I gathered from the way they spoke that this man was very important to them or a long time close friend , and as we pulled into the driveway Stu told me this was the first time they'd taken any one to him and I should endeavour to carry out all instructions eagerly ,promptly and without holding back . The door was opened by a tall very distinguished looking gentleman who beckoned Val and Stu in first then grabbing the front of my shirt pulled me inside , his first words to me were to remove the shirt quickly , which I did , then asked Val how long the pegs had been on , when she replied he stated they'd stay for at least another 10 mins. He led the way into a large lounge type area, with comfortable settees and armchairs I had to remain standing whilst the 2 were seated and offered drinks , very surprisingly I was also given one ; a large Brandy ; to fortify me for the coming events he advised me. At the window end of the room 2 large posts went from floor to ceiling , with a cross. . like my entanglement with the daughters of the local chief of police.My oldest friend at the time was a high-school drop-out named Andrew. We had found common-ground and an affinity for discourse back when we were both in our Junior year. 'Stoney' (he'd been named for Stonewall Jackson, the defender of New Orleans in the war of 1812) was a tall, athletically built (if not inclined) artist who was embroiled in living a life of ease and abject poverty while expressing his hopes, joys, angst and rebellion though his painting and tenor saxophone.I was the flutist that obscessively sketched and found solace in the ranting philosophy of 'counter-culture' Beat Poets.He wore loose sweaters and looser, laceless, tennis shoes, while my black turtlenecks, sandals and fledgling beard were becoming my 'uniform-of-the-decade'.It mattered not that ourdisparaging backgrounds were in complete opposition; his being a poor-ghetto black from the wrong side of the tracks; mine being solidly white.
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