Luggage By Kroger: A True Crime Memoir by Gary Taylor

that Cullen Davis trial drove the final nail into the
coffin that had become my second marriage. It also underscored the
connection and conflicts between my professional and domestic
lives. But I also realize that my general attitude about marriage
and relationships likely doomed them from the start. Whenever
anyone asks why I was married twice, I usually smile and say: "I
guess I'm just not the marrying kind." I'm only half joking about
that line, and I am completely serious when I add: "I consider both
of my marriages successes."

    Why do people get married? My
answer to that question evolved over the years to reflect the
events of my life. Before my first marriage in 1969, I thought
people should get married if they fall in love. After my first
divorce in 1973, I revised that theory. People should get married,
I decided, if they find someone really rich, or if one of them gets
pregnant. Then, when my second marriage ended in 1979—and I was
broke with two children—I revised my philosophy again. I concluded
the only real reason for marriage is to commit adultery.

    As a teenager, I had planned never
to marry. I was so committed to that plan that the thought of
sexual activity terrified me for fear I might impregnate someone
who would saddle me with a kid. I had positive role models for
marriage in my parents. Although they fought occasionally, the
institution seemed to work well for them. It provided security for
my mom and a guarantee of companionship for the old man. But it
just didn't appeal to me. It simply looked like a tremendous bore.
I was determined to get out in the world, out of St. Louis, away
from the family business, and fulfill some fanciful dreams of
adventure. I saw marriage and family as an anchor that would hold
me down. Most normal folks likely would describe that view as
anti-American, sacrilegious, antisocial, or all three, but I really
didn't care. My religion was agnostic, and my goal was to
experience life.

    Eventually, however, in failing to
stay unmarried, I did learn that marriage and family constitute a
special sort of adventure—one of life's experiences I am glad to
have survived. As a result, I do consider both of my marriages as
successes that provided the kind of emotional education unavailable
through any alternative experience. I still recommend it to all my
younger friends nervous about taking such a serious step. "Try it,"
I tell them. "If it doesn't work, you can always do something else.
It won't be the end of the world."

    I know that Domestic Gary began to
emerge during my junior year of college. But even with hindsight, I
don't really understand how the first marriage happened, and I bet
my first wife would agree to some confusion about that as well. The
best explanation might just be because there was nothing else to
do. We met at the start of my junior year at Mizzou in 1967. She
was a freshman just hanging around her dormitory when I called
looking for another girl I had dated the year before. Classes
hadn't even started yet. She answered the phone and said she
couldn't find the girl I wanted.

    "You'll do," I said. "How do you
look? Want to come out to a party?"

    She hesitated only a heartbeat,
then answered with a confident: "You'll like me. Let's go." She was
destined to become wife number one.

    When I introduced her to my
roommates, one of them noted her uncanny resemblance to the 1930s
flapper cartoon character Betty Boop—flashing doe eyes, infectious
smile, puffy cheeks, a football helmet hair cut, and, most
importantly, an attitude of independence. It didn't hurt that she
also packed a pair of thirty-eights. Of course, Boop automatically
became her nickname. And as we became better acquainted, she found
a way to humor me by playing a little game with Betty Boop's
trademark buzz phrase: "Boop-oop-a-doop." If I asked nicely, she
would say it for me and shake her hips like the cartoon. It could
have been pretty corny, but she managed to pull it off, creating
another