Instead of a deerstalker hat, it was a flat cap, trucker hat, or Fedora. Actually, sometimes it was a deerstalker hat. Instead of an Inverness cape, it was a camel hair sports coat, a red AT&T pullover, or Colombia jacket. Instead of black evening shoes, it was New Balance, flip-flops and brown leather lace-up dress shoes. Instead of a Calabash pipe, it was pack after pack of Grand Prix cigarettes. Whatever fancy watch Sherlock Holmes would have worn, it was a Fossil watch instead. He called himself ‘Detective.’
He was a scholar-turned-salesman-turned-waitstaff, and then, failed playwright. He was such a failed playwright, that he never finished his first play before he failed at it. It would have been good when finished if it’d ever gotten that far. Likely, it still would have failed upon release. He wanted to mimic the writing of Tennessee Williams, inspired by his time in New Orleans. He thought he could reproduce The Glass Menagerie, padded with metaphors of exciting drug use and an unconventional nightlife, before the themes he wished to portray took him down a similar path that swallowed him up before he could ever get published.