The phone rang.
“You lucky fucker,” Ortiz said. ” just heard your divorce is final.”
“Two years, two years you are calling me, weeping like a little bitch. And now -look at you, you are free amigo.”
“Legally. But we were together twelve years and …”
“And now you are here, roaming Central America like a literary Kwai Chang Caine.”
“You’re comparing me to the guy who choked to death jacking-off in a Bangkok hotel?”
“I am saying – keep writing. You are living the dream. We have great respect for writers and poets.”
“Sure you do. I bet I still can’t find a good used bookstore in Panama City.”
“We respect writers. We do not buy books.”
“Makes no fucking sense. None of it does. Entitled white boy reporting from Central America? This is either an exercise in abject masochism, or a fucking suicide.”
“We are all going to die amigo. But you will file a report on it. To die with a pen in your hand, that gives your life meaning -no?”
“Fuck meaning. I’d rather die with my dick in my hand.”
Ortiz started laughing: “You got two hands.”
He was right of course. I did have two hands, plenty of rope, and I’d always wanted to try auto-erotic-asphyxiation. But at this point it wasn’t about achieving my dreams. It was about finding a way to go on in spite of them.
Lately it felt like a subroutine had started running, like it had all started ticking down somewhere inside me. The end was looming. I could feel it. It was only a matter of time. And I wondered if maybe David Carradine hadn’t been onto something.
– Cojito @ Panama After Dark