“Love and hate. Same thing.” Said Yas in his beer gruff voice, finishing his sixth beer in the first hour. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” I cheers-ed. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

She made me feel whole even when I wasn’t talking to her. Even when we got into fights.  Even when she’d call her boyfriend in front of me. Even when she avoided my stares. Even when she didn’t say ‘I love you’ back.

“Let’s order a few more rounds.” I said, finishing my beer.

“Want some liquor?” Yas asked, knowing the answer, eyeballing the waitress until she nodded.

“Sure.” I said.

It’d been a week since my dad came back from the hospital and a month since he had his aneurysm. Somewhere in the middle of all that, I snuck off to Seattle to meet with poets and writers from across the country. Nice bohemian, artistic, drug-induced,  road trip. Got in touch with my spirit and soul and the earth and the heavens.  Came back, and realized, my dad was still fucked. Shit didn’t seem too spiritual and soulful anymore.

“Say, you still working at that strip club?” Yas asked, twirling his empty glass on the paper table cloth of the booth we sat in.

“Yeah. It helps with the tips.” I said, nodding at all the empty beer glasses, just as our whiskeys arrived. “Thanks Sarah.”

“Don’t mention it buckaroo!” said Sarah, the blonde waitress, as she skipped away.

“Every woman should be like Sarah.” said Yas, raising his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” I said raising mine and gulping down enough to burn my eyes. “Agreed.”

Sarah was funny. A drop of gold in an otherwise empty, grayed-out, hollow, of a bar, in Downtown LA. Corner of 1st and Central, a spot away from the dark, after midnight, dried up freeway veins of the 10, the 110, the 101, the 5. A flip from Union Station, where only the tourists and non-residents rode. Sarah sweetened all of these, all of us, sour things.

“So you gonna talk to her again?” asked Yas, eyeballing me like I was gonna say the wrong thing. “Anna Lisa Kristina?”

Of course I was. I needed her. She was half my life. She was the reason I wrote anything. She was the reason why I believed in love. She was the reason I was born. Or something like that. I knew it. Even though I couldn’t figure out why.

It was just what it was. It was just the way it was and was always going to be. Never a second thought. I would always love and be in love with her no matter what.

And that’s why I wrote. And that’s why I drank. And that’s why I was at a bar in Downtown LA drinking with Yas instead of taking care of my father at his apartment where I left good old Corn.

“That guy Corn,” I said, smiling, guilty, drinking, “he’s a really good friend.”

“Sure is.” Yas agreed. “He taking care of your dad while you’re here drinking it up.”

“Yeah. I just had to get away, man.” I said. “And I needed him to watch the new care-giver. Shannon, I think is her name. A young one. 21 or some shit. Fresh out of the academy or the clinic or wherever care-givers come from.”

“She cute?” Yas asked.

“Yeah.” I said. “I already fucked her. Just kidding.”

“Cheers.”

“Cheers…”

We drank, slammed the glasses on the table and ordered another round.

“Ya think he’s doing anything with her?” asked Yas.

“I don’t think so.” I said, sighing. “Things like that don’t happen to Corn much. In fact, things like that NEVER happen to Corn. Double in fact, the exact opposite usually happens to Corn.”

“What you mean?”

“Like, he’s probably already written her a love poem about how beautiful she is and how he’d love to spend eternity with her and shit. He’ll probably give it to her expecting a magical wedding to happen, but then she’ll probably laugh at him and then quit, leaving him to have to take care of my dad all by himself.” I said, immediately getting worried. “Speaking of which. I should get back to my dad’s pad. Make sure he hasn’t burned the place down with his one-sided love.”

“That’s funny.” said Yas. “I’m gonna stay here a little longer.”

Cool.” I said getting up, dropping a hundred dollar bill on the table. “Last of the strip club money.”

“That’s cool. The drinks are free anyway. And I plan on getting into a fight. So that’ll about cover everything.”

I gave him a nod, he gave a nod back and I walked to the parking lot. Lit a cigarette, hopped into my dad’s car, and drove to the nearest payphone. Picked it up, dialed a familiar phone number and got her answering machine. I waited for the beep.

“Okay. I’m gonna come over. I need to talk to you. I have to apologize. I’m an idiot. I’ve been acting like an idiot. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I need help figuring this out. A lot of shit has been happening and I don’t know why. I need to know why. I need you to help me figure it out. So I’m gonna come over. I don’t care if what’s-his-name is there either. He can listen, too. I just need to talk, Kris. Bye.”

Then I called Corn and told him that I wouldn’t be back until the next day. He said it was cool. He also mentioned that the care-giver was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life and planned on writing her the most lovely poem ever written by humans. And that by me getting back the following day, was destiny enough that he should give her the magical poem.

I sighed. And drove off  into the night, towards the one woman who ever meant anything to me. And her boyfriend.

He was living off his Social Security and the occasional ballroom dance lesson.

He was old, but he sure could cut a mean rug. And I figure that’s why the ladies loved him. And I figure that’s why my mother left him.

Yesterday, he was discharged from the hospital. They said he was strong enough, but he still had the piece of his skull missing, the piece that they put under the skin of his stomach for safe keeping, until the swelling in his brain went down enough for the doctors to put it back where it was supposed to be. They said that was procedure. Cutting a piece of the skull out and putting it in their stomach because the swelling in the brain was so bad, if the doctors didn’t do that, his head would implode. That was regular for aneurysm patients, they said. So they let him go home.

I’m pretty sure though, it had to do with insurance. And my dad’s coverage ran out. As long as he wasn’t going to die immediately, the hospital could discharge him. And they did. Because they said he was making good progress.

To me, however, whenever I looked at that flat side of his head, saw the skin stretched like it was a pelt, I kind of thought he was the furthest thing from strong enough, the furthest thing from making good progress.

None of it mattered though. We didn’t have enough money to keep him in there. So they gave us a helmet and a walker and wished us good luck.

My sister, Edna, cursed me for never visiting him while he was in the hospital. She complained about how she had to deal with the social worker, the doctors, the nurses, the pharmacists, all the people necessary to help my dad not die from a swollen brain. And how she had to practically carry him, by herself,  to her car. And drive him back to his apartment while I was at rehearsal. And how she carried him into his apartment by herself. And how she had to build all the safety stools and rails in the bathroom and next to the bed and in the hallways. All by herself.

So because she did all of that, by herself, I was the one who was going to take care of him. At least for the first couple of weeks. Until we found an affordable live-in care-giver to watch him.

And there I was, the first day, the first night, listening to him breathe from across the hall, waiting for him to call my name. To take to the bathroom. To turn on the light. To turn off the TV. To give him his medicine. For whatever he needed.

In the dark, on a chair, typing some story about strip clubs and naked ladies and drugs and video-games, I was waiting for him to call my name.

I opened it. Standing there, was a chubby-cheeked, black-rimmed-bespectacled, woman. I recognized her immediately. Her hair was longer. A few wrinkles where there once wasn’t. A few pounds heavier. But still the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

Anna Lisa Kristina. The love of my life.

“Hey, Dumb.” She said. Kind of looked a little perturbed. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I dunno.” I said, voice cracking, muscles twitching. I couldn’t help it. “I didn’t want to talk to anyone.” I felt a tear drop from my lid.

Her face turned into sympathy. “Shhh…” She grabbed me and held me and hugged me. “It’ll be okay…” I believed her…

That was the greatest hug in the history of greatest hugs. It was what I needed. And she was the only one who could have given to me.

We moved to the couch. I put my hands on my face, trying my best to keep the tears in. She was rubbing my back, her hand on my thigh, squeezing reassuringly, every so often. “You need to breathe.” She said. “If you don’t breathe, you’re going to die.”

I giggled. It was funny. And it was a good release. “Oh thank God…” She said, relieved. “I didn’t think that joke was appropriate.” She smiled. And it made me feel less cold.

I giggled again. “It wasn’t.” I smiled, through tears. “But I think you’re the only one that can get away with it.”

She smiled. Pushed her chubby cheeks into chubbier cheek-ness.

“Dumb,” She began, hand still rubbing my back, other hand still on my thigh. “How come you won’t go visit your dad at the hospital?”

It was because I was stupid. Because I was an idiot. Because I was a selfish, self-centered, asshole, that didn’t want to admit life was not a well-rhymed poem. That life wasn’t always pretty. And that the ugly, for the most part, won. It was because, for some odd reason, I thought if I went to the hospital, it would be the last time I’d see him. It was because I didn’t want to see my father, lying in a hospital bed, not in his own clothes, unconscious, with tubes in his head, a piece of his skull in his stomach, weak, half-dead.

It was because, for the most stupidest reasons in the history of the world, if I showed up at the hospital, I’d be admitting something was wrong with that man who helped give me life. Because he was my father.  Because I was his son. Because if I showed up at that hospital, it would’ve meant he was done, and that I was supposed to go on without him.

And I wasn’t ready to let him go.

“I dunno.” was what I said.

She took her hands off of me. Shrugged her shoulders. Rolled her eyes. Shook her head. Like so many times before. “Dumb, you are so dumb sometimes…” She said.

“I know…”

“You know he would want you to be there. You know your sister needs you there. You know, as well as anyone, that you should be there.”

“I know…”

Ah! Xavier!” She flustered. “You’re so stubborn!”

“I know…”

She rolled her eyes one more time. “You know what?” She said, getting up. Standing in front of me. “You’re going to the hospital to see your father. Right now!”

I looked up at her. The only one. The only one…

“I am?” I said.

“Yes.” She said, determined. “You may be stubborn, but you aren’t in the same universe as my stubborness.”

I shook my head, weakly, knowing how this would end up.

“You know how this is going to end up.” She said, on cue. “I’m going to win. Don’t waste time arguing with me. So get up and get dressed.” She stood there firmly. Wouldn’t budge.

I sighed. Stood up. “Okay.”

“Hurry up.” She urged.

“Okay…” I said, walking towards my room.

“Xavier…” She started.

“I know.” I said, on cue. “I love you, too.”

I felt her smile from my back of my head.

She was the only one…

Three whole years I’d been doing this. Flying cross country, for free, performing at theatres, colleges, conferences, whatever, staying in hotels I didn’t pay for, eating meals they footed. Came home, hit up O’Neal’s with Yas, boose it up, call up some random girl who thought I was cute and intelligent in a temporary companion kind of way, and maybe get to fuck in a parking lot or a park. Then wake up and go to work at The Glass. I felt like a rock star. Just without the rock.

Really though, it was pretty retarded. I’d talk about how I worked at a strip club, how much money I would steal from the company, how much alcohol I’d consumed in just three months, and how many combinations of drugs I’ve tried just to see what dying felt like. And they ate it up. They loved it. They drowned themselves in my stories, thinking all of it to be some Hollywood script. They got drunk themselves off of the fantastical, the outlandish, the insane stories I would regale.

And the funny thing was, I was beginning to do all of that shit just to be able to come up with some outlandish, crazy, Hollywood type story. Because I had to live it in order to tell it. That was the only way it could be real, be honest, and true. Otherwise I’d be some sort of hack, like I’d been before the Grains of Rice.

Then my dad had to go and have an aneurysm. It fucked and saved me at the same time.

Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm…

On the way home from Vermont, my sister Edna called me to tell me. She said I should come home. That I should stop running around the country doing stupid art shit and that I should get a real job to help her pay for my fathers hospital bills that were sure to come up. That she couldn’t do it alone and that I needed to do my part for the family. That I need to become more responsible.

Instead, I stayed in Vermont and told a few hundred strangers a story while he was having surgery.

Edna had never liked me. Maybe because I was a boy. And boys got to do anything they wanted. Maybe it was because I was never around to help her. And that I was never there to help her out. And maybe, because of that, she blamed me for my parent’s divorce.

I walked into my dad’s empty apartment. It smelled like him. it smelled like him  a few years earlier. When he was more alive. I decided I was going to stay with him to keep him company. So he wouldn’t die in the middle of the night. Alone.

As I walked through the front door, luggage still in my hands, the phone rang. The caller ID said it was Edna. I sighed, and picked up the phone.

“Xavier. When are you going to visit him in the hospital?” She said, “He’s your dad. You should be at the hospital.”

“I know he’s my dad.” I said. “I look like him.”

I could feel disappointment through the phone. “What time are you going to visit him?” She asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll probably see him when he gets home.” I said, still holding my luggage.

“I need you there.” She said. I felt judgment. “We need to take turns watching him.”

“Why? Is he going to run away?” I said, still holding my luggage. “Are the Russians going to kidnap him?”

I could feel her anger through the phone. “Xavier!” She yelled. “He’s your father!”

“Look, what do you want from me?” I asked. “I’ll be here when he gets home. You’re not going to be the one taking care of them. I will. So you go to the hospital now. I’ll take car of it when he…”

She hung up.

I slammed the phone. It broke.

I stood there, in the dark. I hadn’t even closed the door yet. I hadn’t even turned the lights on yet. I hadn’t done anything yet. The first thing I did was get into a fight with my sister.

Immediately, a guilt washed over me like a cold, hard-water, waterfall. I was a bad son. One that was selfish and self-centered. One that was afraid. One that hid behind a lot of jokes and drinks and drugs and naked ladies.

I cried. Alone. In his apartment. In the dark.

I dropped to my knees. The tears hit my hands. I couldn’t see anything except the explosions inside my eyes. The milky light from the back of my lids, shut tight, hurting. My face was a crumpled mess. My neck had no strength. My shoulders sunk to my waist. I was the weakest thing in the world.

“God…” I heard myself say. “Don’t let him die…”

“My father had an aneurysm today. Earlier today. Like around 9 in the morning. So the crazy motherfucker drove himself to the hospital. He drove himself! And he walked right into the emergency room. Told everyone his head hurt.” I said, stage lights right in my eyes. Good thing, though, because I didn’t want to see anyone’s face. Not for this story.

“He does things like that. He does a lot of things by himself. Quiet guy. Keeps to himself. Takes walks by himself, drives around town late at night by himself, drives to the hospital when he gets an aneurysm by himself.” I said. Giggled to myself. Blinking at the lights.

“Ya know, I don’t even know what that is. Aneurysm. I bet you I can’t even spell it.” I smiled as best as I could. I heard the people in the audience shuffling in their seats. I shrugged my shoulders and continued. “All I know is that it’s some brain shit that’s bad. I think Nirvana had a song called Aneurysm.”

I shuffled my feet. Took my eyes off of the lights and looked down at my feet, noting what they were doing. “Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm…aneurysm…aneurysm…” I said softly.

“I heard from somewhere or someone or something that if you said a word often enough, it would lose it’s power over you…” I sighed. “Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm…aneurysm…aneurysm…”

It became quiet. Really quiet. And then I tried smiling. “Nope. Doesn’t seem to work.”

Some of them laughed.

“So I did some research. Called up some registered nurses I knew.  Asked them what it was. They told me.” I paused. Not because of some stage  technique Tom taught me. I just didn’t want to cry.

“It’s not too good…” I looked back up at stage lights cabled on the ceiling. Lots of lights. Ambers, reds, blues, greens. Good somber wash.

I looked back at my feet. At the bright circle I was standing inside of. It felt warm.

“He was a basketball player, back in the Philippines. A pro.  Six feet tall, big basketball IQ, quick hands, and he was fast.Other teams would draft American players just to try to stop him. He was that good. Could’ve made a career playing professionally in the Philippines.” I said. “But then I was born.”

That was the cue. A basketball rolled onto stage. I stopped it with my foot. And picked it up. Dribbled it a couple of times. Through the legs. Behind my back. Rolled it off my hand. Spun it on my fingers. Then held it against my hip.

I looked into the darkness. I couldn’t see a single face. Just an ocean of bumpy shadows.

“Back then, in the 70′s, especially in the Philippines, basketball didn’t make much money. Not enough money for a growing family, anyway. So my dad came to America. Land of the free, home of the brave. Where anyone from anywhere in the world could make good money as long as they worked hard.

“He was a busboy at first. Then, after a few years, he became a waiter. While he was doing that, he joined an insurance company, part time. Eventually, the insurance company hired him full-time. Then he started getting into real estate. He wanted to become a real estate agent.

“Around that time, I was in junior high school. 13 years old. And that’s when I got into basketball. Couldn’t escape the genetics.”

I dribbled the ball again. I started moving around the stage a little. The spotlight followed me. I dribbled the ball between my legs. Behind my back. Under my knee. I dribbled a little harder. Started sweating. Started breathing hard. My eyes started to water.

I stopped.

“When he found out, I was getting into basketball, he got really excited. Ya know. His son, following in his footsteps. Playing the same game he used to play when he was a 13 year old kid.”

I took a deep breathe.

“See, we didn’t talk too much while I was growing up. Shit, I don’t think EVER talked! We’d just point to food and then nod or shake our head depending on how hungry we were.” I laughed. So did the audience.

I held it in between my hands. Looked at it. Traced my fingers across the seams. Pushed my fingers into the bumps. I sighed. Tried to smile.

“So he built me my own hoop.” I said, remembering what it looked like. “Dude. It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen! The most embarrassing piece of shit monstrosity ever to have been created! The Frankenstein’s monster of basketball hoops!”

The audience laughed. I smiled big. It really was ugly as fuck.

“See, we had this fence in our backyard. A wooden fence. It came with the house. What this guy did, my dad, this guy, what he did was tear down that fence to get lumber for this hoop. He sawed and nailed and roped and hammered and glued until he created this splinter-ridden, Medieval catapult-looking, clunky, way-too-heavy, questionable-for-children-to-play-with, thing!” I said animated.

The audience laughed louder.

“Then, because he didn’t want to buy an actual basketball rim, he went down to the closest elementary school, waited until midnight,  and stole one of the school’s basketball rims!”

The audience was really getting into the story.

“But there was no netting. So what this mad scientist did was take fishing wire and dangled it from the rim. He didn’t even tie them together! He let it hang like fucking streamers!” I had to laugh. The memories became clearer and clearer. ”Whenever I made a shot, it didn’t ‘swoosh’. It didn’t say anything! Because it’s fishing wire!”

The audience was having a good time, laughing out loud, and clapping their hands together.

“He was so proud.” I smiled. And looked out into the crowd. No faces, just shadows bobbing back and forth in enjoyment of a story that most likely reminded them of their fathers.

I stopped laughing. And sighed.

I dribbled the ball once. Then twice. Between my legs. Held it back in my hands.

“I would play on that thing every afternoon. Something inside of me made me feel good playing basketball. Something about the geometry, the muscles used, the developing skills. It felt good.” I dribbled once. ” After a while, that’s all I would do. All hours of the day, the night, and the next morning, all I’d do is play basketball. On that monster of a hoop. For some reason I just loved it.” I laughed to myself. Looked at the crowd. “Genetics, I guess.”

I dribbled the ball once.

“He was so proud. Proud of me, proud of the game of basketball, proud of that ugly, fucking, wooden, basketball thing.” I bounced the ball off my foot and back into my hand. “He didn’t know how to show it, though.”

I looked at the shadows in the seats. “He’d pretend to mow the lawn just to watch me play. Even though I mowed the lawn an hour earlier. He’d pretend to work on the car in the driveway just to watch me play. Without tools in his hands. He’d pretend to water the bushes just to watch me play. Our hose didn’t work.” I smiled, my eyes watering. “He was so proud of me…”

I dribbled the ball once.

“He was so proud of me…”

I dribbled the ball again. Dribbled it between my legs. Dribbled it under my knee. Rolled it across my chest and on the stage, between my legs, three times. I started moving stage right, dribbling, harder, faster. My thigh muscles tightened. My core flexed. The spot light followed. I started running. Between the legs, around my back, against the back wall. I ran harder, dribbled harder. Sweat was dripping. I was breathing heavy again.

“He was so proud of me…” I said in between my breaths. I could feel my eyes well up. So I dribbled harder, ran faster, cut quicker, spun, jumped, pumped, juked, harder, faster, quicker. I wanted to feel my muscles stretch. I wanted to feel physical strain. I wanted to feel a burn. I needed to feel. Something.

That’s when I started crying. The tears mixed with the sweat. The sobs mixed with the huffing. My father lying in the hospital, on a bed, tubes, machines, asleep, in pain, maybe dying. My father building the ugliest, most beautiful, basketball hoop ever created for his son. My father giving up on his dream to be a professional basketball player so he could bring his family to America for a chance at a better life.

“My father had an aneurysm today…” I whispered to myself.

I dropped the ball. My hand covered my face. Tears gushed between my fingers. I lost control of myself. There was no audience to me anymore. All there was, was the desperate feeling of my father’s son.

“He’s in surgery. Right now…” All I could see was the watery world of tears still sitting on my eyelashes. “They’re cutting his head open…”

I took a couple of minutes. To calm myself down. To compose myself. This was still a show. And I had to finish this story.

I could hear people crying. I could hear people listening.

“He was so proud of me…” I said one last time. Looked at them one last time. Tried to smile one last time.

Then, I took a bow. Walked off stage. Packed my stuff. And got the fuck out of Vermont.

We’d met up at Jaycie’s Cafe to watch some performances. There were these two twins who took turns telling a story about their mother. One word each, back and forth between the two. It was actually interesting. To see the kind of connection they had with each other. To be able to tell a story in that way. And for it to be understandable to the crowd. The story sucked, but the way they did it was interesting.

The Cafe usually ended around 9:30pm. It was held every Tuesday. O’Neal’s two dollar pint deals started at 10:00pm and ended until they closed at 2:00am. O’Neal’s was located on 1st and Central, one block away from the Cafe. Yas figured we’d smoke cigarettes for 30 minutes and then get to drinking.

So we stood on the sidewalk watching out watches, waiting for the minute.

“Did you read the book?” Yas asked plainly.

“Yeah, man.” I said, exhaling a smoke tendril. “It was good.”

“I figured since you were from the Valley, you might understand a little more about what the author was talking about.” Yas said, lighting up his own cigarette. “COLDWATER CANYON. By Mickey Bailey.”

“I couldn’t put it down. The way he writes is really good.” I said. “It wasn’t like he was trying. He just put down words that were, well, appropriate. They made sense.”

“Yeah. He’s into BMX biking and shit like that.” Yas said, looking at his watch.

“Really? That’s crazy. A biker writer.” I joked. “Ya know, it’s cool that the contemporary writers are getting better.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.” Yas said. “There’s a lot of shit out there. A LOT of shit. Good to know there are a few good ones out there.”

We got quiet. Looked around. Saw random cars drive by. Noticed the stop light change from red to green. Looked at our watches. Lit up new cigarettes. And waited for the minute.

“Tom says he wants you to write some pieces for the group.” Yas said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “Something that we can all sink our teeth into.”

“Really?” I said, excited. “That’s fucking cool!”

“Yeah.” Yas said. “He likes your writing.”

I smiled, happy.

“Jaycie likes your writing.” Yas said. “She’s a good woman. Into weird shit, but still a good woman.”

I nodded my head.

“So what do you think about Tom cheating on her?” Yas asked, matter-of-factly.

I looked at him stunned. I gulped. I didn’t think anyone other than myself knew about Tom’s indiscretion in Rhode Island.

“Me, I could care less.” Yas said, yawning. “Tom is Tom. I’ve known the guy for a long time.”

I turned to him, weary about what he was going to say.

“Don’t worry, man. I know you’re tight with the guy.” Yas said. “I’m tight with him, too. I’m just saying I’ve known him for a long time. And that don’t surprise me. That’s all.”

I furrowed my eyebrows. I flicked my cigarette. Pulled out another one. Noticed the light change from green to red.

“Listen, Xavier. I’ve been in this group for a while. I’ve seen people come and go. I’ve seen people shine and dull.” Yas said, turning to me. “Tom is like a brother to me. So I’m not talking shit about the guy. All I’m saying to you, is that everyone is human. You, me, Mickey Bailey, even Tom. All human.”

I looked at my watch. It read 10:00pm. “It’s 10.” I said. “Let’s go get drunk.”

Yas shrugged his shoulders. “Cheers.”

And we walked into O’Neal’s, ordered a shitload of beer, and blacked out.

He sounded like a father. Like a mentor. Like one of those once in a lifetime teacher types. Like Jaimie Escalante. Or Joe Clark. The kind that gives hope, and support, who helped mold diamonds out of sharp rocks.

I’d never had in my life. Never. Never ever.

And after all the time I’d spent, all the energy I’d invested, all the weekends and weekdays and minutes and hours I’d given to The Grains of Rice, the moment he said that, I nearly cried. It was as if he affirmed my reason for existing.

All the stupid poetry, all the stories, all the long-winded conversation about love and life and the pursuit of happiness, all of it never mattered to anyone except me. Which left me on my own little island out in a cold old universe. All by myself, drifting, talking to myself.

It was like that in the Valley. No one understood what I was feeling or thinking. To the point, I just stopped talking about stuff, locked it up inside, believing it was some sort of illness to think such things.

“Thanks, man.” I said, clearing my throat. “You have no idea what that means to me.” I smiled. A genuine smile. A smile I hadn’t smiled since I was 7 years old learning how to ride a bike.

He smiled, too. Put his arm on my shoulder.

“You can do so many good things with us, Xavier.” Tom said. “You’ve got a lot of talent.”

I looked up at him with student eyes. “Can you help me?” I was feeling very vulnerable. Back to a time before hurt was regular.

“That’s why I asked you to join us.” Tom said, smiling, reassuring. “I see something inside of you that I’ve never seen.”

He stood up. Changed from paternal figure to demagogue in a flash. He controlled his surroundings easily and intended to use them to enhance every single solitary word he was about to cast.

“There’s something about you, Xavier.” He talked slowly. “There’s an honesty there. A raw quality. Not ignorant, though. Actually aware. Insightful.” He turned to face the lamp in his living room. It was his spotlight. “And everyone can feel it. Everyone knows it. Everyone around you is drawn to it.”

I looked at him curiously. I had no idea what he was talking about. But I was sure, by the time he was done, I’d understand it. Because Tom was quickly becoming that Escalante / Clark for me.

He continued, “You can actually talk about anything, from Dungeons & Dragons to video-games to basketball to walking down a sidewalk chewing bubble gum, and people will listen to you. not only listen to you, they will eat up every single sentence you say!” He said with a dramatic flourish of his arms. His pace speeding up. I was smiling, along for the ride. “Not everyone has that, that presence. Not everyone has that naturally. Like you do.” He said, looking deep into my eyes. “You’re a natural born artist, Xavier. Don’t ever forget that.” Then he smiled.

It took everything I had to keep the tears from exploding out of my eyes.

I don’t know why I felt that way. Maybe because I wasn’t used to people believing in me. Maybe I wasn’t used to people thinking I was unique. Maybe I was on my male period. I had no idea.

What I did know, though, was that the tiny cold old island I inhabited all by myself, was starting to become a bit bigger. And with a few more people.

“Thanks, man.” I said.

“No.” Tom said. “Thank you.”

I owed this guy so much. He took me on trips across the country to talk like I normally would in garages. He paid for my meals, let me stay with him and Jaycie when I had nowhere else to stay, he believed in me, and he trusted me. I needed to pay him back. The only way I could.

“If there’s anything you need me to do, ever, I will do it. No questions asked.” I said. “In the show, outside of the show, in your life, in Jaycie’s life.” I looked him dead in his eyes to let him know I was serious. “Consider me your samurai.” I smirked.

He nodded. I nodded.

“Now,” He said, “Let’s go rehearse with the others.”

After a while though, I learned. The cigarettes and coffee. Not much of the other stuff. Not to the extend of Jim. Not that he practiced it regularly. Just that he did it more often.

A pack a day of smokes. I held them the same way. In between and at the bottom of the middle and forefinger. I exhaled the same way. Slowly. Through the mouth first, then through the nostrils.

A Cup of coffee a day. Three creams, four sugars. Stirred twenty times to the left, wait a little, then twenty times to the right. Took a sip and then lit another cigarette.

I dressed like him, talked the same politics as him, and even drove the same car as him. Now, I wouldn’t say I wanted to be like him, it just turned out I ended up doing a lot of the same things I did, like him. It just happened that way. Maybe he just got there before me.

It was him, Jim, who I asked for a job. When nothing else was left, when poetry couldn’t feed me, when acting wasn’t loving me, when art was busy with art’s own thing, I asked him for a job.

I hadn’t seen him in over two years. I hadn’t talked to him in over two years. It wasn’t like we got into a fight or anything dramatic like that. We didn’t chase after the same girl, or argue over drug money, or accuse each other of cheating at a high stakes poker game. We just drifted. As people did. As friends, sometimes, did.

I joined that theatre company. Toured the country. Performed poetry at cafes and galleries. Doing plays and shit like that. Doing what I loved doing, believing Tom and his talk about becoming a world-renowned, multi-disciplinarian actor/writer/director/dancer/poet/motherfucker.

I threw myself into that world. For two years.

It was fun. I fucked a lot. Did a lot more drugs. Drank a lot more alcohol. And it was all free for the most part. Met a lot of weird and interesting people. Drove all over the city and flew all over the country. Couldn’t really complain because I was doing shit that not many people from where I was from, The Valley, ever got to do.

But the more I did that, the more I became this big-talk bohemian self-proclaimed beast of a writer of Los Angeles, the further I walked away from Anna Lisa Kristina. No matter how many microphones I kissed, and no matter how many stages I stepped on, and no matter how many people were listening and clapping and high-fiving, none of it, not a single invigoratingly beautiful second of it, could help my real life, the real life I wanted with her. To live in Normal, California with her as my wife. Because art, the art I was doing, the art I was loving and in love with,  didn’t pay for shit. And didn’t make Security or Stability. It made no money.

So I called him up one night after two years.

“Hey, Jim.” I said. “It’s me. Xavier.”

“Xavier. Haven’t heard from you in a while.” He said as excited as someone like him could get. “How’ve you been?”

“Hanging in there, ya know.” I replied, testing out the waters. “Doing some writing and acting stuff.”

“Yeah, I heard, Hollywood boy.” He said. I could tell he was smiling. That made me a little more comfortable. “Where you at now?”

“Here and there. Sometimes Eacho Park, sometimes Eagle Rock. Depends on the girl.” I said, doing my best man-up voice. “Most of the time, though, I’m out in East Los rehearsing with my theatre group.”

“That’s cool, bro. Listen, man, I’m proud of you.” He said. Actually proud of me. “You got out of here. Doing what you like to do. That’s good, man. Real good.”

“Yeah.” I paused. Then said, “Say, I hear you’re the manager of The Glass Stiletto now.”

“Where’d you hear that from?” He asked. “Did Long tell you? Or was it dumb ass Corn?”

“I don’t remember.” I replied. “I just heard you were.”

“Well, yeah.” He said. “It pays the bills, ya know. But I hate it. I wish I was doing what you were doing.”

“Well, listen. That’s kind of why I called.” I said, a little worried how he’d react. “I need a job…”

Here I was, asking this guy, my friend, a friend who I hadn’t seen or talked to in over two years, for a job. And a job at a strip club, nonetheless. I was so desperate. It almost didn’t matter. But I felt like shit asking him for this favor. I always felt like shit asking him for anything. This was Jim. Jim…

“Of course, my brother.” He said without hesitation. ” But I didn’t think your kind of class would be caught dead in my dump.”

“Naw, man. It’s not like that.” I defensively said.

“I’m just fucking with you, bro.” He laughed. “you start Monday. Bring your ID and your social security card.”

“Alright.” I said, sighing, in relief.

“And Xavier.” He said, getting serious. “Are you sure you want to work here?”

I paused for a second. Thinking about all the composition books that were filled with shitty poetry and shittier stories. I thought about the theatre group and how we were headed nowhere. I thought about my sister and her husband and her kid. And how the fantasy world of the New Artistic Revolution was a beautiful place to be, but how Normal, California was falling apart because I’d been gone for so long.

Fuck yeah, I was sure.

“Why not?” I replied.

“Cool with me then.” He said satisfied. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Alright. Thanks man.”

“No problem.”

We hung up our phones.

And that’s how I got the job at the Glass Stiletto.

“That’s rough.” said Yas, took a gulp of his dark amber beer.

“What kind of shit is that, man?” I asked.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” said Yas.

“Fuck her then.” I said. And raised my beer glass.

“Cheers.” Said Yas.

“Cheers, god damn it.” I said.

And we drank.

We drank in the same corner booth we’d drank in the last twelve times after finding O’Neals. It easily became our haven after Cafe’s and shows and the other things we did around Little Tokyo. The same quirky, blonde, waitress, Sarah, served us alcohol. The same lights were lit, the same industrial pipes lined the roof and walls. The same empty booths and empty stools.

It was a perfect place for a couple of humanized humans to sit and burn their throats until they forgot why they became human.

“What the fuck, man?” I exclaimed, eyes bloodshot immediately. “What does that fool do that I don’t?”

Yas took a gulp of his beer.

“I mean, sure, he probably has a job. A job that pays him a lot more money than I make. But I’m an Artist! Capitol ‘A’! The poems I write about her are priceless! No one knows her chubby-faced ass more than me! No one can make her smile like I do. No one can make her laugh like I do. No one can make her feel good like I do! I’m her best friend, man! Doesn’t that count for something?” I lamented.

Yas took another sip of his beer. He pulled out two pens from his shirt pocket. Laid one in front of me. He held the other one in his off hand.

I took a mean swig of my beer. “He’s a punk bastard rat ass kid. Televised tattoos. Commercialized bald head. Probably doesn’t know the difference between a tender kiss and a sloppy one. He can’t do the things I can do! All he does is take up space in this universe. That’s all he does. So what the fuck does she see in him?”

Yas wrote one word on the butcher paper that table clothed our booth.

“Seriously, man. I should’ve knocked that motherfucker out. Why didn’t I? Who gives a fuck, really? She’d still go home with him. Fuck, I can just imagine it right now. They’re parked under some lap post light somewhere around here, making out, undressing each other, about to get their fuck on. While I’m sitting here drinking with you.” I said, swigging. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Said Yas, as he underlined the on word he wrote on the paper table cloth.

“Shit, man. Why the fuck am I doing this to myself? Why am I driving myself crazy? Why the fuck am I in love with this woman who doesn’t love me back? What is wrong with me? What’s wrong with me? What is it about me that she just can’t get over?”

Yas took a gulp of his beer. Placed it back down on the table. And said, “Stability. Security.”

I looked at him. Paused my maniacal rant. Looked at him. In those crazy eyes of his. The ones that look passed everything except a persons soul, a persons truth. I gulped.

He pointed to the word he wrote on the paper table cloth. It read, ‘Money.’

“You don’t have any. None of it.” Yas said, took another gulp of his beer. Finished it off. Raised his hand to order another one. The waitress Sarah swiftly came by, picked up the empty glass with her pinkie and fluttered off to the bar for the refill.

Money. Stability. Security. Yas was right. I had none of it. So what if I traveled the country more times than anyone could in their lifetime. so what if I wrote a million poems and stories about love, life, and the pursuit of happiness. So fucking what if was the most honest, most raw, most brilliant Artist capitol ‘A’ out there that I self-centrically knew. None of any of that mattered. Because of the things Anna Lisa Kristina really wanted.

Art was nothing in comparison Not Struggling.

“Cheers.” I said.

“Cheers.” Yas said.

I gulped down the rest of my beer. Raised my hand to catch Sarah’s attention. And said, “I’m gonna go get a job.”