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I was with my birth-parents, pro magician and assistant who kept me during summers, when they parked their VW bus at the end of Las Vegas’ famous strip; 1968 or so. “Stay in here, keep the doors locked and the windows up. We’re checking on a gig and will be right back.”

No problem, as I had the giant waving cowboy, a hundred flashing signs and all kinds of people to ogle at.

Bang Bang Bang! Some crazy-looking old man beating on the sliding door. “Little boy, let me in. I have to get out of here!” No way in hell was that happening. He carried on until a giant brown guy arrived and talked to him gently, then led him away down the sidewalk.

Only then I saw the long haired old man was wearing a hospital gown and nothing else. When the folks got back I excitedly related events only to be told to stop making up wild stories. They didn’t get the job so off we went to California.

Much later I learned about Hughes later years, his dementia, his Samoan minders and how they kept having to bring him back to his penthouse after running off.

Pretty sure that was my personal Forrest Gump moment in life.