Morris died with a beer in his hand. I called him Rosa. He was my best friend.

 

I didn’t call him Rosa to his face. He wouldn’t like that. I just called the gay part Rosa. He had a brown belt in Kung Fu. We’d drink Hollywood up on the weekends. I’d wake up on the bedroom floor of my girlfriend’s apartment. She hated that. I didn’t discover Morris’ gayness until I moved in with him. My lady friend kicked me out again. She said I was a hopeless drunk. I suspected I was, wasn’t sure. I had no place to go. My couch is yours, man. I had a raggedy car. My ex-girlfriend worked as a receptionist at a toy company. I’d leave the cupboards open. She hated that too. I won’t miss you, man, she told me. I moved in with Morris and Stan. They lived two blocks from McArthur Park—a haven for criminals, runaways. I loved the park. It was warm. Morris’ daddy went missing one morning. They found him in a lake. Us three would sit at the table after work. We’d talk about showbiz. Morris was an excellent singer. Stan was a pianist. He stopped playing. I got tired of entertaining white folks, he’d say. They have too much fun. Stan was short. His doggy ran away when he was two. It changed him. The artist was always crying broke. Stan was a stock market genius. Where in hell are you now, Stan? 

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The night rode in on a blue moon. Friday. The street dissolved into a highway of drugs, blind passion. Friday. Nobody became themselves. Us, the three of us, waterboarded ourselves with rotgut whiskey, orange juice, Fritos. We had enough supplies for the evening. Feeling naked but fully clothed, I asked Morris why I never saw him with gay guys. He loved to talk about himself. 

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I’d meet guys on the street, said Morris. You can tell. They had this hunger. Morris’ beer grew warm. 

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Some were kids, new in town, broke. We’d hang at the adult theater. You wouldn’t believe what goes on in that place. There were secret places to hide. I keep these adventures a secret from real friends. 

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OH, I said. 

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Stan had no idea about all this. Morris went on: 

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They tore the theater down when AIDS got popular. 

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Stan expressed disgust—but it didn’t ring true. He didn’t give a hoot about Morris’ confession. He just liked to yell as loud as he could. Stan was a terrible drunk. What he really wanted was a warm bed, an ample supply of marijuana, cheap liquor. Us three didn’t care about gays, straights, blacks, whites, Mexicans, blue people. Nobody mattered. It was crucial that we maintained drinking buddy status. 

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Twice a month me and Morris traveled to Skid Row. We’d spend the day drinking in musty bars that serviced the misbegotten. We reminded ourselves of what would happen if we missed a step. Morris always expressed a desire to pick up Skid Row women. I didn’t have the guts. 

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Morris threw parties every Friday. The gig started at sunset. The last drunk would leave  Sunday morning at dawn. 

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Morris would eventually die with a beer in hand. His hair receded in spots of silent rage. His nails flawless. 

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Friday evening, the party boiled. The Euphrates flowed through the apartment. Feelings of defeat, hunger, shame were left at the door. Children of the Lost. Fatherless children traveled to Hollywood to seek their fortune. Partygoers sang, danced, bragged, smiled. Young folk of diverse ages, colors. I danced by the light of a yellow moon. The crew wept beside fleeting ambitions. The night moved on. Margaret the Irish landlord was 5’2”, bless her heart. She hated parties but loved Morris. He fed her healthy doses of scotch till the lazy sun rose. Fame would be denied to most. Beans and rice waited quietly on the stove. The party was loud but civilized. Midnight showed up. 

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There was a soft knock at the door. She was a vampire. She could suck the blood out of a man with a stare. I know things. I was born under the sign of the brass ring. Kept missing it. Wanda the brown-skinned sex queen walked into our lives. She was a pure porno. Morris met her in a skid row bar. He was out hunting. Morris found her at the Copper Room. It was a dive. She danced in her early years. She toured with Sammy Davis Jr. Morris, fell in love.

 

Stan bitched about the price of sugar. When Stan opened his mouth, you saw his vital organs. He kept blood on his tongue. Thirty days passed. I was tired of Stan’s yelling, Morris’ guilt. He liked guys. 

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I’m sorry man.

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Why apologize to me? 

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He drank warm beer. Now that was a sin. I looked around the broken end of Hollywood. I found a rundown hotel on Ivar. It was home. Stan, Morris, skittish girlfriend all gone. I cleansed my soul with a fifth of Bacardi. 

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I worked in housekeeping at the hospital. My fellow workers were vets. We were cool, drinkers, very civilized. They meant no harm. The brothers came over to my cave. The workers had houses, wives, girlfriends. A slim white girl joined the group. Her name was Molly. She didn’t hang out with white employees. Molly hung out with the brothers. She didn’t hang out with the black chicks. Molly hung out with the bloods. She drank like a fish. She didn’t like her people, thought them cold. My father hates blacks, she said. He doesn’t know why. 

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I chewed on the darkness. Molly went up north to tend to a sick brother. She was descended from southern sharecroppers; whites that came west after the Dust Bowl destroyed their farms. She was good people. She liked me. I could tell. She bought good vodka. Not that crap I drank. We slept together in that cheap ass hotel room. We visited the zoo. The animals wanted to go home. On rainy days I counted stars. I sat in my room impressed by the tenor of chaos. The devil waited in vain for my demise. He howled like a hungry wolf. Sunday morning. I was alone. A bottle dozed nearby. 

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A timid knock assaulted the door. I thought the devil forgot his lighter. I was alone. Proud of it. I opened the door. It was Morris. He looked like a wet cat. Held on to a wrinkled bag. I hadn’t seen him in two months. 

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Hello, man. 

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He walked past me without being invited. I was happy to see him. 

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I moved in with Wanda, man. She lived in this huge garage. Her producer lived in the big  house. They make nasty movies in the valley. I watched her kids while she worked. I love her. I put my boyfriends down. Jazz played somewhere. I slept with her. She’s an arteest. Her producer is a big white guy with a pot belly. He lets me use his Corvette. I make liquor runs, stuff like that. Wanda said some mob guy busted him in the face years ago, broke his jaw. I take her two boys to school in her Audi. This is the first girlfriend I’ve had in years. 

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Your clothes are all wrinkled Morris. How come? 

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I slept in the bushes last night.

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How come, bro? 

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Wanda chased me outta the garage. 

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How come? 

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A policeman she was screwing many years ago got mad. She wanted to end the affair. He didn’t. 

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He paused. 

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He crushed her skull. She has a metal plate in her head. 

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Really? 

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Yeah man, so sometimes she has these fits. The kids run and hide under the bed. That’s what I shoulda done. She threw a fryin’ pan at me. I didn’t do nothin’. I think she smoked some bad weed. Wanda chased me out of the garage. I don’t know what set the woman off. We was listening to Smooth Criminal. She started screaming and hollering. 

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Morris moved across the room. 

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I told her to chill. My head started to hurt. She yelled at me. She said I was in love with you. Get the hell out of here. Johnny. I said you stupid ho I ain’t Johnny. I threw Stan out before I hooked up with Wanda. He squashed a ladybug. You know how much I love ladybugs don’t you, man? 

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Yeah Morris, I remember. 

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So I grabbed the frying pan. She wouldn’t let go. I pushed her onto the couch. That’s when she pulled the .357 on me. I ran for the hills, brother. I never run that fast. Morris was short and puffy. I slept in the bushes with a lonely coyote. He walked up to me. He looked as bad as I felt. He took a nap. The animal had no friends. This town is dead. My father was an ex-con. I looked him up. He lived in a broken-down apartment. It took me months to find him. He said he had no sons. They found his tired ass dead, in a lake. I’m flying back to New York in the morning. I just need a place to sleep for the night. I coulda spent the night with JoJo.

 

Who the hell is JoJo. 

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He’s one of my special friends. 

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He lives with this queen. Her name is Miss Lucy. She’s a doctor. She treats people with AIDS. Lucy supports JoJo. JoJo’s pretty. He wants to be an actor. Lucy has a big condo downtown. There’s all kinds of people comin’ through—straight, gay. 

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Day banged into night. 

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Morris went home to New York. He moved in with his sister, mother. He got a custodial job, traveled the subway. He fell into a diabetic coma, his mother said. I loved him. We were brothers. His beer was warm. Ride easy Rosa. I sit in the weeds. 

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