Chapter 2. Broke Artist

Now, I’ve never made any money
And I've never wanted to work at anything but my writing
And every job I've ever had has been solely to pay the rent
And I've taken every chance I've ever had to quit
Take the day off
Call in sick
Just so I could stay home and do my writing

When you're young this kind of thing is romantic
To say screw it all and chase your dreams is seen as courageous and brave and people salute you
But as you grow older
They no longer see you as heroic
They see you as something else
Selfish or foolish or lost

And when I first met Sal, she had some divorce money
And she wanted to have a party that would last a whole year
So naturally I moved in
Sal could afford the rent
She could afford the food
She could afford the booze
And all I had to do was write

Now a friend of mine came to town
He had big dreams and bigger schemes
So I was all ears
He wanted to buy a coffee plantation in Costa Rica

“Sonny, I need a point man in Costa Rica.
What you need is about thirty thousand to get in the door on this
Is there anybody in your family that could back you?”

So I went to the only rich person I knew
He was having an art opening
His photographs were these immaculate, shiny, high-priced, beautifully framed portraits of the gutter
He stood there with his wife and his two kids and his agent and his golden retriever

“I need 50 grand
50 thousand dollars”

But he just stared at me as if I had insulted him

“Sonny, you've never had anything to gamble with, so you gamble with your whole life”

That's what he said

“You never went to school, you never got a good job
You never developed a sellable skill
A usable craft or a practical talent
You thought you could make it on your art, and you didn't.”

Well fuck you, I said
Fuck you and fuck the way this whole world works
And I walked into the street
I walked all over town
And I thought about never writing again
I thought about going back to school
I thought about being a carpenter
I thought about wearing a tie
And I thought about never being poor again

I walked all night
And when I finally got near home
I saw four men kicking and beating this black woman
She was a prostitute I recognized
But she had crossed some kind of turf line into this latino section
I tried to call the police but this boy came over with a cast on his hand and hit me over the head
And everything went kind of black and blurry and I felt like maybe he had broken my skull
After a while they dispersed, and I looked over to the woman
Her eyes were swollen shut
And her face and neck were bruised
And together we walked to the hospital
Just two ragged mules beat up by the night

Dear Sal,
The world is odd and senseless, and I'll be home late