This is the story of Marco Stanley Fogg, an orphan searching for love, his father and the key to the riddle of his origin and fate. Marco’s mother was killed in a car accident when he was eleven years old, and he never knew who was his father. Since then he had lived with his Uncle Victor in a small apartment on 112th Street in N.Y. His Uncle was a part of a band who was named Wally Moon and preformed at the Moon Palace diner. When Stanley grew up he went to the University; Uncle Victor gave him for this occasion a present, one thousand books. Afterwards, his Uncle had suddenly died. Then Stanley’s situation became worse; He saw his money dwindle to zero, he lost the apartment and wound up living in the streets (He slept for three weeks in Central Park without food and with little money). His friends David Zimmer and Kitty Wu had found him and took care of him til he recover from his illness. Staley lived in Zimmer’s house until he had moved away to another apartment, then Stanley searched for a new place to live and found a job as a live-in companion for an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair.
He lived with him for about half year until the gentleman died. His name was Effing Thomas but his real name was Julian Barber. In the past he was a famous painter but he stopped painting after the death of his brother and he changed his name after being considered dead by mistake. Stanley and Effing were very bonded since Effing was like the father Stanley never had. Dear Diary June, 1967 Today I was again in Broadway Street where was Chandler’s Bookstore. I had sold him another box of Uncle Victor’s book. Sure, I had already read them. I know that they were the only memory, which was left from my uncle, buy I need the money to pay the rent and to buy some food and eat. August, 1968 Today I woke up early in the morning and got out to the street. As I was walking I saw that the drugstore had been opened already, I entered and I dropped a penny into the drugstore Exacto scale to see what was happening to me.
From 154 in June, I fell to 139 in July and then to 123 in august. For someone who measured slightly over six feet, this began to be dangerously little. August, 1969 Today Fernandez, the owner of the building, threw me out my apartment. I took my knapsack with a few odds and ends, tucked the clarinet case, that Uncle Victor had left to me, and walked out the door… I don’t know what I’ll do, or where do I’ll go… October, 1970 Now I have just finished to type down the life story of Effing on the typewriter that he had gave me. I have copied it from the notes I had taken in those nights when we sat down after supper. Me on the sofa and him in his wheelchair. He had told everything; Why had he changed his name and why did he choose this name (Effing), why did he stop painting, what happened to his wife and to his son. And eventually he told me that when he will die he wants his body to be cremated.