Walk with me through the dusty streets to the little cracked stucco brothel on the border in which I lived. See the chip in the wall in the corner, with the clean indent and spider pattern that extends in seven different directions? Pancho tried to shoot me there. Pancho was a good guy and the two of us used to be friends, but that ended one night over a ten dollar whore, I don’t even remember how many pesos that was, but it didn’t matter to Pancho. Pancho el Guapo I called him even if he was the hairiest dirtiest man I’d ever met, but the two of us could drink more tequila and Tecate in one sitting than most men would do in their lifetimes. The liquor made us impotent, so the whores just kept us company, warming our beds on Mexican nights already too warm with its own brand of dry heat. Those were the days when my only identification said A.A. and I placed it on the bar with pride.

Fly with me over Texas and see the little dot of a town that I came from that now sprawls beneath us like so much fungus on waste left in a warm place, the planes that take off and land at its new airport, the flies on its rancid self. Can you see that winding road that extends out of the mess and along the dusty brown land to the green reservoir at the terminus? We used to swim there, Bobby and I, until he drowned one night after too much drink, too much sun, and too much fun. He leapt off the hood of his car on which the two of us sat watching the stars and discussing the kinds of things you discuss at seventeen, girls, cars, and the inevitable talk of the future and our place in it, and stumbled into the water. I laughed as I watched him paddle back and forth and laughed harder when he started to scream for help. I only started to wonder what he was up to when I hadn’t heard the water break after a minute. We were decent swimmers, but I knew he couldn’t hold his breath that long.

Drive with me through the city in which I discovered how pointless things in life really were. See that sign that says “Los Angeles?” The people in that city were anything but. Movie stars, producers, the wanna-be’s, the pimps that follow and make them into the whores that they all become. Slaves to drugs always, this is not new, and hungry for fame, there was nothing to do but play that fucked up game. Six years of my life, lost to that filth. When the dam burst, the people that needed to be cleansed from this Earth were the people who wanted to build another. They never learned, and never cared to do so as long as they got what they needed when it was needed. Girls, fresh off the bus, looking to become stars. Girls with women’s bodies but baby’s faces. Girls who knew what others wanted and gave it readily. They were the worst. They climbed the latter better than monkeys climbed their cages.

Talk to me about the year you and I spent in the northeast. Remember that coffee shop in the little red brick town , where the two of us sat discussing such lofty topics with such vigor that it seemed as though the words merely having been spoken would change the world? We were young, you and I, barely out of our teens and away from home for the first time ever, me the lone star and you, where did you come from? You were always an enigma to me, so quiet, so reserved, to everything that I never was, but somehow together it seemed like it could only have ever been us. When did we fall on hard times, you and I? Was it on the common that hot summer day? The kids splashing around the wadding pool all seemed to stop and eye us with a confusion that children have as to why things between friends don’t always work out. I’d lie to you, I’d say that Julie didn’t mean anything to me and that it was stupid and foolish, but somehow I think you would be far more disappointed in that. Our friendship would have ended over nothing instead of the something it did. Was it necessary to hit me? The blood that ran from my nose was far warmer than I would have guessed, surprising me even in the heat of that late afternoon day. My nose never seemed to sit right on my face after that wallop you delivered. I deserved it.

Sit with me. Hold my hand and feel the pulse of the dirty blood that pumps through my veins, killing me a little bit more every day. Read my chart and see the doctors scribbled message about mine being a worthless cause. The punctuation at the end is almost humorous in its finality. The nurses are nice enough, but then, what should they say to a man like me. The doctor is curt and clearly uncomfortable when in my presence, such as it is. He doesn’t know I’ve seen his notes and sometimes still acts as though he cares. Did you see him pass by? His skip step past the door and quick glance to see if perhaps I’m gone from my bed and these white sheets changed and another man, perhaps one who wants to be helped, here in my place. His wish will come. I don’t need it anymore.