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In the mist of the storm-fever I stopped on page 47 of the Cheyenne 1911 Book of High School Remembrances.
For there was the sap, the simpleton, the ignoramus, the shy wimp, the lost soul.
His name, in that lost year?
DOUGLAS DRISCOLL.
His message to the future?
Admired as a thespian.
Will soon join the unemployed.
Headed for literary distinction.
Poor fool, lost dreamer, final achiever.
Douglas Driscoll, Cheyenne, 1911.
Me.
My eyes streaming tears, I bumped my way out of the twilight stacks to show my melancholy gift to Mr. Lemley.
“Gosh.” He touched the picture. “That can’t be someone named Driscoll.
“That’s got to be,” he said, “you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Damn,” he said, softly. “You know this boy?”
“No.”
“Got any relatives in … Wyoming?”
“No, sir.”
“How’d you come on this?”
“Wild hunch.”
“Yeah, you really tore up the tundra.” He studied my identical twin, half a century ago. “What will you do? Look this fella up?”
“If graveyards count for looking.”
“It is a long time back. How about his kids, or grandkids?”
“What would I tell them? They wouldn’t necessarily look like him anyway.”
“Hell,” said Mr. Lemley. “If one kid looks like you, 1911, why not someone close. Twenty years ago, or, hot damn, this year?”
“Repeat that!” I cried.
“This year?”
“You got some? This year’s yearbooks?”
“God, I dunno. Hey, why are you doing this?”
