It is a common misconception that all fictional characters are based on an author’s friends, foes, or family. In fact, they are not. When I am writing fiction, I occasionally snatch a face, an idiosyncrasy, or an attitude from a real, living human being. But not often. And when I do, it is usually someone I don’t know: A beautiful women asleep on a bus. A flower deliveryman missing the forefinger on his left hand.

Everyone once in a while, though, I have a near collision with an individual so rare, so interesting, so poignantly sad or sadly significant that I promise myself I will capture his essence and put it in a novel. When I was very young, very single, and very living in Manhattan, I met three people to whom I made, but never kept, that promise. Since I still owe them that little bit of immortality, I would like to tell you about them today.