I said: “It ain’t no big deal to me.”

She said: “My poetry’s pretty goddamn good.”

I said: “Good. Go blow your smoke up somebody else’s ass.”

She said: “Do you read stuff for people?”

I said: “I used to. I quit doing it because it got out of hand. Everybody’s got the dream and the dream don’t come true that often. I worked my ass off for a million years and all it got me is having to sit here and listen to somebody like you.”

I usually wasn’t that nasty to people, but she was starting to bother me. She had her legs spread out and her big-tittied buddy was rubbing her crotch with her elbow and leering.

I said: “Damn. Why don’t y’all go off somewhere in private?”

She said: “But what’s the secret, Leon? Come on, what’s the secret?”

I said: “There ain’t no secret. You live your life like you want to. If you want to hurt bad enough for something you can have it. That’s all there is to it. Whether you write or not is up to you. I’m drinking. Now leave me alone.”

I turned away from her and the band started. I got off my barstool and stood around for a while. I decided that I would take what little money I had left and go down to the liquor store before it closed and buy a bottle and get as drunk as I could on what money I had. I hadn’t written anything worth a shit in seven months, and I’d worked night and day, like a maniac, filling trash cans full of sheets of paper full of words that said nothing, pure crap, not good enough to wipe my dead dog’s ass with.

I walked out and got in my truck and went down the street. A cop car got in behind me and followed me for a while. They had the bad habit of hanging around my favorite bar like vultures, waiting to pick off some unlucky person who’d had one too many, who made the wrong step, who moved in an abnormal way on the way to his vehicle. I had learned to look both ways before crossing the street, like a Boy Scout. They saw that I wasn’t weaving and they left me alone.

I stepped into the liquor store at two minutes before closing time. The guy eyed the clock and then sold me what I wanted, a cold bottle of Orange Driver, $2.95 a fifth. I knew I’d puke my guts out before the night was over, but I needed it for the food value. I knew it was loaded with Vitamin C.