Decades ago I may’ve been a “Ricky.” Young American males commonly pattern themselves after him. Generally “Ricky” wallows and indulges in women and beer. I’ll proudly cop to that much! Exuding confidence, he’s the sort who attracts women and appeals to men.

    Both want to orbit him. Women because his proximity raises their value, while men wish to share his esteem, if not appropriate a measure of same.

    Of course being “Ricky” has a shelf life. Around 30 nature usually diminishes the dazzle. If “Ricky” is lucky, and hasn’t been struck blind by too much self-adulation, he understands how he must transition into a more substantial adult. 

    Begrudge this passage as men do, the vast majority of us advance into responsibility and accountability. Yet there are many who cling to their aged-out status with Ahab-like tenacity. The 40-something fellow whose message I belatedly received is one such potential punch line. 

    Especially now. He has nothing to do and plenty of time in which to perform it. He looked up his book’s sole formula: Phone a few buds on a work night. Congregate at a friendly tavern. See whether the magnificence of him could lure a roaming hottie. 

    Success? Then brush off his guys and cement the hook up! 

    Failure? “Ricky” resorts to either regaling his band with warmed-over sexcapades or bottoms out conversation through gearhead sputter.

    That made me nod off at 25. More than 25 years later how does one fend off narcolepsy? 

    Fortunately, I was productively engaged elsewhere during his call. 

    The day after hearing his message I hustled over to the printer’s to proof my Reveries promotional postcard. Yeah. I’m taking writing this vocation that seriously. Not only am I laying out cash but dedicating my most precious commodity as well. Time. I’m not panicking. However, I’m aware my time is accelerating.

    If “Ricky” has noticed this phenomena, he’s so far diverted it. 

    Until last year, “Ricky” operated his own Texas-based business. Thanks to the stock market’s long stretch of irrational exuberance he made a boatload of money here in the East. In his late 30s he took that loot to Dallas. There, he hallucinated how a man of his talent might could enlarge his pile over a shorter period. 

    “Ricky” has skills, some initiative, but little drive. When plenty of loose money circulated, he did well without trying.

    “Ricky” went Texas-big early and soon overextended himself. Never exercising forethought, “Ricky” instead dogged big-haired blondes, hunted in the Hill Country, toured the Southeast on his exotic motorcycle, and stacked frequent-flyer miles by regularly haunting East Coast pals and locales.