TWO GUYS

"You ought to write a novel," says Phil Du Pont over beers in the late afternoon. The dependable southeastern continues to sweep off the Gulf. Du Pont believes that Brownsville rivals Miami and San Diego in charm. Optimism pervades the developer who drinks a bottle of wine at lunch, drains beers in the afternoon and finishes his day with cuba libres. He is building subdivisions and strip malls on the city's northside. His wife paints. Reaching deep into his pockets and outsmarting his political enemies, Du Pont is Brownsville's most charismatic personality in a community bereft of characters. "You are wasting your time with negative commentary," he opines. "You are a wordsmith, but I have never known a more misguided spirit. My heart soars like an eagle when I see you. However, your insistence on refusing to help humanity realize its noble potential disturbs me. If you ever think about committing suicide, I want you to contact me. At least give me the opportunity to convince you otherwise." Phil pulls out a Camel. He flashes his shit-eating grin. "I'm a cop on the beat," I reply. "The only prose that distinguished the newspaper from the Chamber of Commerce circular was my column. We live in the most impoverished and ignorant city of its size in the nation. Corruption is rampant. Our politicians take pride in buying votes because their purchases prove that they have the savvy to play the game. I don't read a newspaper for the good news. I want to discover that another culprit has been squashed like a cockroach. Politicians are our enemies. Democrats and Republicans are opposite sides of the same coin. They need each other to foist their shell game upon us. They're divvying up our money between themselves. I am an attack dog. I'm not interested in leaving a hickey on your neck. I want to take a chunk out of your ass. I cut you slack because you have a laudable vision although your oasis will soon be a hellhole. Besides, I like getting drunk with you and I don't feel compromised when you cover the tab because several beers and cuba libres later I have no recollection of your generosity. As to a novel, I don't have the vision. And as to suicide, when riddled with cancer and weighing less than a hundred pounds, I will consider your counsel." "I love you, my friend." We are sharing a spiritual drunk. He insists that we drop to our knees and mutter gobbledygook to the moon. He returned to Brownsville with the absurd notion that he could transform his hometown into a better place. Everyone laughed and recalled a flowerchild who had left for college many years ago. "He must be having an LSD flashback," snickered the movers-and-shakers upon his return. But they humored him because he had money and they thought they might profit from his quixotic ideas. Nobody snickers anymore. Every wannabe politician requests his blessing and a small contribution. His investments yield large dividends. Phil and I eclipse the bewitching hour. I will stand under a cold shower in the morning and regret my excesses, but I have learned to play hurt.