He’s exhausted from living among boarded-up houses in Mesa, Arizona. And now a thirty-day notice has been stapled to his front door as if that doesn’t deliver a person to the bottom rung of the ladder.
He’s Canadian, belly-rounded, wife-dead, alone. The situation proceeds from there. “Fuck it, and fuck it again,” he says, meaning the world and all his trouble.
He’s filing hardship claims with the U.S. government but being sixty-eight and an alien – good luck. He’s got TV and drinking his Canadian pension and bad veins and no medical and trouble with his back and the times that were.
I sent him not much money for his good luck.
One time he said he was like Christ because he never aged. “Like Christ,” he said. This was during the years his wallet was full of cash due to his correct opinions about horses. 