Encounters in the Rain.
It was the Spring of 1962. Gideon Samuels, a 16-year-old with a taste for adventure, was on a high school trip to Washington, D.C. Not one to conform to the humdrum itinerary of the group, Gideon slipped out of the motel at 1 a.m. into the rain-soaked streets of the capital, ready to experience a side of the city you wouldn’t find in any guidebook.
His solo exploration had only just begun when a figure appeared through the fog—an inebriated stranger in a long, dark coat. The man, eyes gleaming with mischief, asked to borrow five dollars. Not sure if he was being shaken down or led into something far more intriguing, Gideon handed over the cash.
The man, in an accent that could only be described as peculiar, smirked and asked if young Gideon would like to see the real Washington, D.C.—the hidden corners, the best parts no one dared to print in the phone books. Naturally, Gideon agreed.
The stranger led him to a newly opened venue called “The Tombs,” a place that exuded an old English charm. The doors swung open without a word—no questions asked once they recognized who Gideon’s companion was. The room was alive with laughter, beautiful women, and the haze of cigarette smoke. Gideon felt out of place, but not for long. The stranger—clearly older than everyone else—held court with ease. Women circled him like moths to a flame, and men watched with a mix of awe and envy.
Although the stranger refrained from letting Gideon drink, a Coke was thrust into his hand every so often, as if to remind him of his youth. The night unfolded in a whirlwind of laughter and conversation, with Gideon in the center, drawing attention merely because of the man at his side. For the first time in his life, women looked at him with interest, curiosity lighting up their faces. And as the night deepened, the mysterious stranger only became more inebriated, basking in the adoration of the crowd.
But as with all nights like these, it had to end. The stranger, still humming a tune Gideon couldn’t quite place, walked him back to where they had met. He asked for Gideon’s address, promising to return the five dollars. And then, as quickly as he had appeared, he disappeared into the misty night.
A month later, a letter arrived. Inside was a crisp five-dollar bill and a note. The letterhead was unmistakable—embossed with the seal of the President of the United States. The note, written in a rushed yet elegant hand, simply read: “Thanks for the five spot.” It was signed—John.
It’s a story Gideon told me only once, but it left me wondering just how much of it was true — and just how much was magic.
— Noah Savett