There was nothing unusual about the day Doc died. It was a typical Southern California summer day. Gloom 'til noon, hot and clear from mid afternoon through the middle of the night. I was working out in the garage -
I find suddenly that I really don't want to tell about Doc. The story does not need him; it will probably make more sense without him. I find myself trying to avoid thinking about him. He was loud, aggressive, brash, and afraid of practically nothing. For most of one summer he acted as my mentor, and the effect he had on the way that I thought and acted took half a decade to damp out, to allow me to become ordinary again. If I force a place for him here, I'm afraid that I'll misreport his fairly serious flaws, which were a critical part of him. I must think on this -