I didn’t have an angle on success. A grasp on future earnings. I had a past where I made mincemeat, literally. It remained my past. There was a darkness tinged to the corners. And there were rumors I could not communicate with even if I had wanted to resurrect them. Effort and drive sat up late and I went with them for a time. I remember being whacked out on chemo. I couldn’t figure out the way out of a sentence, the way into a photograph. One morning, barely upright in this diner at 3 a.m., I waited for a pal who did not show up. That was the underscore to the late night/early morning morass. You will have some help, with the french fries, usually. But you gotta eat that plate of hash by yourself
by Hank Cherry
