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He talked like a bullet train: He worked construction to pay the bills, but was trying to be a writer. Even Roberto was reclining in a booth surrounded by a swarm of giggling girls. I found him off in the corner, dutifully taking pictures for my story.

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The film recently has been digitised by the Royal Geographical Society and the British Film Institute.

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They told me I should adopt a bunch of put-on personalities—you know, pretend I'm a cat lady, claim that I used to be a lesbian, mention how I just recently got out of jail and I really miss my bitches. I snuck out of work early to change into going-out clothes and do my hair. I psyched myself up, practicing lines in the mirror. My boyfriend and I walked into Nami Sushi downtown. As one guy told me, "Meeting people at bars sucks, meeting people at work sucks, and I'm here for the same reason everyone else is: I'm single and am unhappy about that." Craig would have been cute enough, if he wasn't so nervous. "If we're going to do this, we might as well get a little tipsy," I said. Caroline had a law degree and taught paralegals at a local university.

Suddenly realizing I had no idea how to act single, I turned to my co-workers for help. I'm not sure what happened, but as I scanned the crowd of mostly attractive twentysomethings dressed to the nines, I just couldn't do it. I couldn't make a mockery of the thing they believed might change their lives. That's a field I should have gone into, har har har." He actually scratched his belly as he said that. I slid into an empty seat next to a girl and ordered more Cabernet.

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I wanted to go on; I had toured Europe in the early Sixties, and had other stories from those days that historians and veterans would want to hear.But as I began again, a family tragedy intervened, and I set the work aside.When I returned to the United States I brought with me the remains of my huge original archive: my 1962 call reports to Control Data, my flight logs, my appointment (and hotel/restaurant) lists, some of my expense account carbons. As Craig fumbled for something more to say, I met Chuck, a chubby older man in his forties. Then we'd take a moment and write down each other's name and identification number and decide whether we liked each other enough for a second date. Bruce, the football stud, was leaving with an ex-cheerleader. He actually told me he wore a red shirt just in case he spilled wine on himself. She was really pretty, with perfectly manicured nails, a Prada bag, and no visible dark roots on her dyed blond hair. For the next eight minutes, I would talk to a stranger. She hadn't had a fresh date since intermission, instead spending her time talking to a living Ken doll. Almost everyone seemed to have found someone special."When you're writing, it's sort of a strange thing," he explained to me. "I want to meet someone new," he said in a high-pitched Southern drawl. On the drive back to Uptown, I proudly boasted that I had gotten someone's number: Caroline's.

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