CLARK AND CORONA
by M. Blake

Clark and Corona had known each other for a month or so now, for both of them stayed at the bunkhouse. They both did the same kind of work to pay their rent: passing out ad fliers door to door and selling newspapers, for which they were paid cash daily. They were both drunks who spent what little cash they earned on keeping their heads happy, and they fit right in with the rest of the drunks and druggies who rented their bunks by the night. They nodded to each other almost every day, and had even raised their beer cans in a toast more than once, but it was on this warm night, sitting in the backyard that was all dirt, that they first talked. And once the ice was broken, it seemed to both of them that this was the start of a solid friendship, something that went beyond the typical buddy-acquaintance relationship common to the place.

Of course, both were feeling good, even for them, and Clark especially was more talkative than usual. He was the newcomer to the bunkhouse and new to the city. Though a friendly, easygoing sort, he had kept to himself as much as possible in the congested quarters, sharing only what was necessary with the others and keeping his own questions to a minimum. He knew enough not to push things too far too fast when new in a place. A man had to be accepted first.

Joe Corona, on the other hand, had lived at the bunkhouse for six months now, and he had been a resident of the city for five years. He was a native of the state and originally hailed from another Texas city. Other than a few trips to Mexico, Joe had never set foot outside the Lone Star State.

At the bunkhouse, Corona was known for becoming obnoxiously drunk on occasion and getting mouthy with everybody. He had challenged about half the bunkhouse residents to fights at one time or another, usually when he could barely stand himself. A running joke at the bunkhouse went that a guy wasn�t a regular at the place unless Joe Corona had called him outside at least once.

Yet in the month Clark had lived there, he had never seen Corona in an actual fight. The regulars knew enough to humor Joe when he got into one of his �moods.�

But Corona was in a laughing mood this night, telling stories about his younger days in �San Antone�. And when he mentioned that he had been in a rock band at one time, well, that was all Clark had to hear. He had played keyboards in a band himself a few years earlier. The two men were about the same age (late thirties) and they soon discovered that they had the same taste in music. They liked the rock and roll from the sixties and seventies, along with a little from the early eighties, and both agreed that there hadn�t been much of interest since then. They kept firing the names of bands at each other, groups that had their heyday when the two men were in high school. The more they talked on this subject, and the more they drank, the more enthusiastic the two men became; they couldn�t believe they hadn�t talked sooner. The younger guys with their rap music, they didn�t know what music was. And neither did these youngsters brought up on TV videos and thinking that they were watching rock and roll.

�I never took to that shit,� Corona said, shaking his head emphatically. �Just some tit and ass shaking itself for the camera. No one really playing anything.�

�Hell, when I wanted to hear music I went to the bars,� Clark said. �I saw it live, not on some video.� He laughed scornfully and had another taste of whisky, then passed it to Joe. The two of them had their folding chairs together to one side of the yard, away from the group of men at the picnic table.

One of the men left the domino game at the table and stepped over to the two men. He was tall and thin, unhealthy looking with dark circles under his eyes, though he was high and grinning at the moment.

�All right,� he said. �You guys all set? You need anything?�

His name was Paul, or Paul the Pipe around the house, where he was recognized as one of the biggest crackheads in residence. On this night, at this time, Paul was a little short on the cash required for a decent purchase at the dope house just down the street. He heard these two guys laughing it up, loudly, and he made his move.

Clark and Corona looked at each other, knowing what Paul wanted even as he stepped up to them. Normally, the two men were just drinkers, but each sensed that this wasn�t an ordinary night.

�What do you think?� Corona asked. �You wanna walk with the Pipe?�

�Why not?� Clark said. �We�ve had everything else tonight.�

Paul was quick to tell them, in a lowered voice, that they didn�t need much money, and that he�d go in on some with them. �That way my man will give me a deal,� he said.

They knew what he was talking about, but neither man was going to hand the Pipe money and wait for him to come back. They both walked the three blocks with him to the big old ruin of a house with a candle lit in two of the front windows. Paul was the only one who could knock on the door, but his buddies would wait at the nearby street corner. And they didn�t want to wait long, Joe Corona said to the Pipe.

Back in the bunkhouse yard, the three men sat in a corner of the yard furthest from the street as they hit on the first rock, while keeping an eye out for the desk man, who made the rounds of the place every hour or so. The deskman on this night was Harvey, who was known as a kiss ass and a prick. Harvey had risen from being a regular resident to the position of deskman by informing on people and smooching the owner�s ass in particular. In doing this he had made his share of enemies around the place and had his life threatened more than once. Because of this, Harvey had gotten his own room a few streets away, though this didn�t guarantee his safety. One night he had been beat up on his way home by an angry individual who had been evicted that day (though Harvey knew better than to lodge an official complaint). Better to have a black eye and fat lip and still be breathing than to bleed your life away in some ditch after being stabbed.

Paul the Pipe had a high crack tolerance, and he was more subdued than the other two men who started yakking at each other again after a couple hits. They had hit it off for the first time and things had been going good all night, and now their spirits had been lifted a little higher. They were on the same wavelength, as the saying goes, and it was as if a spotlight was on these two alone in the yard that night. Other guys in the yard watched them getting drunker, higher, louder, and they shook their heads, knowing they were seeing the �main attraction� for the night. It was rare for a night to pass at the bunkhouse when someone, or a certain few people, didn�t earn that designation.

Most of the men went inside by ten o�clock, ready to get some rest before work the next day. Three men still sat at the table playing cards and listening to a tape player. Marvin Gaye, The Temptations, Sly Stone.

This was all right with Clark and Corona; it was old stuff and kept the party mood going. Until Harvey came out and told them to turn it down; and told Clark and Corona specifically to keep their voices down.

�I�m going to close the yard if I have to tell you again,� he said in his nasally whine, before lapsing into a coughing fit. Harvey didn�t look long for this world with his yellowish pallor, unhealthy skinniness and constant smoker�s cough. Many of the bunkhouse residents didn�t give the man long at all, and quite a few would have secretly said �good riddance.�

�Okay, Harve,� Corona said, in his harsh, smoker�s voice. �You�re the man.�

�Yeah, we hear you, boss,� one of the black guys at the table said, a smile on his face.

�I don�t want to get complaints from the neighbors again,� Harvey said. �And if the cops show up I�m gonna have this yard closed for a week.� He glanced around through his thick glasses to see that they were all listening before he shuffled back inside.

�Fuckhead,� Corona said.

�Somebody gonna kill that man if he don�t hurry up and die of natural causes,� one of the card players uttered, and there was laughter all around.

�I don�t know what Miss Sarah sees in him,� another said.

Miss Sarah was a white woman in her fifties, still blond with a little help and fond of make-up, who owned the bunkhouse, or the Love Mission, as she and her help called it. Once a week, at least, she drove up to the old stucco building (a bar at one time) in her big white luxury boat that had seen better days, and went inside to check the books. She never entered the building without a Bible under her arm, and she had a smile, hello and god bless you for any man hanging around the front door or sitting in the yard. And they had the same for her, with easy grins that said everything was just fine here at the Love Mission and that the Lord was with them all. Miss Sarah beamed at them all with that well lined, ex drinker�s face, and bracelets jangled on her thin wrists and earrings glinted gold. Sometimes she wore conservative pantsuits; other days she stepped up to the dirty old place in flowery dresses and heels, a wide brimmed hat topping the outfit off.

Word around the bunkhouse had it that Miss Sarah had been something of a party girl around town in her younger days, but that the time came when she saw the error of her ways and was born again. Apparently, she had married into money and was left quite well off when her husband died. One of the things she decided, or felt called upon, to do with some of her money was convert this closed down barroom into a shelter for homeless men (it being a noticeable problem in this part of town). Nothing fancy, but something affordable for the men down on their luck and trying to bring themselves up again.

Harvey was one of her special prot�g�s at the bunkhouse, a man whom she met at probably the lowest time in his life, sick and destitute, and guided him along with Good Book council and odd jobs around her spacious spread in a more affluent part of town. Harvey, always thankful and dutiful, became a regular passenger in the Holy White Boat, as Miss Sarah�s vehicle was affectionately called. He was soon given a shift as deskman, seeing as he carried a Bible around these days instead of a bottle. He was still a coffee and cigarette fiend, but at least he was sober, or appeared so anyway. Though there were stories of Harve coming out of stores with brown bags in other parts of the �hood.

�That man�s a closet drinker,� one man at the picnic table said.

�You better believe he is,� Paul the Pipe said. �I seen him staggering down the street one day. The man could hardly walk. And I see this brown bag sticking out of his coat pocket. Tell me that was soda pop.�

�Fuck him,� Corona said. �He�s a hypocrite.�

�That�s it right there,� Paul agreed. �You hit it right on the head. A damn hypocrite. He�s got that lady snowed.�

�It won�t be long before that liver gives out,� a card player said.

Clark didn�t think about it, he just did it. It was an impulsive gesture of affection. It was the crack acting on him, a deceptive potency. He couldn�t remember the last time he had smoked rock, but he was the more animated of the two.

Clark felt a rush of warmth after the last hit off the pipe, followed by a belt from the pint bottle, and with Little Richard singing Good Golly Miss Molly on the tape box, he wanted to show his feelings in some way. If he�d had an instrument in his hand he would have had his outlet, but he didn�t. It was just his �brother� Corona sitting here next to him, his first �friend� here at the bunkhouse. Joe all fired up too, playing imaginary drums, his long black Indian hair dangling over his oily face.

Clark laughed loudly and leaned over and planted a kiss on the man�s head, and then he stood up and walked over to the one large tree in the yard and stood behind it to piss. Little Richard finished up. Papa Was a Rolling Stone came on.

There were only half a dozen men left in the yard, and Paul the Pipe had joined the card players at the table. He was so stoned he was quiet, with a little smile on his tired looking face.

When Clark sat back down, Corona wasn�t playing his �drums� anymore. He just stared at Clark.

�Why did you do that?� he asked.

�What?� Clark grinned at him and then drank the rest of his beer. �You ready for another one?� He opened the brown paper bag with the beer in it. On this night, he felt a newfound attachment to the bunkhouse and it�s environs; he felt, for the time, that he was part of it.

Corona just stared at him, as someone at the picnic table sang along with the song.

�Here�s to you, man,� Clark said, popping the top on a can. �It�s been a good night. It�s rare to meet someone you can really talk to in these places.�

Corona shook his head slowly, as if dazed, and then drank from his can. When he finished, he crumpled the can and threw it on the ground with other empties. He appeared to be dazed still, but then he suddenly focused on Clark again.

�Why did you have to do that, man?� he asked. �I mean we were going along good here and then you had to do something like that.�

�Oh, I didn�t mean anything by it,� Clark said. �It was just part of the moment. We�re having a good time, right?� He shrugged. �No big deal. Here�s to the bunkhouse.� He raised his can. �I only wish we had a little more of that smoke.� He looked over at Paul, but it looked like Paul wasn�t moving anywhere for a while.

And then Harvey stepped around the corner from the front door, and this time he was shutting the yard down for the night. A neighbor had called to complain about the music and noise, as it was midnight now.

�You�ll have to move it into the TV room,� Harvey said.

Most of the guys were ready to go in anyway. It was time to think about the next day.

Corona got up without saying anything to anybody, walked inside and went straight to bed. Clark stayed up in the TV room with Paul and a couple others, watching a late movie. He had enough beer to get him through the night.

It was mid afternoon when Clark stepped to the office window to pay his rent for the day. He never paid for more than one day, as many of the residents did, for he liked to think that the current day could be his last at the bunkhouse, which this day turned out to be.

He had handed over his seven dollars to the day clerk when the front door flew open and there stood Joe Corona, with a couple of regulars behind him. They had been drinking already (Clark hadn�t seen Joe on the work truck that morning).

�I got to talk to you,� Corona said, looking all too serious for Clark�s liking. The short, stocky man stepped up to Clark. �I want to know why the fuck you kissed me last night?�

And now Clark, who had forgotten about most of the previous night, suddenly realized he had some trouble on his hands. He glanced at the desk clerk, who still had his face in the window. He was aware of a couple faces in the outer doorway. And then he was pushed hard against a wall and Corona had his shirt bunched up in his fists, holding him there.

�I don�t play that fuckin game, asshole!� Joe yelled. �You hear me?�

Clark smelled the beer fumes and saw the same drink sweaty face from the night before. Corona yanked him away from the wall, and then slammed him up against it again. He breathed hard through his crooked nose.

�Don�t pull that shit around here!� he said. �You got me?�

�All right,� Clark said, for he didn�t have any fight in him. It had been a good day for him until then, and this had taken him by surprise. He held up his hands and looked Corona in the eye, seriously.

Corona seemed to be aware that he had an audience there (or perhaps that is what prompted him to act in the first place). He let go of Clark and glanced back at the window, where the clerk had remained silent. Corona walked out the open door, then stopped on the front step and looked back.

�We can take it up out here if you want,� he said, and then continued on to the yard. The other guys followed him.

Clark looked at the clerk and shook his head as if he didn�t know what the fuss was about.

�We don�t go for that stuff around here,� the clerk said. �You still going to stay the night?� He still had Clark�s seven dollars in his hand.

�I don�t know if that�s a good idea,� Clark said.

�I don�t know either. He�s pretty worked up, and I don�t want any trouble around here. You might want to spend a few days somewhere else and let him cool down. I mean I�m not trying to tell you what to do, but ��

�No, I think you�re right. I don�t want to cause any problems.� He was still thinking about what had just happened, and how his day had suddenly taken an unpleasant turn. �I think it�s going to be warm tonight anyway,� he said, taking his money back.

�You wanna wrassle, Clark?� Corona yelled at him, as Clark walked down the street. Joe stood in the dirt yard with a beer can in his hand, swaying a little already. �C�mon, I�ll wrassle you! Right here, right now!�

There was laughter from the other guys hanging around. They wanted to see some action to liven up their afternoon. Joe had an audience.

�C�mon, Clark, where you goin? Let�s see what you got! I�ll show you what I got!� He laughed and they laughed with him.

Clark knew he would have to find another place to stay; there would be no going back after this episode. Corona had talked to too many men already, and no doubt he�d be blabbering about it for the rest of the afternoon, how he had run that faggot off.

Clark laughed at that for he didn�t feel he had done anything wrong. He had planted a kiss on Corona�s head (just his good feeling coming to the surface) but he hadn�t intended to suggest anything sexually. Yet that had been his mistake, assuming that Corona would accept it in the same vein of lightheartedness. Corona had seen something deeper in the gesture. After all, this wasn�t Italy.

Clark walked a few streets away from the bunkhouse, not wanting to be anywhere near the place now. He was stamped with a name now: faggot. His only choice was to leave, because how would he explain himself around there? Very few men would understand him, and certainly none amongst those bunkhouse drunks.

He bought a couple beers and went and sat in a park. He wasn�t concerned about sleeping outdoors that night; he had done plenty of that. Yet he did wonder what he would do the next morning. If he wanted to continue working on the flier truck, he�d have to show up at the bunkhouse at five a.m., and that would mean facing Corona again. It could be really awkward if he and Joe ended up in the same flier truck, which often happened. If he let a few days go by, the tension wouldn�t be so bad, but then Clark needed to work. He didn�t want to give up his spot on the truck.

Yet what really bothered him at the moment was some doubt about himself that had crept into his head. Why had he kissed Joe instead of patting him on the back? Was it some latent homosexual leaning exposed by the drink and the crack? To be honest, hadn�t he questioned his sexuality before? There had been a couple of drink-blurred experiences with men in the past, drunken episodes that had quickly been put out of mind. They hadn�t meant anything to Clark at the time, and he still felt the same way about it. Just as many of his dealings with women hadn�t meant anything, except at that moment.

It did seem to him that he had always gotten along better in male company; he�d always had more male friends. Yet Clark had never felt attracted to men sexually, as he sometimes was when he looked at a woman. He had never felt that kind of desire before.

And so he knew he had been misunderstood by Corona and the other men at the bunkhouse. But could he blame them? Why that kiss?

It had just felt right, that�s all. A simple gesture (for him). He�d been caught up in the good time and, on impulse, had showed too much of his genuine feeling - at least in that setting. A man had to control himself.

Well, that�s what happened when he smoked that crack. Clark drank quite a bit every night, but he never ended up kissing people. He smiled at the thought of it now and his face heated up. His friendly gesture looked like a big mistake now even though he didn�t consider it wrong. At least it wasn�t something to bother his conscience, he thought, and he sucked down half a can.

The next morning, Clark didn�t stand in front of the bunkhouse. He waved the truck driver down a couple streets away and hopped in the back. As luck would have it, Joe Corona didn�t get on this truck, though Clark spotted him outside the bunkhouse, loud and looking drunk still. Clark was glad that Corona didn�t spot him, for he didn�t need that kind of attention this early in the morning.

The next day the two men were on the same flier truck, and Corona made a point of giving Clark baleful stares all day, and Clark heard him making some cutting remarks to the others (though not to Clark�s face). Clark was thankful that the others didn�t join in with Corona. He kept his mouth shut and did his job, determined to ride this difficulty out. He would have to do it alone, but he had been on his own for some time.

On the second day they were on the truck together, Clark and Corona didn�t say anything to each other, but some of the other guys joked with Clark as they normally did. It seemed as if everybody � except Corona perhaps � was willing to let �the incident� go. Every one of them knew that �shit happened� when booze and drugs were involved, and every man on the truck had at least one story that they never related in bunkhouse bullshit sessions.

Then, there was a weekend, and Clark didn�t see Joe Corona for a couple of days. And when he did, Joe was getting onto a newspaper truck. He had given up the fliers for the time being and that was fine with Clark.

The next time the two men talked to each other was about two months afterwards, on a weekend. Clark had the day off and had been riding around on the city buses. He was walking along one of the busiest boulevards in the city when he happened to notice Joe Corona standing at a busy intersection, holding a newspaper up. He stood on a concrete island strip in the middle of the road, and he had a large plastic bucket for a seat next to him, along with a fat stack of papers � the weekend edition.

If Clark had seen him sooner, he would have tried to avoid Corona, but he had already gotten to the crosswalk before he did notice the paper seller. Corona, walking slowly up and down the median, spotted Clark at about the same time. The sight of each other stopped them both for a moment.

Clark responded first with a quick smile; it came to him without thought. It was a genuine smile, though the sight of Corona made him nervous. Corona�s hand came up in a little wave, but he checked a smile. Instead, it was just an abrupt nod before he looked away.

Clark might have continued in the direction he was headed if the crosswalk light was green. Yet it was red, and the intersection was busy enough that he would have to wait at least another minute or so. On impulse, he crossed toward the other side of the boulevard, closer to Corona�s spot. Clark saw another newspaper seller at the same intersection, trying to get buyers coming from another direction. That guy had a large plastic bucket too.

�Looks like you�ve sold quite a few,� Clark remarked, stepping over to the island, where Corona had a stack of about eight papers left. Clark knew that a seller got at least forty papers to start on a busy corner like this.

Corona smiled, for he had indeed done well that day. His change apron swelled with bills.

The light turned red for him, and he made his way out between the stopped vehicles, two papers held in his hands. He didn�t sell any on this light.

Clark noticed a couple of crushed beer cans next to the island and he guessed that Corona, like most of the other paper selling drunks, had some more beer hidden beneath his bucket. It suddenly occurred to him how good a cold beer would taste then in that mid day heat.

�This is one hell of a corner,� Corona said, sweaty and red-eyed, but still smiling a little as he stepped back on the island. He wore an old t-shirt and shorts, and even older looking sneakers without socks. It looked like his shoulder length black hair hadn�t been washed in days. �I�m gonna need more papers, no doubt about it. That bastard, Ernie, better come around with them today. Last week he left me waiting two hours without papers. On this corner. I chewed him out good for that. I told him the next time that happens, I walk. And he damn sure doesn�t get his cut of this.� He grinned in his hard, knowing way and took a handful of bills from the apron and transferred them to a shorts pocket.

�I don�t blame you,� Clark said, not meeting the stare.

�I built this corner up to thirty more papers than it was doing. Took me a few weeks to do it, and I�ll be damned if I�m gonna wait for paper.�

�I never got lucky enough to get a corner like this,� Clark said.

�Yeah, well, I stayed with the guy for two months, stuffing his papers for him every weekend. I deserved it. I told him I was gone if he didn�t give me something.� He glanced over at the other man working the intersection. �This is his third week here and he�s making pretty good money.�

The light changed again and Corona was off the island with his papers. Clark felt like sitting on the bucket, but he didn�t want to push it with Joe. He was just glad that Corona was talking to him.

�What brings you out here?� Corona asked, a minute or so later.

Clark shrugged and smiled.

�No fliers today. So I�m riding the buses around.�

�Why don�t you do this on the weekends?�

�I�m thinking about it. But it makes for a long week.�

�Yeah, if you�re doing all that flier walking. That�s why I got out of that. I do what I want out here. Take a break when I want. Drink as much as I want.� He laughed. �Speaking of which, I�m out of beer right now. I�m gonna have to do something pretty quick.�

�Funny you should mention beer,� Clark said. �I was just thinking about the same thing. Where do they have the deals around here?�

�Two for a buck and change right over there.� Corona pointed to a nearby gas station.

�I�ll buy you a couple,� Clark said, looking to cross the road.

�I got money,� Joe said.

Clark shook his head and started across.

�This one�s on me,� he said.

He ended up buying a six-pack, figuring he�d drink two and leave the rest for Joe.

-----

�You know I haven�t forgotten about that night,� Corona said, after taking a big swallow from a large plastic soda cup. �I don�t know if I ever will.� This after Clark raised his cup in a toast. �But �� He looked Clark in the eye for a moment. �I�ve gotten past that. It took me some time. You really shook me up that night.� He shook his head and looked out at the traffic.

�I apologize.� Clark didn�t know what to add to that, but he did hold Corona�s eye for a moment. He knew he would never be able to explain his action that night, so he made it simple with something he hoped Corona would accept.

�Well �� Corona nodding his head and thinking about it. �Like I said, I�m past it. I can�t stay mad at people too long. Just as long as it don�t happen again.� He gave Clark the hard Corona look again, the brown eyes flashing into sharp focus briefly. Clark nodded his head in agreement.

�It won�t,� he said. For a moment, he wanted to say more, but he caught himself. They had an understanding and he�d settle for that.

Corona nodded again and had another drink. He wiped beer from his chin.

�We�re all right then,� he said. �I appreciate you going for those beers.�

�I was ready myself.�

�You should talk to Ernie,� Corona said. �He has some other good corners. This looks like a hundred dollar day for me.� He grinned at Clark and then raised his cup again. �Have a seat,� he said, pointing at the bucket. �I�m gonna try and get rid of these papers before he comes around.�

Clark and Corona remained on friendly terms, but one kiss on one drunken night prevented them from becoming close friends, as might have happened. They saw each other quite often and worked on the same trucks now and then, but it was a politeness between them more than anything else.

Only one other time did Corona refer to the �smooch�, as he called it one night when he was quite drunk. It was Joe Corona in one of his loud and nasty moods, and the two men had met up in front of a market, standing in the parking lot with brown bags of beer under their arms.

Corona swayed drunkenly on his feet; his red eyes were half closed and his words a little slurred. His body odor was bad enough to make Clark take a step back.

�Don�t think I�ve forgotten about that smooch you planted on me over here,� Corona said, nodding in the direction of the bunkhouse.

Clark wasn�t that drunk and he recognized immediately that Corona was someone to stay away from that night. Corona�s words really didn�t surprise him. It was something the other would bring up in any situation like this, though Clark wouldn�t let Joe hold it over his head in any way, for special favors. No, one apology was enough.

Still, Clark was bothered a little by what he heard. He hadn�t expected it, and now this chance meeting with Corona would probably stay with him for the rest of the night.

�I know it happened a while back,� Joe continued. �I might be a drunk, but it�s right in here.� He tapped his greasy haired head with a finger.

Clark just looked at him and said nothing. You couldn�t discuss anything with this man when he was in this shape.

�Ah c�mon, forget about it,� Joe said, punching him in the arm and sending spittle into Clark�s face. He leaned close to him, with his eyes wide. �That�s just between us. It�s safe with me. You know that. We�re all right. C�mon, let�s go drink some suds.�

Clark walked with him to the bunkhouse, but when Corona entered the outside yard, he continued on down the street. He heard drunken voices welcome Corona, and music playing. The same old shit, he thought.

When, a month or so later, Joe Corona was found dead on a side street not far from the bunkhouse, Clark was as surprised and saddened as everybody that knew Joe from around the Love Mission. Corona had had his head bashed in with a rock, presumably over some drug deal gone bad. One bunkhouse resident told Clark that Corona had tried to make some quick money selling crack and had cut in on the wrong person�s business. Another said that Joe was probably drunk and running his mouth as usual, or had showed some cash to the wrong person. The only thing ever known for sure was that he had pissed somebody off.

Soon after, Clark sat in the bunkhouse yard one evening, drinking, along with a group of regulars, to Joe Corona�s memory. He had one in particular that he didn�t bring up, but it was actually a good one for him, thinking about one night and some hours of good talk. He saw Joe playing his imaginary drums and he laughed again before turning his mind to something else.

� M. Blake
Reproduced with permission

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