Beatrice was going with Jaxon and came along with the group wearing a see through blouse. This was not unusual since there was still a certain amount of freak out the straights going on and a little nakedness was considered sport. Beatrice was a program of one. I remember saying to Philippa once that she scared me a little bit and Philippa had responded, yes, she scared the women as well. No doubt.

Beatrice was reputedly the daughter of a Mafia boss who, when Beatrice was still in high school, had disappeared during a tiff with associates, doing a classic walk off a dock. The family, father gone and in reduced circumstances, moved to the west coast. Was this true? I don't know. I never asked Beatrice, not for lack of opportunity, but, in retrospect, for lack of courage. (There was also an embarrassment thing going on, but lack of courage covers it.)

Beatrice was beautiful, smart, a gifted artist and driven by demons to match. Dark hair, dark eyed, tall, voluptuous Beatrice would give you a calculating look, not hostile, not pernicious, no joy taken in torment, just a look to let you know she might play if you asked, but by big girl rules: No penny ante poker at Johnny's house, but Monte Carlo style in a game that played forever, where winning was easy and losing meant your house, your wallet, your car, your wife and your life to boot. She would play, she would play right through to the end (Skipping the walk on the dock, thank you. I said she was smart.), but you had to play as well, you had to play your part.

Which gets us back to the Renaissance Pleasure Faire and the see through blouse. I didn't take a single god damned picture. I have pictures of everyone else: Philippa certainly, and Ramsey and Dave and Fred and the rest of the ladies too, but not a picture of Beatrice because I didn't have the balls to ask. Excuse me Beatrice, but would you let me take your photograph (and get a shot of those great tits)? Beatrice wouldn't have minded. She wasn't coy about the blouse. She didn't mind attention. She could handle all the attention you could dish, with your camera or without. Walking with her, watching the faces change as we passed, taught me that if nothing else, but no photograph?

I'd shoot it today. Beatrice, daughter of the Mafia boss, a procession of one walking through the crowd, is out there still, an image that film was made to shoot. A photograph is made in a kind of dance, a short turn around the floor all the senses engaged hoot, an image the result. Beatrice was a phenomena, a world unto herself and I, snap shot shooter then, snap shot shooter now, crapped out. Is there a lesson? What's it about?