Milton Academy - Yearbook (Milton, MA)

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Porche 944 A Porche 9449 nobody really owns one: you just see themg the image, the idea fexpensive, fast, sleekj. Who drives them? William turned off 17th Street and descended into the bowels of his office building. The tires screeched as he pulled into a space marked with his name. After put- ting the radar detector in the glove compartment and taking off his Varne sunglasses, he got out of his car, knocking off his Stetson on the roof as he stood upg but it was O.K., because nobody saw him. The clicking of his cowboy boots ring- ing in his ears, he walked towards the elevator while taking out a pipe from the wide left pocket of his Brooks Brothers gray flannel suit jacket. The elevator trip always seemed unbearably longg filled with thoughts about the coming day's agenda, his wife. He was al- ways alone. It's along and lonely trip to the top, he said with a Andrew Gross Martha Carroll chuckle as he got off at the top floor, still puffing on his pipe. Good Morning Mr. Garvin. Good Morning Mr. Garvin. He just nodded, never answering. For William it was a long way to the top, but he wouldnit let you know it for a second. At a cocktail party that night, wearing three rings and concealed under his silk shirt, tie and jacket his gold chain lno cowboy attire this timej, Wil- liam found himself talking to a rel- ative stranger, james Bodin. So jim, you said that you were at Yale, what year? Class of '55. Well, I'm class of '57. Oh, I didn't realize that you were a Yale man.,' No denial. The conversation switched and Wil- liam's wife, who had been listen- ing with horror, pulled William aside and said, You went to Bos- ton College, why did you tell that man you went to Yale? I never said that I went to Yale. He was always careful not to, and to be appropriately sophis- ticated for any social occasion, even if it was stretching the truth. His head pounding from his se- vere hangover, William at 6:00 the next morning was jogging along the Potomac River, past the Ken- nedy Center, past the Watergate, across the Memorial Bridge and all the way to the Pentagon and back. The rain mixing with his sweat on his soaking shirt. His gold chain around his neck catching the light of the street lamps he passed under. His hair, dyed brown to keep away any gray, matted against his headg alone, always alone. The image, the dreamg poor boy grows upg Porche - there is no substitute. Thorn Pozen 33

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Howard Chaffey Doug Cabot

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Gordon Burnes 1 f if Q n f g ' o V V : Wu N ' I My ' 'f-In. 'FJ' it S if '- o o f fi o o o How. of X , 'Q f' M N, , , f-1-any Bob Colman