Prologue

 

Neoteny. A word as slick as a gourd polished with salamander spit. A word hinting of crushed velvet and plush carpeting and seventies-style Afros. A word that slides down the throat, warming the gut like a sensual poison.

 

Neoteny. As creamy as a steaming square of freshly made tofu; as rich as a dark stout. A polyester word that never wrinkles, never ages, never goes out of style. A word that stretches itself across three decades.

 

If neoteny were a piece of art it would be a Bob Ross oil painting. If neoteny were a Rorschach inkblot it would take the shape of Haiti. If neoteny were a tune it would sound best if played on a gourd banjo. If neoteny could laugh it would bray like a donkey.

 

When I hear the word neoteny I think of Peter Vernon. I knew him for less than a year, but Peter’s personality lingers like the flavor of good coffee. Bitter. Sweet. Burnt. As oddly alluring as fine sauerkraut.

 

Each year, I see Peter in some eager, young student of mine, or I see him on the street begging for change. Sometimes he’s driving the bus or sweeping the floor or serving hotdogs from a cart. This morning when I looked in the mirror, startled by all the wrinkles in my face and my gray beard, I saw Peter.

      

Neoteny. When I finally sat down to write about Peter, this word slid off my tongue, tasting like a tear.