A

finding him. He has been selling me my suits for
many years from a good shop where he is well
respected and earns a good living but one that is
hardly commensurate with his talents as a pianist.
At least the talents that once existed. I know how
finely they had been developed by the time Carl was
18 because once he asked me if I would listen to a
record he had made then. That began our friendship.
It.was superb. Asked why he no longer played, Carl
said, “I'll tell you sometipe over a bottle.”’

“Is it that sad?” I asked.

“Worse, it was stupid.”

I suspected it had something to do with his homo-
sexuality. So, in preparing this book, I asked if he
would talk for publication. |

“Anonymous, I hope,” he laughed.

“Naturally, unless you want your name on it,” I
laughed back.

“Sure, I'll tell you about that crappy nonsense
called “gay life,”” he began, as wesettled down in my
apartment over a cocktail bar groaning with every-
thing imaginable to drink. ““That’s one thing wrong
with it,”” Carl went on, “the booze. I'll have a few
but no more. Those days are way behind me.”

When Carl said he was 35 and produced a
driver’s license to prove it, I was shocked. He looked