The last couple of years - I’ve kind of jumped from one thing to another: worked for an executive search firm, did some telemarketing, sold artificial flowers.” Barry stopped for a moment as though he was hoping for some kind of understanding. “I couldn’t seem to catch a break.”

 “Maybe you just haven’t yet found yourself. You’re still a relatively young man, Barry.”

 “I’m thirty three, Dave.”

 “That’s not that old. You’ve got most of your life ahead of you.”

 As we talked I had been looking closely at my old pledge brother. When I said earlier that the change I had observed in him was more than physical what I now realized was that the transition was mostly in attitude. Yes, Barry was balding. He sported a pot belly and wore clothes somewhat out of style. The difference I realized was in attitude. Barry’s old school days’ confidence - one might even say over-confidence had been replaced by a very large chip on his shoulder.

 “Where are you living,” I asked Barry.

 “I’ve got an apartment in a four-flat in my old neighborhood on Aldine just a block west of the Drive. I manage the building so I get a good deal on the rent.”

 “How about your mom?

 “She married a guy in the movie business. They live in Los Angeles. They’re part of a show biz crowd. We stay in touch, but you know how it is. She’s got her own life and I have mine. It’s been over a year since I saw her.”

 “Look Barry, let’s get together - catch up. It’s been too long.”

 The words just popped out of my mouth. I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to see Barry. Could be I was sorry for him. He certainly didn’t seem to have much going for him. Anyway, I asked him to meet.

 “Sure Dave, great.” Barry pumped my hand with both of his.

 We exchanged phone numbers and I said the I would call him to set up a lunch. Then I made my way out of the visitation room at the Pizer Funeral Home. During the time that I was there, I noticed that no one else had paid their last respects to Mr. Lawrence J. Simon, who had once been a man of power and influence in Chicago.

 Barry and I arranged to meet at the restaurant in the Wrigley Building on Michigan Avenue. It was convenient for me as my office was in the building. Barry was right on time. He wore a well-pressed suit a bit out of style. His stripped tie, however, was au courant. After we were seated, I asked Barry if he wanted a drink.

 “Thanks, Dave, but I’ll pass. I’m trying to lay off the booze.”

 “You know Barry, you’re kind of a mystery man. You kind of disappeared. Do you see any of the old bunch?”

 “No I really haven’t. I sort of went underground after I dropped out of school and (here Barry seemed to search carefully for the right words) everything came out about my dad and the trial and all that. I kind of went into hiding. I didn’t want to see anyone - didn’t want to answer questions. You know, people can be real assholes.”

 The waiter came by to take our order. I ordered a steak sandwich rare and a draft beer. Barry addressed the waiter as though he were hard of hearing - speaking slowly like someone explaining a complicated problem.

 “What I want is the small steak filet, but I want it well done on the outside - even a touch burned. Inside, and this is important, I require it pink - not red, pink. If the kitchen can’t cook it exactly that way; I’ll send it back. Understand?”

 “Yes is” the waiter replied with professional courtesy. “Well done on the outside and point inside. I’m sure our kitchen will cook it to your satisfaction.”

Barry then turned to me with the waiter still at table side. “I just hope he doesn’t screw it up.”

 “I’m sure he’s got it straight,” I said wanting to change the subject from the instructions regarding the precise preparation of Barry’s steak. I asked him, “By the way Barry. Are you solo? Not married? No significant other?”

 “I had kind of a girlfriend. She worked at the artificial flower business where I worked. Let’s just say she satisfied my physical needs. It was okay for awhile, but it was never serious.”

“What are you doing now - work-wise?”

 “Not a thing. Other than managing the apartment building, I’m looking for a full-time job. Maybe you could give me some advice. I’ve always been interested in advertising. Do you think I could get into it?”

 I had seen this coming, but I wasn’t sure what to tell Barry. What do you tell a guy in his thirties with absolutely no experience in advertising about landing a job in the business? Of more concern to me was that I didn’t have any idea what skill Barry had. Was he a hard worker? Did he work well with others? I didn’t even know if he was smart or, for that matter, honest or reliable. It had been a dozen years since I had seen him and I couldn’t say that I knew him well even back then. Sure, I wanted to give an old friend (was he actually a friend?) a hand when he was down on his luck. But I was kind of flying blind here. 

 “It’s a tough business to break into. People think that advertising is a real glamorous business - exciting and creative - plenty of action - plenty of money - loads of entertaining and good times. There’s some of that, but there’s also a lot of pressure - long hours. Clients who can be real jerks.”

 “Sounds like some other jobs I’ve had.”

 “I bet.”

 “Do you think I could find a job in advertising?”

 “To be honest with you Barry, I don’t know. I think you’re a bright guy. You might do great. I an’t say. I’m not even sure what part of the business would be best for you. I suppose account management would be the likeliest place for you - to start anyway.”

 “What exactly is that?”

 “You work with clients managing their accounts. They’re called account executives.”

 “Do you think I could do that?”

 “Maybe - you’ve worked with different people in several businesses.”

 “How could I get into the business?”

 “Frankly, it’s not easy - and you’re starting later than most. Right now it’s pretty tight at my agency; but I could make some calls to get you interviews at a few other firms - if you want me to.”

 “I do definitely. I’d be forever grateful to you, Dave.”

 “Give me a couple of days and I’ll get back to you with some contacts. But Barry - don’t get too excited. I don’t know if any of this will work out.”

 “I won’t get my hopes too high.”

 I called around, but came up with only one person who agreed to talk to Barry. Doris Larson, was the marketing director of a mid-sized chain of family restaurants. I had known Doris for about four years. Barry followed through and was able to arrange an interview with Doris. About two weeks later, I received a call from Doris Larson. She said that she was seriously considering Barry to fill the position of advertising coordinator. Doris asked me what I could tell her about Barry.

 “I knew him in college, Doris, but I haven’t seen much of him since. I can tell youth he was a real business junkie back then - way more into financial stuff than any of us. He’s kind of angel around, but I have the feeing that he’s ready for a permanent gig. What does an advertising coordinator do?”

 “We’ve got thirty-two restaurants in the midwest. The A.C. is responsible for making sure that everyone of our restaurants properly implements the national advertising campaign as well as listening to any of the individual operators’ concerns and communicating those concerns to me. As you might have figured, the job requires a lot of travel and smoking with the individual restaurant operator. Dave, you you think Barry could to this job?”

 I certainly wasn’t sure, but I answered with apparent conviction that I did indeed believe Barry would be an excellent advertising coordinator.

 Doris responded. “He’s a little pushy - almost arrogant but that might be what this job requires. You know the restaurant operators are a tough lot. They’ll eat a meek type alive. Barry just may be a good fit. I’m taking a chance, but I’m inclined to offer him the job.”

I told Dori I assure that Barry would do fine. Actually, I wasn’t close to sure.

So Barry got the job as advertising coordinator. I felt that I had done a good deed and when Doris called me two weeks later to tell me that Barry was doing well; I was relieved. Maybe this would work out well after all.

 Over the next six months, I only saw Barry twice. Once for lunch and another time when I happened to run into him in the men’s clothing department at Marshall Fields. We did talk a few times on the hone. My impression was that Barry was in good spirits. So I was shocked when Doris Larson phoned me to say that she had fired Barry.

 “I thought that a he was doing great. What happened?” I asked.

 “I’m not sure, Dave. Funny because we just gave Barry a really good six-month review and a nice raise. That’s when the trouble started.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “Barry was very unhappy with the size of the raise. I mean he was indignant. Told me it was insulting.”

 “Did you have any indication that he felt he was underpaid?”

 “Not a whisper. And Dave, just so you know. The raise was the max - twenty percent.”

 “I don’t get it.”

 “I certainly don’t. And I’ll tell you something else. Barry was like a different person. He was angry and belligerent. He actually screamed at me that the company had taken advantage of him. Said he was sick of the constant traveling. That he was tired of working for cheapskates. That’s the word he used.”

 “Jesus!”

 “I didn’t have a choice. I had to fire him. Dave, I’m not a psychiatrist, but this guy needs one.”

 “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

 “Me too. Dave, if Barry is your friend, you should talk to him. Something not good is going on with him.” 

 After several of my calls to Barry went unanswered, he finally got back to me. He sounded very upset and said that he didn’t want to talk on the phone. Somewhat reluctantly, he agreed to meet me that night for a drink. 

 Barry was almost a half hour late for our appointment and I was almost ready to leave when the maitre d’ showed him to our window booth. He didn’t look good - his complexion was pasty and he obviously hadn’t shaved in days. Although it was a warm summer night, he wore a full-length trench coat. I could tell that he was nervous and he didn’t make eye contact when he spoke to me. Before I could even greet him, Barry said, “Let’s get something to drink.”

 “Sure, what do you want?”

 “A vodka martini on the rocks - Absolute.”

I ordered a Martini and Heineken for me.

 “What the hell happened, Barry?”

 “It’s simple. I did everything they asked me to do and much more. They told me that I was doing a great job. And, Dave, they promised me a big raise.”

 “Doris told me they gave you a big bump - twenty percent.”

 “Yeah, twenty percent up from slave wages. I’m not going to take that treatment. Fuck them!”

 “Doris told me that she didn’t have any warning that you were unhappy.”

 “She should have paid closer attention>”

 “Did you tell anybody at the company how you felt?”

 “Nobody asked me.”

 “Barry, if you didn’t say anything, how were they supposed to know you were bummed out about the job?”

 “They should have taken the initiative. They should have seen that I was way above this job.” 

 “Man, you were there for six months. Obviously, they were pleased with your performance or they wouldn’t have given you the big raise. I’m guessing that they had big plans for you.”

 “When - in ten years? I can do Doris’s job right now - better than she can.”

“My god, Barry slow down. You can’t expect them - any company - to promote you from an entry-level position to top dog in a matter of months.”

 “Well maybe they should have started me higher.”

 “Barry you may remember this job was how you got into the ad business. You were damn happy to get the job.”

 “Okay, so I got it and I nailed the job.”

 “Barry I’m not saying that you didn’t. I’m just saying that you way the hell over-reacted when they didn’t anoint you head of the department after only six months. In the real world, it doesn’t work like that.”

 “Well maybe it should.”

 “We seem to be going around in circles.”

 “Yeah, and I could use another drink.”

 It went on like this for another hour. We never did order dinner. After Barry gulped two more vodka martinis and I had nursed another Heineken, it was clear tome that this conversation was going nowhere and that Barry was increasingly inarticulate and unreasonable. Finally, exasperated, I told Barry that my advice was for him to apologize to Doris Larson and I reminded him that he would need her recommendation.

 “I don’t water goddamn recondition. I’m own man. To hell win everbody.” 

 With this, my old pledge brother rose unsteadily from our booth and stumbled from the restaurant into the bustle of the warm summer night on Rush Street. I caught a view of Barry through the window and could not suppress the thought that he looked like a bum lunging down the street wearing his ridiculous trench coat.

After that failed meeting, Barry disappeared. For six years nobody I knew either saw or heard from or about him. There was a rumor that he had moved to Florida, but there was nothing to confirm that story. Frankly, I didn’t think much about Barry Simon. Life as it always does, moved along. My oldest, Dean, was about to celebrate his bar mitzvah; South Vietnam fell to the Viet Cong, the Cubs again didn’t get close to the World Series; everyone was talking about the size of the shark in the movie, Jaws; everywhere, you heard Elton John’s Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds; my wife was reading Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow; an associate and I bought the ad agency where we had worked for several years. I would be forty next month.

Our ad agency had outgrown its space in the Wrigley Building and I had an appointment with a real estate broker to check out larger digs in a building on Wacker Drive. I figured that I’d walk six blocks to my appointment, but it had just started to rain so I hailed a taxi. 

The Yellow Cab pulled over and I got in and gave the driver the address. “Got it.” he acknowledged without turning around as he moved into traffic. The first spatter of heavy rain drops resounded on the roof like a jazz drumbeat. We had gone only about a block when the taxi driver turned to me.

“Hi Dave, It’s Barry. Barry Simon he said with a giggle that brought back old memories.”

“My god! Barry. I can’t believe it. It’s like seeing a ghost. What are you doing in Chicago?”

“Driving a cab. Hey Dave, I didn’t mean to freak you out. I recognized you when you hail me.”

“I heard you were living in Florida.”

“I was - in Miami until six weeks ago.”

“What were you doing in Miami?”

“Well, I moved down there four years ago and got back in the real estate business. Things were going really well until a couple of months ago and then bam.”

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say I trusted my partners too much. I lost my house, my car, all my money - I got out of town with the shirt on my back and that’s about all.”

“Jesus Barry, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks. Anyway, I figured I’d come back here for awhile to kind of recharge my batteries. And the next time I won’t get into bed with partners who totally screwed me. The sons of bitches left me holding the bag while they pocketed all the cash.”

“Couldn’t you sue them - call the cops - something?”

“I tried, but these thieves had planned this real good. Turns out there was nothing I could do.”

“Barry, that’s awful.”

“Don’t worry Dave. I’ll get back. I’m not going to let some bad guys - bad luck keep me down. I’m not planning on driving this taxi for long.”

Now we were at my destination. I handed Barry my business card and told him to call me if I could help. Barry got out of the taxi to open my door and to hold an umbrella over me against the rain. We shook hands. As I ran to the lobby of the Wacker Drive building, two thoughts occurred to me: Barry had asked me nothing about my life and the he had come to look quite like his once esteemed father; Lawrence, only shorter.

I replayed the strange meeting over and over in my mind that mostly sleepless night. Did I believe Barry’s sad story? The next morning I called an old friend in Miami who was a lawyer. I asked him if he could check out Barry T. Simon who had worked in the real estate business there. My friend told me that the best way to get the information I wanted was to hire a private investigator and that he could recommend a good one, Larry Kilaher. I called Kilaher and explained what I was looking for. Kilaher said that he thought he could help and gave me an estimate of what his services would cost. Three days later, Kilaher called me.

“Mr. Markoff, Larry Kilaher. I believe that I have the information that you requested regarding Barry T. Simon.”

“That’s great. So what’s the story.”

“I was able to identify the real estate development company that Mr. Simon worked for. He was not a partner, Mr. Markoff. His title was assistant comptroller.”

“I see.”

“In any event, the information that Mr. Simon gave you is completely contradicted by the real estate development company. Levitt & Adams Builders - a firm that has been operating here in the Miami area for over thirty year. They suggested that I contact their attorney for any other information that I might need. Luckily, that attorney is known to me. I’ve done work for their firm. Anyway, I called Jack Kantor at Dewitt, Kelly & Kanter. Jack not only confirmed what Levitt & Adams told me regarding Mr. Simon, but said that they were about to contact the District Attorney to charge Mr. Simon with grand theft among other crimes.”

“What exactly do they say Barry did?”

“Simply stated that he stole money - more specifically embezzled about thirty-four thousand dollars - perhaps more.”

“Are they after Barry. Is he what’s the word - a fugitive?”

“No, evidently Mr. Simon reimbursed them ten thousand dollars and agreed to repay the remainder over a period of three years. So Levitt & Adams did not prefer charges. They just fired him.”

I thanked Mr. Kilaher for his services. He told me that he would send me a written report along with his invoice. Then I told my secretary to hold all my calls. I gazed out my twenty-third story window at the flurry of activity on Michigan Avenue - at the great lake gleaming in the morning sun and I thought about Barry Simon. I did not understand him - what he had become. I tried not to judge him. What a sad life. I pitied him and I contemplated what fate had lead my one-time pledge brother, now in mid life and not quite a felon to ply the taxi trade on the streets of the city of his promising youth.

As it turned out, our brief taxi conversation was the last contact I’ve ever had with Barry.  

The next three years sped by in a blur.

The news, meager and unsubstantiated, was that Barry may have moved to Los Angeles. If that was true, in my imagination I created a happy ending story for Barry. He had reunited with his still beautiful mother. He reinvented himself and prospered perhaps in the movie business. Life was good. I clung to that convenient fairy tale. It seemed the best possible outcome. Then reality sit often does, kicked me in the head. I learned that Barry had been involved in a check-kiting scheme in Los Angeles and had fled to Mexico. His present whereabouts were unknown.