I got one of his beers and looked at the next poem. It was called “Viva Vanetti.” It was about a Mafia hit man who weighed four hundred pounds and was nicknamed the “Salsa Sausage.” He went around killing people by submerging their heads in vats of pizza dough.

“This one sucks, too, Raoul.” “Read the next one, man.”

“How can you write good stuff one minute and such crappy stuff the next?”

“I don’t know, man. It just comes to me.”

I swore for a little bit and then picked up the last poem. It started off hot. The narrator was screaming things about lost pussy, and alleycats rutting behind garbage cans. It had the heat of a summer night in the city in it. It had people on dope, switchblades, and cops who slapped the hell out of people and screamed in their faces. It had people trapped on fire escapes and gorillas loose from the zoo. It had everything in it. I was a little pissed that I hadn’t written it. It was A-OK.

“It’s great, Raoul. Son of a bitch is great. It’ll be published.”

I didn’t tell him that might take ten or fifteen years.

“No shit, man? No shit ?”

“I don’t know how you did it,” I said. “You ought to try writing some stories.”

Raoul got up and started walking around the room.

“Wow, man,” he said. “Wow!”

“Let’s go get the women, Raoul,” I said. I was ready for the women.

“Oh, shit, man, we can’t go get the women now! I’ve got to go home and type up a clean copy of that poem. I’ve got to get that poem in the mail, man!”

Then he rushed right out the door. Then he rushed right back in and snatched the poem out of my hands.

“Thanks a million, Barlow! I’ll never forget you for this!”

I drank four or five more of his beers and thought about the unfairness of everything. A guy like Raoul could make one big score and have it dicked for the rest of his life. But poetry was a hobby for him. It wasn’t life and death for him. All he wanted was to see his name in a magazine. He wouldn’t starve for his art. I was down to thirty-two dollars, and about to starve for mine.

I started writing another story.

4

My mother came to see me. I’d had about four beers that afternoon. I knew she was going to lay a lot of stuff on me that I didn’t want to hear.

“How are you doing?” she said.

“I’m doing all right.”

“Have you seen the children?”

“Not lately.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

I wanted to reach for a beer but I’d been raised not to drink in front of my mother.

“What else? I’m going to keep writing.”