We took a cab from the Marion fifteen or so blocks to his apartment on Louisiana Street, a quiet block backing onto the governor’s mansion. David Goldstein was his name. He had a large studio apartment, sparsely furnished—a couple of upholstered chairs, a small table for dining, a foldaway double bed in the closet— and uncluttered. No television set, but a stereo, lots of books, on the table and on the floor. He asked if I’d like him to open a bottle of wine, or if I would prefer a coke or something else.

We drank two bottles of wine and, seated far from each other, talked straight through until six the next morning. He had less than ten months to go on his military hitch; he had been drafted. He worked as a typist at the recruiting station on Main Street and 3rd. We talked about our backgrounds, our families. He was from Chicago, Jewish, had gone, he said, to Columbia College in New York City. He never asked me if I had gone to college. He told me that he wanted to be a writer, but was embarrassed to say this to most people because he hadn’t in fact published anything. He asked me what my ambition for myself was. I mumbled something about a peaceful and worry-free life. Truth is that I hadn’t had time to think about my ambition; nor had any man ever asked me about it before.

As the sun was coming up, I brought up the subject of my boys, and how I had lost custody of them. He told me that he couldn’t imagine anything worse, and said it in a way that made me believe he meant it. When I began to cry, he walked across the room, gave me his clean handkerchief, then returned to his chair.

Except for the owner of Jimmy’s in Norfolk, a brute called Lou Silverman, I had never known a Jew. I certainly had never met anyone like David Goldstein. At 6.30am he said that he had better shower and get ready for work at the recruiting station, where he had to report at 8am. If I wished to sleep in his apartment before going off to work myself, he said that would be fine. He set the alarm for me for 10.30am. He made no moves on me, none whatsoever. I wondered if he might be queer.

David called me during my lunch shift at the Garhole to say that he was knocked out from no sleep and probably going to fall asleep as soon as he got off work, but if I were free one night later in the week he’d like to take me to dinner. We agreed to meet on Wednesday, my night off, at McGeary’s, a BBQ restaurant on 12th and Main Street, at 6.30.