End of Road

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He'd lived withtwo Puerto Rican fags for 8 months. The Vicodin prescription had runout long before the pain. Larry had faded Polaroids of decks andstair bannisters he built when Reagan was president. He was graspingto dreams of pretty roadies in dirty bathrooms, panties pulled downto their knees, he was rock hard and could fuck all night. Now he hadto hunt for his shriveled cock when he went to release the pressureon his cancerous prostate."62 yearsold, and working for a fucking nigger wage." he said with hishead crooked to one side to relieve pressure on his spine.
He could play asong on the $10 plywood guitar, Milk Cow Blues and other songs helikes to say he wrote. "Jimmy Buffett stole this song from mewhen I was in Key West," he'd say before playing Margaritaville.The nut on his Korean plywood guitar was the wrong size so he shimmedit with a piece of plastic he found in the backyard. It didn't stayin tune but he could fake it. His hearing was so bad that intonationdidn't matter. And then there were the screws in his leg. The damntitanium leg that he thought was funny when he mentioned it at first.He been beaten after trying to play the hero in an alley where a girlwas getting raped."Hey, leavethat girl alone," was all he had said and the hero's reward wasa busted leg and a broken jaw. He woke up under a police horse. The police even tried to pin the rapeon him. Why not? When it rains it pours. Like the time he was cominghome from a day wrestling with locust thorn trees, bleeding, tired,looking pissed, trying to maneuver his bike to the liquor store. Three federal marshals lock their assault rifle sights on him."Get on the ground!"He matched the description of a man running wild in the neighborhood with a gun.He fell as ordered and in falling his chainsaw dropped with an awful sound to the pavement...never to work again.
Bunch of bullshit. $8 an hour at his age? Doing Mexican labor? Forwhat? He was broken, working for pain pills."Thedoctors think I'm a junkie and I tell them, 'Hey, I'm not looking toget off. I hurt."
When it rains itpours and though the country was gasping in the middle of a deadlykilling drought, Larry was soaking wet with bad news. Couldn't catcha break. He could bet on the 1924 Yankees and they'd lose by a run inthe bottom of the ninth."These fingers," he said showing the stubs on his right hand, were burned off by caustic acid...in the wrong bottle.And the worstpart was trying to sleep on the crooked mattress. If he didn't takean overdose of pain pills then he couldn't even fall asleep. He wastired but the pain of relaxation, the release of tension on his tornligaments, took hours to subside."40 yearsof carpentry. I could build you a deck or a staircase. Now look.Fighting for dollars with the Mexicans. It's a race to the bottom."He rubbed theprotruding screws in his tibia and tried to lick a few more dropsfrom his 16oz can of Natty Light beer.

The football came back on and he started to snore.
"Did I ever tell you about these stubs on my finger," he asked, delirious.
Oggy shook his head and out of the corner of his eye saw one of the Puerto Rican fags stand elegantly at the doorway to Larry's room, smoking a cigarette like he was modeling cancerous cool. The fag locked eyes with Oggy so Oggy's eyes darted nervously from side to side. The fag licked his lips and then looked at the bathroom without turning his head. Then he looked back at Oggy...the fag pantomimed giving a blowjob and then quickly lifted his eyebrows, "???"

Oggy laughed, waking up Larry.
"I guess it's time to go home," said Oggy as he bent over to get out of the squat kids chair Larry had found in the trash. Oggy felt his fat roll under his polyester disco shirt.
"Oggy," asked Larry, "I hate to ask but can you lend me a couple bucks. Anything'll help."
Oggy gave Larry a ten dollar bill then stumbled into the dark, almost falling off the decaying front porch. A mutt Chihuahua with a limp barked at him.
"Chula!" yelled the fag, and the dog was quiet.
Oggy found his moped and ran down the sidewalk until the engine turned over. He got on and immediately hit a pot hole that jarred his aching spine. He went the wrong way down a dead end street and almost hit the barrier of trash and a chain link fence separating the neighborhood from the golf course.
Where now?