Kenny lived in the woods at the end of Stribling Ave. in a shack he called Nob Hill. He was a tall, lanky fellow with a long pony tail, cowboy boots and a leather biker vest. I coined the term 'headneck' to describe him but he didn't think it was very funny.

In those days, the late 70s/earlymid 80s, we drank a lot. We had to. Cops used to pull you over and give you a ticket if you were stonecold sober. Newcomers to Charlottesville were tested for alcohol sensitivity and sent back to wherever they came from if they failed. Really.

I woke up one morning at Kenny's house after too much. I rolled off the couch and Kenny was already up, standing in the front doorway with coffee in hand, the sun coming up and the birds singing. I made some effort at a greeting and Kenny just fixed his gaze upon me and said, "Every goddam morning it's the same thing. Tweet. Tweet. Tweet." He wasn't being ironic either.

Kenny rarely deviated from a general course in life as detailed in his words above.

For a time, Kenny, a friend named Duncan and I all worked together for our friend J. who had contracted with the Kluges to restore some of their antique horse carriages. Mrs. Kluge's hobby was spending Mr. Kluge's money. She bought some phaetons, some broughams, and some buckboards. Our first and only project was one of the buckboards. My sole task was applying bondo and sanding it all down, over and over again. J. was an expert in all phases of the restoration of horse drawn vehicles. We did a perfect job. But the Kluges ended up giving the job to a group of Mennonites in the Valley. I suspect they were cheaper and it sounded better at parties to say "We've the Mennonites restoring our carriage collection, you see" rather than risk having their friends see us.

We worked in the garage on the property of Albemarle Farm, at the other end of the building from the farm's mechanic. John DeLorean had given the Kluges two of his cars as wedding presents. They sat in the garage, broken down a lot. The mechanic hated them with passion bordering on fury.

After we lost the carriage job, I went back to working for housebuilders. Some time passed and I heard Kenny had a girlfriend named Lorelei. When I heard her name, I was going to try and warn Kenny but he probably wasn't familiar with German folklore.

Time came when no one had heard from Kenny and Duncan went to his house where he found Kenny dead. Lorelei was nowhere to be found. Two weeks later, she was caught somewhere in the Upper Midwest with Kenny's truck.

According to Lorelei, Kenny was having an affair with her mother and Lorelei found out about it. Kenny told Lorelei that her mother was better in bed than she was. Lorelei then shot Kenny in his sleep, with the gun he'd given her for her birthday, and then took his truck. She couldn't understand what all the fuss was about when the police caught up with her.

There's a moral to this story somewhere. If you find it, let me know.