Later I learned that there were nooks and crannies in the economic wall, places a poet might get a toehold and hang on. Things like fellowships, residencies, visiting jobs at colleges and
universities. Temporary appointments of a few months or a year.
A poet could cobble together an itinerant life, as Oscar had, teaching at one school while applying to the next, subletting apartments, cajoling favors, getting hired at summer conferences, scoring maybe an award or two, and when none of this was going well, moving in with friends until the next gig came along, as he was currently doing, sleeping in the guest quarters above Viridian’s garage.

There was no response from Oscar. I turned around and saw his head sagging into a corner of the seat. Eyes closed, mouth open. “Oscar?”

Aaron said, “Let him sleep.”

“Aren’t you supposed to stay awake if you have a head injury?”

“It’s quieter this way.”

We’d passed over White’s Hill and were heading into Fairfax. “Turn here,” I said. I wasn’t going to start an argument by asking, Why are you in such a bad mood? He’d only tighten his jaw and say, Why did I think—meaning, he thought he’d be back home having sex by now, though this would not be said in so many words. Then I’d say something reasonable like, You didn’t have to say we’d drive him home. But being right wouldn’t
help.

I guided him up the canyon road to Mrs. Boone’s lane. The gate at the top was open and the courtyard was lit up, as was the house. Three cars were parked inside the gate. Aaron pulled up as close to the house as he could. “Oscar,” I said. “This is your stop, buddy.”

He stirred but didn’t wake. Aaron suggested we put him in somebody else’s back seat, but I ignored that. We got him out of the car, upright, and walking, sort of, with Aaron supporting him. I knocked on the front door, then rang the bell.

A woman I didn’t know answered. She had impossibly black hair cut spiky short, and glasses made of clear pink plastic. Two aggressive fashion choices, I thought. She was staring at us and keeping the door mostly shut. “Hi,” I said. “We gave him a ride.”

Oscar opened his eyes then. “Christ,” he said. “The hens are still here.”

The door closed.

Now what. Could we leave him on the porch, even if they refused to accept delivery?

The door opened again. This time it was Mrs. Boone.

I was ready with another speech in case she didn’t remember me.

“Carla?” she said. “What’s this?”

“He was, ah . . .”

“Never mind. Is he all right? Can you get him inside?”