Forty Years in the Dark
I think it was 1989 — or maybe ’88. I was at a nightclub. I’d always been bored in clubs, but I went anyway, to keep company with friends who were having the time of their lives. Standing at the bar, looking for useful distractions, I noticed a guy about my age who was strangely well dressed — shirt, blazer, a proper preppy — completely out of place in a club
full of kids losing their minds to British New Wave, everyone in strict black, hair teased high, mascara rimming their eyes.
He didn’t fit at all. I was curious. I bought him a drink and asked if he’d be willing to pose for me. He said yes, so we arranged to meet the following day. He lived in a town in the provinces, a couple of hours away, and asked if he could arrive late morning. That’s what we did. I found these negatives after nearly forty years. I had no memory of taking them.
