Chester
By the end, I wanted to believe him, although it really doesn’t matter.
He was simply one of my best friends, Chester A. Arthur, and we met at a small community college in the spring of 1972, near Richmond.
We were then both largely adrift. My early story was unexceptional, in a kind of stylish Sixties way, dropping out of Middlebury a few years earlier. Odd jobs along a Southern arc, coupled with an interest in history, finally landed me in the Capital of the Old Confederacy.
That’s where I met Chester, both of us finding seats in the back row of HIST. 203, THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT.