I once caught Rennel practicing his draw with his index finger in front of a mirror. He said he wanted to understand Sam’s motivation. They argued for hours over the most efficient height for the holsters and how tight the leg strings should be. According to Rennel, Sam was fixated because he had no sex life. But the problem was that Rennel had no sense of humor.

A rumor went around that Sam had found a tame junkie. He had made a pet of a heroin addict, took her in to live with him, and set up visiting hours for putting her on display. Weeks went by in which I did not see Sam but heard of him several times a day.

“Have you met Belle?” someone might ask. Or, “Have you seen Sam’s junkie?” Or, more discreetly, “Have you been over to Sam’s place recently?”

All this as a prelude to reverent descriptions of the way Belle ate brown sugar straight from the box with a spoon, or how she nodded into unconsciousness on the sofa immediately after playing her guitar and singing for a group of guests. It was one of her drawing cards, that she played and sang her own songs.

I took an immediate dislike to the whole business. There was a lot of pious awe going around in those days and it set me against whatever it was directed at. Even now, the word “Zen” triggers a reflexive sneer, and the most academic use of the word “enlightenment” blights my very digestion.

Drugs and folk music were two topics that always drew blathering mysticism from the dark heart of every student house and dormitory. There were dozens who found some pretext to visit Sam so they could sit worshipping their new ideas and get high. All of the students seemed to use hallucinogens, but heroin was holy by way of being fatal.

Still, I was jealous. Sam had hit upon something so much more colorful and gratifying than I could ever offer, and I despised him at last for being “taken in,” as I fancied it. I didn’t go to see him, and he, enveloped in the lively fascination he inspired, certainly did not seek me out.

He arranged a small performance at the college. Belle sang to as many students as could crowd into the main lounge. The reports were extravagant. She was “so wise,” “so full of soul,” “so beautiful.” Sam must have loved it.

Finally, after weeks, he came to see me. He could not sit down. He was in a hurry. He needed fifty dollars for gas to drive Belle home to San Francisco.

“She needs to see her kids. She has two kids. They’re with their father.”