It was early 1966, I was 23, just out of four years in the military, living with my wife, Lee, in a fancy apartment in Brooklyn Heights that belonged to the business partner (who called himself "the frog prince" and amassed a cache of expensive and often antique frog art and artifacts) of my patron (Rita ?), an older successful business woman (in her thirties?) who was supporting me (and Lee) while I wrote what my patron believed would be "The Great American Novel"—that's my portable typewriter on the frog prince's desk and I'm wearing the vest from a cheap three-piece suit I bought for one of my sisters' weddings...this situation only lasted a few months and was my first brief attempt to transform myself into someone "classy" (for the "author's photo")...
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