Edward Dray

The antiques were spotless, oiled and free of dust, tastefully arranged to give context to Edward Dray, an elderly man who in youth had fragile blue eyes and unshatterable features, who tried to break them like crashing waves on adventurous rocks, and became more fair for the chips and crags experience left on his face. His voice was refined and understated, each word carefully measured and enunciated in rich, dry tones. He could speak to the personal history of every item in his shop, many of them gathered on his own travels. He explained the manufacture and lineage but also colored them with the personalities of the men who sold them, the complexion of the townsfolk, the smells of the food. Each item he sold was a page from the diary of his life, ripened to the same dusky patina as him by the dust of the road and the eternal sun.

Dray would not retire but he would enjoy opulence and indulge the taste he had cultivated in his long life. His typical around town outfit was a tan suede jacket and brown suede vest, his riding pants tucked into tall leather boots. A gold watch chain taking gleaming brilliant peaks in time with his stride. He often carried an ivory handled mahogany walking stick, with which he gestured instructively. Edward only dealt what he would own himself, but particular pieces spoke to him, spent some time in the shop, and then migrated into his personal collection. He drove a 1928 Mercedes Benz SSK, regally long and unapologetically sleek, never looking out of place in it, the car wrapped around him like a bubble of anachronism, a mobile explanation for Edward Dray.

He traveled to Mexico in 1947 before Kerouac, they called him El Guapo.