Searching for Yoldash

I remember Patrick from graduate school, with his huge mess of an orange beard, waxed mustache, braided hair. He spoke in a deep voice lilting in all the wrong places. He printed his essays in blue calligraphy. He wrote exclusively and explicitly about sex, so that every author, no matter how staid, became Henry Miller. I imagine that he has a government job somewhere now, where he sits in a windowless office producing obscure and unread technical documents in blue calligraphy, hoping that one day, long after death, he will create a beautiful scandal.