Desire Lines

Chapter 1. The Rise

Fall 1982

When it comes to getting screwed, Zogby says you’ve gotta want it. According to Zogby, if you can weather those initial moments of searing intensity (I literally saw stars the first time), then the pain of penetration transforms into a singular and exquisite pleasure. But since that night at the lake with Abdul, I guess I haven’t wanted it that bad. Sure, I think about what it would be like to give that part of me to somebody again. But for now, I guess I’m a top pending further investigation.

Tall, beefy, and brown, I give the people what they want. You’d be surprised how many White dudes fantasize about a Mandingo warrior stepping out of the jungle and into their bedrooms and aren’t afraid to tell you. Most Black guys are looking for tops, too. They want the Hard Rock brother or the B-boy fantasy that no one would suspect of being gay outside of the bedroom. It’s funny how we all seem to crave the man we want to be.

I’m on my lunch break, creeping up a trail in the Central Park Rambles. A frail October sun breaks unevenly through the canopy, dappling the ground with afternoon shadows. Skirting half-fallen branches, I pass a small white sign nailed to a wooden post. Stay on Paths. Avoid Desire Lines. The city agency that manages the park wants to keep us on the straight and narrow. They would prefer to ignore the unofficial tracks that our feet have marked in this ground. But decade after decade, desire has found the shortest distance between two points and created its own set of shortcuts.

I take a sandwich out of my bag and scarf it down in a few careless bites. Mayonnaise coats my throat. From this height, I can see the park’s thick midsection, Seventy-Third to Seventy-Ninth streets. The green of Sheep Meadow has already faltered, and even the crimson and gold leaves that mark the trees along the Reservoir will soon give way to a stark nakedness. I toss the last corner of my bread into a stand of brown leaves and watch as two hungry squirrels tear it to shreds.

I am not alone. Other men crisscross the paths, disappearing behind bushes and the thick trunks of trees. Most of us have come for sex, some to watch sex, and others just to have a moment away from the harsh gaze of the world. A reflection of this city—its colors, creeds, and poorly-bridged boroughs—we wander the glade in hungry silence. The only sounds are the crunch of leaves, the faint honking of taxis on Amsterdam Avenue, and the caws of lazy birds readying themselves for the long trip south.

I scope out a spot that is neither too obvious nor too hidden, next to an outcrop of thick rocks. With my foot planted on a half-buried bough, I flex a thigh through my corduroys. I’m posing, and it’s a good look—unbothered and nonchalant. A swarthy guy brushes past and enters a small enclosure formed by a circle of young pines. He liberates a fat, uncut dick from his jeans and strokes it until it’s hard. With a slight lift of his chin, he invites me into the clearing. But his stand—wide-gaited and dominant—tells me that he’s looking for service. I avert my gaze to signal disinterest, and a few seconds later he puts his impressive piece back into his pants and moves on.

A man with a mop of blond curls appears at the top of the path. He’s a typical clone—mid-thirties in a plaid flannel shirt and a fashionably weathered pair of Frye boots. Hanging slightly behind him, there’s a Black dude in tight Chinos. They position themselves against a gnarled mass of tree roots a few yards from me. Mop Head squeezes a respectable bulge, and in a gesture that seems rehearsed, tosses his head so that his curls bounce and then resettle seductively around his face. He approaches me, Colgate smile flashing.

Hey, dude, he says, sotto voce. You want to give my buddy a blowjob?

He sounds like a seven-year-old offering me the prize he’s fished from the bottom of a box of Cracker Jacks.

His friend is shorter, more muscular. Tightly coiled hairs bead the V-shaped slice of his chest visible through his sweater. Taut muscles layer his dark, lean frame. He is hot, without a doubt, but his eyes are studiously avoiding me. He angles his body away and peers off into a tangle of trees near the Reservoir.

No thanks, man, I say, shaking my head. I’m not trying to sweat nobody, and I’m not desperate for dick.

He just got out of jail, Mop Head adds quickly, trying to maintain my interest by evoking the rough trade image of men behind bars.

The Black guy pulls down the corner of a small, handsome mouth. An unlit cigarette dangles from his lips. Lifting his sweater, he sends one of his hands down to rub his tight belly, then flicks one of his nipples with a thick, brown thumb. It’s a sexy set of gestures. I’m wondering why he went to jail, where he and the blond met, and how they’ve ended up in Central Park on a Thursday afternoon.

How about letting me suck you off? the Black guy says hastily, when he sees that I’m still hesitating.

Seconds ago, he was detached and indifferent. Now he seems desperate to make a connection. His voice is beseeching. His eyes grab mine. The lust that was hiding behind his distracted gaze oozes out. Desire muddles his pupils until they are solid black orbs. His sudden intensity excites me. I’m sold. He hits his knees as his friend looks on.

Coming down off the hill, I’m feeling buoyant and full of myself after the encounter with Mop Head and his friend. I wish I could spend the rest of the afternoon in the park, meeting other guys or just hanging out and watching the birds. But I know without having to look at my watch that I’m already late getting back to work. At the bottom of the path, I look back up. Mop Head is already interviewing another candidate for his odd ménage-a-trois, while his sad, beautiful friend stares blankly into the distance.

Fall in New York is unpredictable. Minutes ago, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but now heavy drops smack the footpaths, sending the rich scent of dirt into the air. Hurrying out of the park, I skirt the wide wet steps of the museum and go around to the employee entrance on Seventy-Ninth Street. By the time I get down to the archives, I’m twenty minutes late. If they wanted me at work on time, they shouldn’t have built the museum so close to The Rambles. Though pretty much anywhere in New York is close to one cruise spot or another. Wall Street, Midtown, the East and West Villages—there are places all around this city where you can find action any time of the day or night.

I slide as unobtrusively as possible into my place at a long, wide library table that I share with three other curatorial assistants, each of them already hard at work. From her desk at the far end of the room, my supervisor shoots me a dirty look. A youngish woman with an old lady’s face, Jane always seems on the verge of tears for no discernible reason. She’s tightly stitched, but too afraid to offer me a proper rebuke. I’m no thug, but aside from a few sullen security guards who patrol the dinosaur exhibits, I’m the only Black person who works here. Jane doesn’t seem to know how to deal with me.

I started this job back in June, right after graduating from college and moving back to New York. Instead of sensing that I am part of something old and venerable, I feel small and insignificant every time I step into the museum—an invisible drop of water in a sea of swirling privilege. I make $16,000, get two weeks of vacation, and have no health insurance. I am, however, the lucky recipient of a ten percent discount at the museum gift shop. I was expecting something better than this after four years at a very White, very expensive New England college, for which I will be in debt for the next decade.

Jane drops a thick tray of slides onto my desk with a thud and wordlessly returns to her station. I spend the rest of the afternoon sorting the small glass slides and boxes of black-and-white photographs from anthropological expeditions. My job is to research each image’s content in the museum’s archives and then write a succinct description onto an index card, i.e., Three Pygmies with Spears, Somali Girl Holding Clay Pot, Margaret Meade with Polynesian Headdress. When I’m done, I place the image and its description into a bin marked Complete. I do this repeatedly, regularly checking the clock as I uncurl the photographs and lift the dusty slides to the fading afternoon light.

Five o’clock can’t come soon enough. I ignore a final side-eye from Jane, who seems to think I should stay late to make up for my extended lunch. But she’s got another think coming, as my mother likes to say. I grab my bag and head to the door. The Upper West Side isn’t as crowded as other parts of the city, but at quitting time, everyone is still rushing to get home or wherever else they want to be. I head to the subway and hop on the train down to Fifty-first Street.

It took me two months of searching to find an apartment that I could afford in Manhattan. Growing up in Brooklyn, I felt like I was existing on the margins of life, always a bridge or a tunnel away from everything that glittered and beckoned. The real New York lay on the far banks of the river that separated us from the bohemian haunts of Harlem, Greenwich Village, and Soho. Manhattan was the locus for the temptations that were summoning me. And now here I am.

Through a friend of Zogby’s, I found a rent-controlled apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. Zogby’s friend inherited it from a second cousin who moved back to Detroit after a few years of trying to make it in show business. It’s a decent sized studio in a sagging Tenth Avenue tenement. The shower’s in the kitchen and the toilet is a windowless room the size of a closet. But it’s a mere two avenues from Broadway, and the proximity to the Theater District makes the neighborhood hip, even if it’s still a little rough around the edges.

I share the building with a crew of hookers, hustlers, and struggling artists. A thin brown boy from Arkansas lives in the apartment next door. He’s writing a novel, he makes sure to tell me every time we meet in the hallway. According to him, it’s going to be epic. Through the thin walls that separate our living rooms, I can hear him typing furiously late into the night. An out-of-work actor from Terre Haute occupies one of the downstairs apartments. He hit me up for twenty dollars once, confiding that he’s barely surviving on weekly unemployment checks and the dwindling savings from his last paying gig.

A muscly guy with caramel skin and a thick tight fro’ lives in the apartment directly below me. He handed me a business card one day after we’d run into each other a few times in the building’s tiny lobby. Puerto Rican Miguel, 11-Inches, the card read, followed by a phone number.

"In case you know any Ritchie-riches looking for some Latin pinga." He offered a lascivious grin, as he grabbed the mail out of his box and headed out onto the avenue.

I liked his style. He struck me as a savvy entrepreneur who had identified his assets and was making them work to his advantage.

I take the stairs two at a time up to my apartment on the fifth floor, just under the building’s roof. The place was hot as hell when I moved in at the end of the summer, but I’m hoping the winter will be less punishing. Dishes from last night’s dinner are still in the sink—a plate with a few errant strands of spaghetti, a crusted fork, a saucepan, stained cherry-red with the remnants of Ragu. I ignore them and grab a Heineken from the refrigerator.

The red light on the answering machine is blinking. I press the button and immediately recognize Steve’s voice. He and I met at the New St. Marks Baths a couple of months ago. Thirty-one, blond, and pleasantly chunky—he’s a respiratory therapist from New Jersey.

Hey, dude. What’s happening this weekend? Call me back, baby.

I hate it when he calls me that. Pet names like baby, honey, and dear are reserved for lovers, which he and I aren’t. I’m not looking for a partner, someone tracking my every move and thinking he’s got me locked down. When a guy gives me his number, I usually wait until he’s out of sight and then toss it into the nearest trash can.

But something about Steve held my attention, and it was more than just the superlative sex. When he handed me his info as I was turning in my key and towel at the bathhouse that night, I saw that he had written both of his names in sterling penmanship on the scrap of paper—Stephen Russo. People don’t do that in New York. They offer nicknames like Ty, Rusty, or Butch. Sometimes they give you a fake phone number. I’ve done it myself. It’s easier to lie than tell someone you’re not interested in anything more than a one-night stand. I held on to Stephen Russo’s number, called him a few days later, and we’ve been hanging out ever since.

But we are not lovers. He does his thing—which I do not ask about—and I do mine—which he might as well not ask about because it’s none of his business.

Jeff and Lil’ Pete, my bar buddies, don’t hesitate to point out that I connect with more White guys than Black. I don’t think about it much, but I guess it’s true. The lives of White men just seem so easy. They can walk into a high-end boutique and not worry about the manager following them as if they’re there to rob the place. They enter a fancy restaurant, and the Maître D’ hops to attention and greets them with a welcoming smile. Big discotheques like the Ice Palace and Studio 54 unhitch the velvet rope for them without asking for three pieces of i.d. in some ridiculous racist ritual. There is no place where the doors don’t open wide for them upon their command. This shit makes me furious, but I guess it also draws me to them. I guess I want what I haven’t got.

I sit down at the small table in the kitchen and pull the Times out of my bag. I start to open to the international section when a headline catches my eye: HEALTH CHIEF CALLS AIDS BATTLE NO. 1 PRIORITY.

The first time I read about this disease was in my last year of college. Back then, it wasn’t even worthy of a name, the initial reports referring only to a homosexual disorder. I figured it was something that would pass without too much need for attention, one of those things you read once or twice, then never hear about again.

But it didn’t pass. Soon, the papers were calling it GRID—Gay-Related Immune Deficiency. I was confident that it was just some new kind of venereal disease—an evolved strain of gonorrhea or a rogue syphilis that would need some super-penicillin to knock it back. The government would invest, the scientists would do what they do, and the drug companies would make millions rolling out a cure. Nothing to panic about.

But today’s article is front and center, not on some inner page, or below the fold. My first instinct is to turn the page, but I take a generous swig of my beer and read an unrelenting series of bleak and frightening statistics. There have been 1,450 AIDS cases, of which 558, or 38.5 %, resulted in death. Among the 78 cases diagnosed at least two years ago, the fatality rate was 82 %. It appears to be transmitted through sexual contact. The disease has a new name along with a messed-up acronym: AIDS. Nothing about it promises to be the least bit helpful.

I have a history with the diseases that keep on giving. Every few months or so, something dispatches me to a doctor or a VD clinic. More inconvenient than catastrophic, these visits have only required a shot in the butt and some downtime on the parade of tricks and trade. Sometimes, a pause hasn’t even been necessary. Once, I jerked off with a guy in the bathroom at the Department of Health clinic on Flatbush Avenue. We were both getting treated for one infection or another, so what the hell?

Since I moved back to New York, I’ve been doing a minimum of two or three guys a week. If I multiply this by four weeks in a month, times the six months I’ve been home…I’m calculating in my head, but the math makes my heart race, so I stop. Anyway, all this talk about cancer and disease seems so removed from my reality. Everyone I’ve played with has been healthy-looking and robust. I don’t know anyone who’s died or even been sick. I don’t know anyone who knows anyone. But still the headline peers out at me like an accusation.

I turn on the radio and fill the small apartment with noise.

Changing into a pair of jeans, I choose a cashmere sweater that fits nice and loose, but still shows the contours of my chest. I pick out my fro in the mirror over the kitchen sink—which is also the bathroom sink—and fish out a pair of small hoop earrings from an empty Band-Aids tin that I use to store my jewelry. Grabbing my Run-DMC fedora from its hook by the door, I drop it onto my head at a jaunty angle. Skin shining, eyes bright, look complete, I bolt down the stairs and burst onto Tenth Avenue. Fuck this AIDS shit. The weekend is almost here, and I get paid tomorrow. Life is good. All is well. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Chapter 2. Bottoms Up

There are a dozen peep shows strung along Eighth Avenue like lights on a gaudy Christmas tree. With predictable names like the Circus , the Playhouse, and Peep-O-Rama , their neon signs flash twenty-four-hours a day. Inside, rows of narrow booths with flimsy, plywood doors offer a selection of five-minute porn reels. The customers—straight, gay, and everything in between—come in search of an erotic fantasy, whether on a flickering screen, or with another customer or a hustler.

Mildly active during the day, The Peeps come alive in the evenings when the johns are coming from work and the rent boys roll in to ply their trade. By six o’clock, the walls are lined with young hustlers of every color and type— Latin bugarrones sporting bulging muscles, Black homeboys thick with macho confidence, and White boys from the outer boroughs smiling their cutest smiles. Some are fresh out of jail, a few are strung out on dope, and others are simply out to make a few bucks to tide them over until payday. Each promotes his best feature as he leans seductively against the grimy walls.

In this city of stark divisions, The Peeps are where the Wall Street banker can rub elbows with the bike messenger, and the advertising exec can lust after the guy who works in the mailroom. Twenty dollars, sometimes even a sawbuck, is enough to break down the barriers. In these hallways, rife with the scents of disinfectant and sweat, high stake deals are cut. The two players will slide discretely into a booth, drop a few quarters in the machine and watch a blue movie. They will stroke their dicks, exchange a blowjob—they might even kiss. But as soon as the deed is done, they will pull up their pants, straighten their hair, and rush out of the booth, faces adorned with triumph, guilt, or both. If tomorrow they were to pass on the street, they would ignore each other and keep walking.

The Peeps are managed by grizzled men of indeterminate ages whose primary responsibility is to break bills into quarters to feed the hungry machines. Times Square veterans, most of them are aged-out hustlers and retired grifters. They are regularly called upon to mediate conflicts between hustlers and johns—usually disputes over payment of fees or the lack thereof. Handing down judgments with Solomonic wisdom, they are ready to eject anyone—client or provider—who fails to accept their verdicts.

I head past all this tonight, eager to meet my boys at the bar.

Ninety-Six West is located, appropriately, at Ninety-Sixth Street and Columbus Avenue. It’s one of the best bars in the city, in my humble opinion. If you want to dance, the music is usually good. If you’re planning to imbibe, the drinks are always strong. If you’re hoping to snatch up somebody for the night, there’s always a good selection.

A chubby brown bouncer standing outside gives me a once over as I approach, then pulls open the bar’s heavy wooden door. Inside, the place is dark and sultry—black walls, blue ambient lights, and a solid-looking bar tossed like a horseshoe in the middle of the room. There’s a small dance floor and a DJ booth outlined in yellow Day-Glo tape against a far wall. The booth is empty tonight, but a reel-to-reel is slowly turning, sending Grace Jones’s languid Nightclubbing drifting through the bar.

Jeff and Lil’ Pete are installed on their regular stools. Jeff is a brown skin boy from Corona, tall and lanky with a set of shoulder-length dreads. He’s smart as a whip but easygoing and modest. His best friend Lil’ Pete is six-four and at least two-hundred-and-thirty solid pounds, with skin the color of a freshly baked sugar cookie. A Mississippi transplant, he speaks with a honey-infused drawl that charms the heck out of the city boys. Heads moving subtly to the music, they’re slamming our usual elixir—Tequila Shots with beer backs.

These two are the height of cool. I call them my bar buddies because our relationship exists almost entirely in the clubs. What we know about each other is based on what we observe or share during the witching hours of nightlife. A few years older than me, the two of them have seen everything the gay life has to offer. Their calm and collected attitudes are just what I need right now.

I pull up behind them, throw my arm around Pete’s broad shoulders and kiss Jeff on the back of his head.

Hey, boy, Lil’ Pete greets me.

Look what the cat dragged in, Jeff says and motions to the bartender to bring us another round.

The bartender is one of Jeff’s old tricks, a cute guy with black hair and a bushy beard. Built like a running back, he’s thick but tight. He sets us up with fresh shot glasses and fills them from bottle of Cuervo.

Bottoms up, Pete says. The three of us slam the smoky-tasting liquor and finish it off with a bracing bite into a slice of lime.

Jeff and Lil’ Pete absorb the impact of their shot, but mine nearly knocks me off my stool.

Shit, I manage to cough out.

Lightweight, mo’fucka, Pete laughs, and the two of them share a high five.

Fuck you guys, I say, recomposing myself on the stool as the bartender brings over three bottles of beer.

I met Jeff and Lil’ Pete at Keller’s, a shoebox of a bar at the end of Christopher Street, one Friday night right after I got back from college. They were standing on either side of the blaring jukebox like a couple of handsomely carved bookends. Buff and confident, they were hard to ignore. I took up a position near them, and within seconds, three sets of brown eyes were shooting not-so-subtle looks back-and-forth through the smoke-filled bar. Eventually, we all started laughing at the crazy triangulation of our cruising. They introduced themselves, and I found out that they were best friends. We talked, drank, and cut up until the bar closed and poured us out onto West Street.

You’re a cool brother, Jeff said as I followed them like a puppy dog to their car.

But when we got there, they wished me a good night.

See you next week, Lil’ Pete grinned at me through the car window as they drove off. Same time.

I was disappointed. I was ready to go home with either or both of them. But sure enough, the next week they were waiting for me in the same spot. Over the next few months and without a lot of fanfare, I became their Third Musketeer. You need a posse in New York, one or two ride-or-dies to help navigate the labyrinths of gay life. I’ve learned an important lesson from them. Making a new friend is more valuable than scoring another one-night stand.

Jeff and Lil’ Pete refer to themselves as Better Boys, and I don’t disagree, especially since they’ve decided to include me in their crew. Upwardly mobile, appropriately masculine, and well educated, they have their pick of the finest men who present themselves in the bar on any given night. When we’re cruising together, the three of us can be scandalous. We run point for each other—ranking the candidates, making referrals, and falling back once of us moves into action. There’s never any jealousy between us. There are too many fish in the sea to get upset by missing out on one tasty guppy. Another one will be swimming along before you know it.

I think of Thursdays at Ninety-Six West as Magic Night. The scene is relaxed, but still energized, everyone biding their time and gearing up for the debauchery of the weekend. I don’t usually mind going home alone on a Thursday, but as I down my second shot, I start scanning the bar for conquests.

Where’s everybody? I ask, noticing that the crowd is unusually sparse.

Oh, shit, Jeff, Lil’ Pete teases. Somebody’s on the prowl.

Naw, man, I reply a little defensively, This place is usually fuller.

Slow your roll, Pete says. It’s still early,

I sip my beer and think about the New York Times article. I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t spooked me.

What’s up with you, bro? Jeff asks, sensing something amiss in my mood.

Yeah? What you trippin’ on tonight, Deep Thoughts?

Deep Thoughts. That’s Pete’s nickname for me. The first time he called me that, I figured he was reading me for being stuck up or overly intellectual. But he paired it with such a sweet, sexy look into my eyes that I began waiting for him to say it again.

I’m good, I reply, unsure whether I should bring up anything that might spoil the mood. But what are you guys hearing about this gay cancer?

Leave it to this nigger to always be bringing up some depressing shit, Lil’ Pete says to Jeff.

Yeah, brother on the for-real tip, you a little morose, Jeff agrees.

They’ve been on the scene longer than me and generally treat me like a smart-ass little brother who’s always stirring the pot.

Why you worried about some shit like that? Lil’ Pete asks.

Pete, Jeff interrupts. Check out the guy in the yellow Coogi sweater, walking in the door.

Lil’ Pete turns his head ever-so discretely to assess a new gladiator entering the arena.

Yeah, that’ll do, Pete says, sizing up the boy in the sweater and shifting smoothly from our conversation into cruise mode.

The bartender pours us another round of shots as more men start to file into the bar.

I read that this AIDS-mess is caused by poppers, Jeff says, seamlessly resuming our more serious discussion.

I stopped using that shit a few years ago, Lil’ Pete says. Made me fuck like a beast, but then it gave me a hellified headache.

You guys aren’t worried about catching it? I’m looking for some accurate information from the only big brothers I’ve got.

That’s some White boy shit, Jeff says.

Lookit. Lil’ Pete absently squeezes his left bicep with his right hand as if to reassure himself of his solidity. Brothers mainly sleep with other brothers, right? As long as we keep the fucking in the family, we’ll be okay.

His confident tone seems to signal that with this brilliant analysis, the conversation has now been concluded. But his logic neither comforts nor convinces me.

Pete, that’s some simple-sounding bullshit, Jeff beats me to the punch. "Besides, plenty of brothers be dippin’ and dabbin’ with White boys."

They both look at me—part accusation, part concern. Okay, it’s true. Though I’ve got plenty of Black friends, most of the guys who make it into my bed are White. But Jeff can’t say shit about it. He may keep it on the low, but I know he’s got a thing for light-skinned Latins.

Yo, Deep Thoughts. I don’t know anyone who’s sick. Do you? Pete asks.

I don’t, and I tell him so.

Listen here, Lil’ Pete says real country-like, bout this AIDS thing. We’ve got enough to worry about already.

It’s all just some Reagan-inspired fake-ass epidemic, Jeff chimes in, sounding preachy. Remember the Tuskegee Experiment? How the government let all those poor Black farmers with syphilis go untreated to see what would happen? It’s the same thing, but this time gay people are the guinea pigs.

Where does that leave us? I ask. "Black and gay. I feel like I’ve got a target on my back."

Gay cancer, heart attack, diabetes, Jeff says resignedly. Something’s gonna kill you before your time.

Unless Five-O puts a bullet in your pretty head first. Pete leans over and grabs me in a headlock.

I like it when he treats me like this—roughhouse, but fraternal. His embrace calms me down. As harsh as they sound, I find solace in Lil’ Pete’s comforting equations and Jeff’s ready nihilism. It’s 1982, and we are the cream of the crop, young and hardy men with possibilities stretching endlessly before us. We are clever boys with elite educations, killer looks, and unbridled ambition. Our futures weigh on us with such solemn beauty that it almost hurts. This disease—whatever its name—has got fuck-all to do with us.

I catch the bartender’s eye and call him over.

Give these bitches another shot, I tell him when he approaches, thighs bulging deliciously in a pair of tight Levi’s. And one for the house.

The bartender fills us up, pours one for himself, and leans seductively into our conversation.

Bottoms up, I say, wondering what time the bar closes and if he’s got plans for the night.

Chapter 3. Thruway

Summer 1975

"O ff your bottoms and on your feet ."

My mother stood at the door to our room, eager to get us up, out the apartment, and onto the road.

Move it, sleepy-heads, she said, wiping her hands on a red paisley apron. She spun on her sensible heels and headed off for some last-minute packing. For a few seconds, the familiar scent of CHANEL No. 5 hung in the late summer air.

She’d spent the last two weeks preparing for our trip to the mountains. She’d washed our short-sleeve shirts, Wrangler