on the imminent Death of My Father.

What we wanted from the second visit to the urologist was a tube camera surprise reveal of a Cracker Jack toy mucking things up inside my Dad's bladder, with its rapid removal, a pat on his back, and a release note saying he could go home and enjoy the next ten years of his life.

What we got was the laparoscope showing nothing wrong, which meant Dad's impassibly enlarged prostate had already taken its toll on his bladder's muscles, stretching it out to the point where it no longer functions, which leaves us with three options:

1. Wear a Foley cathether up your dick for the rest of your life, at the risk of your dementia forgetting what it is every fifteen minutes, and just yanking it out to cause injurious bleeding and risk of infection on top of the usual risk of infection for just having one up in there.

2. Surgery for a suprapublic catheter through the bladder wall for less discomfort, but still run the exact same risks of yanking it out and infection, with the all risks of surgery on top of that.

3. Remove the catheter altogether, let the bladder fill up until the kidneys toxify & fail, and let my Dad mercifully go.

Fuck you, medical science. You're still fraught with barbaric inadequacies, semi-educated too-late guesswork, and certain failure. Fuck. You.

Now it's just a matter of waiting, and while waiting I'm going to write this eulogy:

“Wealth dies. Friends die. One day you too will die. But, the thing that never dies is the judgement on how you have spent your life.”
― Hávamál, stanza 75 - The Sayings of Odin, The High One

[Dad was a Boy Scout.]

William Maytorena Jr was a simple man with simple pleasures. All he needed to be happy was a good comedy film, ice cream, or a bag of hot chicharrónes in one hand and a beer in the other. When I was a kid, I'd ride along with him every week to stop at Nana Mercy's to pick up a little blue enameled speckled olla of his mom's magic beans. Those beans were home in a pot to him.

Beyond this core of winning simplicity, he explored other things. After he got his first & only awesome rack stereo from Gemco, I would rouse in the middle of the night and find him awake well past midnights, sitting on the floor, listening to classical music on KUAT, fingers paused over the cassette deck's recording button to capture some timeless piece of Beethoven, Mozart, Hayden, or Tchaikovsky, a normal bias tape locked & loaded, pencil hovering over the liner notes. He'd compile nearly a hundred of these tapes, even branching out into some jazz selections, fostering a deeper appreciation for these genres, growing & broadening his artistic points of reference. The late night passion was inspiring, and I think I was the only one to ever see it in action.

[First date at the Tucson Hotel, 1968. Que suave!]

This broadness had its roots: The story goes that Bill was headed off to be a priest, and to safeguard this divine vocation he installed a strict three-date rule with the girls he saw -- but he went on a fateful fourth date with his Maria Elena, my mom, and here I am talking to you about not just another reclusive church father, but my father who chose to embrace right action in the broader secular world, and the reward of a loving wife along with it.

[Getting married at the justice courts, 1970.]

In the marriage, he was the more relaxed partner by far, and he knew when to leave the room when the yelling got louder than the sense. His patience, tolerance, and forgiveness were a saintly inheritance from his properly named mother Mercy. In retrospect, Dad tolerated alot of my gifted childhood arrogance, 1980s sarcasm, unnecessary teen attitude, and sophomoric overconfidence in a graceful fashion. He rocked, as fathers go, way more than I knew at the time.

On off days my Mom would call him useless around the house, and sometimes that was actually true. He never taught me to use his tools, not because he hadn't the time, but because he was hiding the fact that he secretly didn't know how to use them himself. A hammer & some duct tape would often mickey mouse it when it probably shouldn't have. But Gods bless him, he would try, which nowadays is surely more than most husbands.

[Dad & Mom loved to dance. It was one of their things. 1986.]

As a family, we had the privilege of travelling alot, and Dad helped show me the value of travel, of fearlessly going over the horizon to see the world in a broader sense. One summer off in my childhood, we hit 26 states, and he was the driver of impossible distances, getting us safely to all the places we enjoyed together pre-GPS. One year we went to D.C. There was a day where Mom was sick and stayed at the hotel. Dad & I got out of the room, and we figured out the city's Metro, and found a Chinese restaurant for lunch. The food was nothing special, but it tasted special to me because it was the first time I really appreciated Chinese food, and that was specifically because of my Dad's company that afternoon, a memory I'll always carry with me.

[Dad always used a double sided yellow comb/brush combo for his hair, and favoured wearing guayaberas of various light colours. He was fairly meticulous about shining his shoes, too. With Mom & I, 1985, at my junior high school graduation.]

Emotionally he showed calm stoicism in the face of a false heart attack, my three scorpion stings, and other maladies that would send normal people into a panic. Perhaps this was military training from the Air National Guard, or let-god prayering from the seminary, but he had faith that things would work out in such situations one way or another.

[Looking good in that guayabera at some event, 1981.]

For years, I didn't get what my Dad did for a living until one day after middle school I sat in his office at the Crippled Childrens' Clinic on Broadway. A weird looking kid who had something wrong with him took a moment to give me the elevator speech to explain his hydrocephalus, about how he would die if my father didn't arrange regular appointments to get his head drained, and find medical coverage to cover the exceptional costs of that. My Dad saved children, he saved families, he saved lives. What he did was that important. It took emotional fortitude & undefeatable optimism.

My Dad knew everybody because he would talk to anybody. He was socially fearless like that. Someone in any store checkout line everywhere knew him, which also meant leaving took an extra 20 minutes. And he'd always talk to babies or toddlers, making that strange elephantine noise with his compressed lips that always got their attention. I repeatedly suggested he should run for mayor, but he was too good a man for politics, and he knew it. At work he'd wear this completely ridiculous sculptured Mickey Mouse head watch with a mouth that moved and spoke the time. He wore it at the cost of any personal dignity because the kids he had appointments with loved it, and the spectacle of it saying the time allowed him to finish talks with their parents, who we're appreciative of this clever ruse.

Sometimes he'd uncharacteristically call himself a "rabble rouser", usually referencing his early days marching with Chicano activists & organizing the brown citizens to get El Rio Community Health Center built in the first place. After this feat he worked there for decades until they forgot who helped get them built & they laid him off.

[Dad doing his daily legwork on the telephone at El Rio. 1974.]

After that, he got an awful job at Child Protective Services working for the county, which was too many cases for any one man, but he soldiered through it better than most. One afternoon I happened to be in the car when he decided he was near enough to a case for a home check. He drove our humble VW bus up this driveway, and he suddenly stopped. "You see that dish?", he said, pointing at the two thousand dollar huge saucer currently following an invisible satellite in orbit. "These people are getting money from us because they told us their kid needed it. They don't if they spend that much on TV. You wait here." He got down, adjusted his belt like a gunfighter, and went inside to have some hard words that the parents in there needed to get told. He didn't shirk that kind of confrontation when it needed doing. He was brave & honest like that.

The trouble started when Dad fell into a hole. There was a dwarf lemon tree at the new house that needed planting and he was moving some rocks in a wheelbarrow past the hole for the tree when the load unbalanced, and he fell in. His back was never the same, and he would never stand straight or tall again. Suddenly looking at the view from a few inches less and down at your feet has to change you, and damaging falls when you're older change you. The memory issues began sooner than later, and, unlike alot of people who get angry, violent, or depressed, Dad didn't fall into those emotional holes. He kept his sense of humour in the face of dementia with Lewy bodies & Parkinsonism because, under the shuffling, bent form he now appeared to be, Dad had the strength of character to remain the man he was: Funny. Lovable. Winning. He flirted with a nurse near the end. "You have pretty eyes," he said like the old smoothie he always was.

One night while at St Mary's Hospital for one of series of medical issues, he raised up his arms and "called a meeting". He told me to be quiet while he talked. For the next hour and a half he elaborated to Michelle & I a plan to take over the city. He called it "The Working Joes' Plan". Tucson would be divided into sectors, each ruled by a "working joe" to keep the people in line and see to their needs. These everymen would meet with him for updates, and he would problem solve with them, and personally see to the defense & control of all Tucson. There was to be a train with orphans & needy children who would be transported, fed, clothed, & cared for somewhere in there. And when he stopped speaking, we were amused, and more than that, amazed.

You see, this 81-year-old's plan was a metaphor for control of the world he could no longer neurologically understand. Mom would by habit put on the news, and on some level he saw things spinning out of control. Against this he came up with his plan for Tucson, the city whose people he loved and cared about all his life, an ultimate plan for municipal succession & protection of the city he grew up in, to safeguard it from rampant criminal elements within and political-economic forces without. Bill Maytorena would wear an iron crown and a velvet gauntlet. His heart was so large, he would've taken care of it all, for us, for you.

“Cattle die, kinsmen die, you yourself must also die, but he who wins word fame lives forever.”
― Hávamál, stanza 76 - The Sayings of Odin, The High One

[Dad's hesitantly humble grin in front of the room at El Rio that bears his name on the plaque behind him.]

Myself aside, an attentive wife, the countless children he saved & helped, and a room at El Rio Clinic named after him, his legacy is how much he cared & worked at caring with successful results. That was the grandeur of his life, besides knowing how to appreciate creature comforts, laughter, simple times, and priceless moments.

I know you people here won't forget Bill Maytorena Jr. As long as you tell his story and carry forward his nobility, he will be alive, and we will always be better people for knowing him. And he'd want you to have a good time at this thing, so go live it up for him today, and for the rest of your life, with his spirit in mind.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Addenda: A few nights after writing this, my father shushed everyone in the room, asked if "the papers to leave were in order", kissed us on the hands, told us goodbye, and closed his eyes. We thought that was it. My aunts showed up with a priest at my mother's request the next morning, who administered last rites, but my Dad was none too pleased to see him, spat out the host, and grabbed his bowl of oatmeal from his caretaker and fed himself breakfast for a change. There's fight in my old man yet.

Since then we've spent time together playing Crazy Eights, drinking fancy strong beers, and watching some Northern Exposure, which has been priceless because it's all something we both love. Still, I know the other shoe's going to drop, and he's going to swing the other way sooner than later, and die. Mentally, I accept that. Emotionally, I'm going to be a fucking trainwreck, but I'm glad I took the time to write the above so I'll have the right thing to say when that time comes, and "word fame" to give him so he will live forever through those words. Until then, my Dad'll still be beating me at cards, and I'm grateful for every hand he can still deal.

I love you, Dad. This is for you.

#    #    #

While a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan, airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally interesting endeavours, do contact him via LinkedIn or G+.

strange nights & days have found me.

8/19/00 10:19 pm
My cousin, Michael William Bravo, died this morning. From what my mother knows, he went to Nogales with his friends last night, returning early this morning, probably to get some last minute partying in before his first day of college. When they went to wake him, he didn't get up, they discovered him bleeding from the mouth and nose and took him to the hospital. Whether he died before ever leaving home or at the hospital, I don't know.

If I wasn't writing this down right now, I again be pacing the room gritting my teeth, cursing what feels like a blind idiot world for being so fucked up as to let such things come to pass. It's so egotistical for any of us to think that this has anything to do with themselves, or that there's a moral and meaning to everything.

Sure, we can learn from things, but the only depth in this is a sudden inexplicable vacancy of a young man. It's not good or bad, it just is.

This underlines my anger in a bold red stroke, the madness of it.

Willy's beyond my anger and sadness, and they do him no good, but I still feel them. And I'm sad for us all, for our loss. I imagine his father Dudie's rage as endless, I hope his faith can bear it. His mother, my godmother, Sylvia will endure. But I'm very concerned about Cassie -- I wish I knew how she was.

Unreasoning, unforgiving Death. That's two you've taken near me this year. Only Willy didn't ask you to come for him like Leonard. It was an accident.

Last thing Willy said to me: "Laters."

April and Corey are throwing a party tonight, and I should be getting ready now to go. Again, I know that grief doesn't do the dead any good, and that it seems that since I still am blessed with my life that I should go make the most of it. It's like having the mariachis at my Nana Vicki's funeral. They're weren't really there playing for her, they were playing for us. I just hope after I get dressed tonight that I'm ready to hear them.

8/23/00 11:08 pm
Willy's Rosary.

There were mariachis, all in blue & gray with gold ruffles, the colors of Sunnyside, his high school's troupe. Full house at Santa Cruz with standing room only.

Dudie & Sylvia wailed as though they could never stop. But Sylvia sat in the back. She did not wish to look at her dead son in his coffin.

Frances will get the autopsy results. Sylvia didn't want an autopsy, but the medicals went ahead and did one anyway as they don't need permission since it was drug-related. Sylvia didn't know, still doesn't, and thanks to her older sister, will not.

Cassie this time says, "We need to talk." She tells me that she thinks the Libre killed the 15-year-old dealer who sold Willy the bad chivo, since she saw him face down in his yard on her way back from McDonald's. Part of me wants to say "good" but the other part of me holds its tongue and wonders what Cassandra feels about it. She recites and then shrugs. I can't read her on this one.
Mass tomorrow morning at 10:30 am.

9/1/00 1:21 am
The death of my cousin has cast a pall over the family. Unwilling to sleep in their house, much less return into it for any extended period of time, they sleep in my Nana's livingroom on the couches, large pillows, and bunches of blankets on the floor after moving the coffeetable every night.

"Do you sell a lot of these memorial shirts?" I ask the girl at the mall as she's making mine.

"Yeah. Mostly to Mexican families. Last month we sold at least 125 of them for someone's friends and family."

Again, the fond remembrances and celebration of someone's life manifests itself in decoration: The memorial T-shirt. For $28.50 my cousin's got my back whenever I put it on. It's sad to me, morbid to others, and a uniquely Goth aspect to my culture. Instead of uncomfortably tucking it away with condolence cards in a drawer, we can wear it with pride in memory of he who's passed on.

9/19/00 12:36 am
I walked with Willy's spirit. Maybe it's that I was wearing the T-shirt for the first time.

Tuesday before last. After whupping ass in Dark Tower over Tony, Staci, & Shaula, I took Shaula home and dropped by Coffee Xchange to catch the last 10 minutes of all that before they closed at Midnight. Outside the doors as everyone hugged, Jade comes walking up out of the shadows from Molly's big pink cake of a house. Molly in one of her visits brought the ruby lipped Jade into work one evening. She seemed to be Molly's accessory at the time, but now they wear matching pendants with little red-eyed pewter skulls on them and are as good as blood sisters, though Molly's still the dominant one. Ran into Jade sans Molly at Matt & Miko's wedding reception, where we took more than a few moments to eye each other in interest.

Jade walks up and the interest is there again, at least on my end. It's odd looking at a girl that young and pretty in a more accessible way; you forget that she's 17 until she starts bitching about high school. Molly walks over from the laundromat where they're doing their wash together.

Jewelry and piercings aside, together they're dressed like $20. Tight thrift baseball shirts, raver denim flares and cheap rubber toe capped sneakers, they have contempt for the fashion mores of those around them like the punks of old, but with less ingenuity. Their undeniable girliness frames them, especially Jade's thick lipped smile, and I wonder if it would be possible to get them both into bed.

Patrick is in the rear of a car driving away, looking at me, giving his thumbs up as if reading my thoughts. I wave from the hip and can't help smile back, pausing in whatever I'm asking Jade as they drive away. "Still working at Hot Sam's?" "Yeah," she answers, launching into how she never wants to see a hot pretzel ever again. I laugh, and Molly chimes in that after how she got back from vacation recently she found herself to be the senior staffer as they'd all left or been purged. "Dude, I have to quit and do something that pays more." "Molly, you don't have a degree, and I don't think you can find a hipper job than at the [Hot] Topic, so what do you have in mind?" "I've got connections dude. In sales." "Ahhhhh, I see, my little entrepreneurs." They giggle. "Well, let me accompany you ladies back to the laundromat."

They check on their wash, and we all go sit on the back of Jade beater Chevy fastback that she's dubbed "Ghetto Beast", while Molly goes off on her creepy neighbor who she'd like to kill, and on how disgusted she is with the fat couple in the laundromat. Jade goes into Molly's 'rents to retrieve some Captain Morgan's. "Dude, I don't even like food. You know, there was this fat guy who was so nasty that went he had to go in 'cause he'd had a heart attack that they found maggots growing inbetween the rolls in his stomach."

If someone were to cut skinny little Molly open they'd find nothing but acid & bile in her engine. She goes on to talk about how her and Jade don't even bother going out, don't really hang out with other people, and how they're saving money in a plan to move to San Francisco after they graduate early in December.

We all take slugs of the Captain's, chasing from a can of Pepsi, and then Molly asks Jade, "Dude, where'd you leave that package?" "On the makeup table in your room." 'Right there? Dude are you dumb?" "It's there inbetween all the bottles and stuff so you can't see it." "You and Guillermo get in the car and I'll be back." Molly slides off, I grab the booze and Jade lets me into her ride.

We continue taking slugs and I ask her if there's any music. "All I get is AM, you know like Sinatra." She clicks the Green Valley station on and I realize this girl may have more class than she mistakenly thinks is cool to let on. She also confesses she adores Hole, which one sees just looking at her bleached hair and pronounced lipstick. "Do you date older guys?" "Usually yeah. Right now I'm not with anyone though. It's only me and Molly." The passenger door opens and Molly plops down on the vinyl bench seat, slamming the door behind her. She takes a small ziplock bag out with a jawbreaker-sized chunk of cocaine in it and her driver's license to shave some off the little ball and begins to make lines.

"Do you want?" Jade asks. "It's cool if you don't."
"Yeah G, it's alright if you don't," Molly chimes in.
"I just wish I hadn't been drinking so I could see what it's like alone."
"Well, if you do after drinking it'll be better; it takes the nervous edge off it," Molly says, her expertise showing.
"Really?" I ask, remembering Ron's account of it in college, of how it turned him paranoid and anxious until it wore off.
Molly finishes making three lines and asks if I have a dollar. I pull one out, and roll it tightly, handing it to Jade, who leans over into my lap to inhale her line. Then Molly does the same.

Jade again says I don't have to if I don't want to, that she'll do the third line. "No," I say, "I want to." I grab the dollar from out Molly's hand, and look down realizing that we're doing coke on a high school algebra & trig book. I almost lose it and laugh.
I lay the finger on the side of my left nostril to pinch it, put the dollar up to my right nostril ...
... and inhale, following the line flawlessly from bottom to top. It disappears in space of my eyeblink, and tastes like baking soda with a hint of Bon Ami, and burns a little on the bottom of my brain. What they say about the drip's exaggerated, since it only feels like a little sliding down a minute later. "Here," Molly says, "Take your finger and spread what's left on your gums." They numb up nicely.

We all grin at each other like we're all initiates in a secret society. I realize Willy and his Libre homeboys must've felt like this, must've shared this ritual in the small hours of the morning, except it was chivo, the russian roulette one-chamber injection.

Going back inside to the laundromat, the rush hits and I'm elated. Breathing is the most fucking exciting it's ever been, and very soon after my heart finally matches the desire I always feel -- it literally wants to burst.

Molly gets disgusted again with the fat people, and her laundry finishes, Jade & I taking it to the car, and I'm trying to frame the question of what they're going to do now, when Jade notes the time and says "Molly, it's almost 1:30, and I've gotta be back home by 2 or my mom's going to freak."
"So you're just going abandon me here? Sure you wouldn't mind having me for the rest of the evening?"
"I would Guillermo," Jade says, "but my mother wouldn't be comfortable with anyone else over besides Molly unless I've told her way before, or I would."
"Dude, you'll be okay," Molly counsels again from experience. "It should wear off in about half an hour or so."
We say our byes and hug.
I get in my car and suddenly I don't know what to do with myself. It's like I've bought something and I only got half the instructions -- I'm not sure how to finish.

I drive to the first resource I can think of and end up outside Stacey's since she's the only one I know who's done it all and come out the other end, and I'm deciding whether to go wake her up at 1:30 in the morning or not, but her three barking dogs decide this for me.
"Billy?" she asks from the shadow of her porch.
"Um, yeah," I say embarrassed.
She lets me in through the back, and by now I'm so amped it's maddening.
We lie down and Stacey spoons me, and she asks me what's wrong. I place her hand over my heart.
"Stacey, do you ever just want so much, that even if you were given everything it still wouldn't be enough? That you walk around and behind your eyes and in the pit of your heart there's this greed for beauty that never ever goes away and it burns at your insides so hard it feels like there's nothing else within you but desire?"
"Yes," says the girl who's taken most drugs known to man, who's slept with two people at work, who's gone through rehab, recovered from brain damage, and spends her leisure time dressed up in a stock at fetish shows getting her ass paddled until it hurts to even breathe on it. "I know how you feel."

What she doesn't know, what no one really knows, is that that's what I feel all the time, the desire.

Only right now the drug has somehow managed to make it times 10. I want to buy and drink and fuck and hold and love and write and possess and scream and bleed and bind and flirt and dance and conquer and fight and kiss ALL RIGHT NOW ALL AT THE SAME TIME!

But my primal need to express takes over. I tell her about my dead cousin, about the experience with Molly & Jade (though I mention no names since she would know Molly from the store), about how the death has haunted me these past few weeks.

She voices meaningful sympathies, and talks about how her mother claimed that when she was brought into the ICU the night she ODed, that a demon spoke through her shouting at her mom, "Mother I'm already in Hell!" Allegedly her mom & sister did a laying on of hands and prayed, expelling the demon, after which she went slack and woke a few hours later.
"Do you believe your mom, Stacey? Or you think she's selling you a bag of goods?"
"I was so fucked up I could've said anything, but I don't remember that night at all. I lost that part of my mind with the damage."

I tell her I'm suddenly really more tired than I feel, and climb out of her bed, saying I'm going to walk home. It's a lie but I'm very good at such social necessities.
"Go take a shower & get some rest, 'k'?"
On the way to the car in the cool 3 a.m. air I notice I've got a thin layer of sweat over every inch of my skin and realize that I smell like a beast. Kris always used to say that was her favorite thing about me, my scent.

Driving downtown. It usually centers me, knowing where I am, that I am of the city as it is of me, lord & liege of all I survey.

I want to talk to Wendy. She plays with boys, seemingly to her satisfaction. I almost let her play with me one night four years ago, but I didn't let her. Parking in front of the Congress I go in and talk to the night clerk at the desk. "The pastry chef, Wendy? She quit a few hours ago, actually." I can still see the drama of it in his face.
"Oh my."

I leave and just begin to walk like I did after high school parties when I'd had too many rum and cokes. The bereft, disadvantaged, and disenfranchised lay upon the benches and in the lee of shops in dingy down jackets with stuffing coming out at tears, or somehow mummified in plastic shopping bags, or just curled up like unprotected fetuses wishing for their own unbirth. Can't see such things without realizing how lucky you really are and how trivial your wants are compared to their basic ones. You are blessed. Or they are cursed.

Walking back toward the car, I spot Wendy sitting at The Grill, and she's waving emphatically from the depths of the Red Room. She's seated with some boy, of course.
"You're not okay are you?"
"Is it that obvious?", my head turning away from any deeper scrutiny. "Am I interrupting?"
"Oh Guillermo, you're never interrupting!" She turns to lead me back to the booth, but the boy exits, saying a cursory goodbye, and she replying that he better not do something or she'll have to hunt him down.
"He's my ex from a few months back. He's on heroin and he's all fucked up and wants to kill himself at the end of the week, so I'm trying to make sure he sticks it out."
"I don't talk to my exes. I find things to be much easier that way. But in this case you're being very noble."
"People like to tell their problems 'cause I listen well, that's all. I'm a Sagittarius."
"But don't you find it overwhelming sometimes, so much so that you may at times neglect your own needs?"
"No. I always make time for myself, so that can never happen."
"Wendy, something you said a long time ago sticks in my mind and maybe it's why I'm here talking to you. One night you were going on about an ex and your friend Freeway, and working at Congress, and you summed up by saying 'Me & my sorry little street punk girl life.' Thinking of you saying that makes me smile."
She laughs, ashing her GPC in the porcelain mango ashtray.
"That's so funny! ... So what's wrong?"
I tell of the resulting ennui in the shadow of Willy's death, my unease at the displacement of family and by temporary reflection, my usual sense of perspective.
After the usual condolences, the little white hand snaking out to protect & grip mine, I ask, "Wendy, do you want?"
"What do you mean exactly?"
"Ever feel satisfied with what you get? I mean, you're a seductress of no modest ability. You seem to be able to get most boys with your wiles & guiles. After it all, do you still want?"
"Well I do take 'em home but only to play with them. It's fun. But if its wanting so much that's bothering you, all you have to do is just stop wanting."
"That's it?"
"That's all." She smiles like the Buddha. And provides just as much Zen-ed out profundity.
Sure, it made sense. Just get your heart to stop beating. But perhaps to Wendy this did make sense, to lessen the want, and focus on what's more immediately accessible.

And as I sat there talking to her that's what it felt like was happening, the burning overdrive falling away as the cocaine spent itself out, finishing the run through my system.
"Wendy, I'm exhausted. And I'm sure you still must have cake, pie & pastry to make for this place, so I'm gonna go and leave you to it."
"Well you know where I am, if you want me."
"Thanks. You only get sweeter every time I talk to you."

4:30 am. I finally felt clean enough to go home.
When you look at the tarot card of The Fool even though he's about to walk off the cliff, what you can't tell is that he's happy in his motley finery, face pressed deeply into the aesthete's lily to smell its perfume, and he doesn't have a care in the world since he's enjoying himself so much. Not that he's being wise, mind you.

But I needed to do it, to affirm, and revel in the careless and dizzying moment, the precipice where life is felt most keenly. Later I ask Justin about coke, since Justin's the psych major for life and he'd know about narcotics that affect the mind.

"Cocaine can make you temporarily psychotic and turn you permanently schizophrenic," he rattles off like he's a textbook.
"Wow. But that's gotta be right after repetitive dosages over a period of say a few months, right?"
"No, that can happen right off from one sitting."

Luckily even after 13 years of friendship and 11 years of psychology, he's still unable read me enough to tell why I asked. That's the difference between academics and experience. Though in knowing the experience of cocaine, I'm told it's never as good as the first time, so thus ends my dalliance with such a powdery little horror.

But in all this I've walked in the steps of my cousin. Young & unsophisticated, he'd stroll the gangland streets of South Tucson in the middle of the night with his dog like it was a park, practically inviting death, but also trying to sort himself out. Although whenever anyone asked him what he wanted, what he'd be with his future, he could never give an answer. He knew.

Everyone around me wonders how I can always say "Hello Hello!" and be so happy all the time. Usually I tell them I'm oversexed. But it's that I let myself feel so much, and that I know at any given moment this want I carry, this desire that buoy's my psyche and drives me, can be fulfilled at any given instant. I never plan to leave, so I know that instant is coming in my bones, with joyous inevitability. I know.

#    #    # 

While a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan, airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally interesting endeavours, do contact him via LinkedIn or G+.