from the memoir

Wes. Oh Wes. Drove a fucking El Camino that handled curves with grace and verve. I watched in amusement as my second-in-command tried to get in his pants the entire year. It was understandable. He had perfect golden curls falling down to his shoulder and a devil-may-care attitude coupled with the stoicism of the Hemingway volumes he pored over while playing hooky behind the dumpsters. At night, he sat on top of his roof playing his didgeridoo. One time, he picked up and left school for a week to do heroin in Mexico. The other time, he drove out West searching for peyote--only God knows how far he went before the delirium of the drive took over and he gave up on the mythical drug. Imagine my surprise when he asked me one day to tutor him in Government. We had nothing in common except a love of old books and, for now, his goddamn graduation requirement. I think he didn't even need me there, he just wanted some company. He would tell me about nights spent sneaking wine into movie theaters, picking fights, and smooth-talking girls under the open canopy of a warm Texas night while I sat quietly and nodded, every now and then directing his pencil to the correct multiple choice answer. All of a sudden, he turned to face me with a look of absolute curiosity and bewilderment, asking, "What do you do on Friday nights?". I couldn't answer. I was a recluse. I played loud music and staged my own photo shoots. I could only dream of breaking out of my house and into the world he described. I could voice none of this to him. He shrugged, closed his book and bought me a delicious tuna sandwich before driving me home. When graduation neared, I gave him my yearbook in hopes that he would write something incredibly profound and life-changing. The only thing he wrote was, "We graduated, and that's cool, right?". The last I heard, he had shaved his head, and joined the Marines. He is set to marry an American girl he met while stationed in Japan.