#202 - D.M.

You were the private instructor to learn from, so my parents made me take a lesson from you instead of my usual guy. I can see you: confident, stiff, with technique but no spice. One lesson was enough: I refused to go back to you.

#201 - N.F.

We'd meet in that tiny room in the back of the guitar shop; I can still smell the valve oil, intoxicating in the narrow space. Your music was smooth as silk, mine was edgy and syncopated; we let our styles mix as you taught me technique.

#200 - W.S.

A hobbled old man, I always felt a little creepy when you'd hug me hello. My mother would snatch me away and change the subject. Years later, I found out about how you molested your kids, and I wondered why your wife stayed with you.

#199 - R.S.

Every Christmas eve, we'd go to your house on the edge of the ghetto and pile our coats on the bed in the back room. You'd always give me a big hug - you smelled like soft perfume - and send me off to play with kids I didn't know.

#198 - K.M.

At some point you drank rubbing alcohol because you couldn't get anything else. It damaged your brain, made you forgetful and obnoxious. My grandma would tell stories about your youth - the youngest sister and her antics. I'm sorry I never really met you. 

#197 - W.W.

You shoveled soup into your mouth as I intently studied my polished fingernails. Ph.D. student, marathon runner, husband to one, boyfriend to six, sexual deviant, cocky asshole. Your braided hair went down to your ass, and my sense of disgust went down to my stomach.

#195 - J.S.

Tall and almost bald, with a little dog that you dote on and fun tattoos. You give me wonderful poetry - Bukowski, Brautigan, Baudelaire - and I'm fascinated by the intelligence of a man who sells snow blowers. NOW who's wearing the mask?