I was a junior college student and very naive and inexperienced when I met Dillon. He was a college professor and the sponsor of the Sociology Club. We went to a restaurant, and the fiddler played "Dum-De-Dum-Dum" for me. I should have listened. Dillon drank all the time. He asked me to move in with him, since he was divorced. I lived in a rented room in a run down house, so I did. One afternoon, Charlotte, a fat, rich lady who was married to a millionaire, came over in pursuit of Dillon. She was in love with him and wanted to live with him. Soon after, I came home to Dillon and he had rented an attack dog. He said Charlotte's husband had placed a contract on his life. The Sociology Club held a yearly party, and I drove drunken Dillon there. He got even more drunk, took off his clothes, and started diving in the pool in his jockey shorts. I took him home; he passed out in the car. Thinking he had a heart attack, I thumped him on the chest. He recovered, I dragged him into the house, and he was sick in the bathroom. The next day, he had pains in his chest, neck, and left arm. I left him sick in bed, telling him he'd had a heart attack and he needed to call an ambulance, and never returned. I learned afterward that his nickname was "Wild Dill." Twenty years later, I returned his treasured Nina Simone album through a friend. He's ready to retire now, and they're still talking about me and Wild Dill in that Sociology Club.
— Paula, 47