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I decided to head downtown to El Hueso del Fraile and listen to "Delta" Dave Handelman and his son Sam, the front men for Handelman Park. After their set, "Delta" joined me at my table to help me finish a bottle of wine.

"I hear you're on the streets again," he said. "What happened?"

"It has happened so suddenly that I'm in shock. I'm extracting myself from the wreckage and checking myself for injuries. I have sustained both emotional and mental trauma."

"Can you give me any details?"

"I'm in a state of shock. Olivia and Mick are in the same condition as I am and they're blaming me for losing control."

"Where are you staying now?" pressed "Delta" as he took a gulp of his wine. The conversation was too serious for a mere sip.

"I'm at the WoodSpring Suites behind the Denny's on the frontage road, but I'm moving to the Sun Colony Apartments behind the HEB Plus tomorrow."

"Do you need help moving?"

"There's nothing to move. I have my clothes, laptop, guitar and tennis racket in a rented car. That's all I own. Everything of worth in my estimation is stored on the computer."

"And that would be your writing?" questioned "Delta" as he put his guitar away.

"That's it. I'll go to Walmart in the morning and buy an inflatable mattress, a card table with four chairs, bathroom towels and the basic necessities one needs in a kitchen. I am going to live a spartan existence, which I have lived in one form or another several times in the past. I want tranquil space. I want to walk through my front door and feel no tension. You know I can't stand animals. I was sharing a house with two dogs that never quit barking and nipping at my feet. I could not stir in my bed without them yapping. Despite the fact they are a pair of mongrels, they were treated better than me. My nerves were shot as I tried my best to live with these surly and unruly curs, but it was an impossible task. I will have serenity now with HEB across the street to provide for my basic needs."

"You look discombobulated."

"I am. I am in both a fragile and volatile state. I am so infected with anger that it's pouring out of me like pus. If my anguish were blood, I would be standing in an expanding red puddle right now."

"Sounds like Xanax time, but you are going to need something more than a temporary fix."

"With the COPD, smoking dope isn't a solution. I don't need the paranoia that marijuana induces either. I need to curtail the drinking. When I'm consumed by fury, I'm only stoking the fire with alcohol. I must keep hitting the weights and playing tennis, but I need to go on long walks. Access to the Hudson Trails is less than a block from the apartment. I will maintain my daily discipline of  writing, playing the guitar, attending my daily Portuguese and French classes on-line and reading. I have to breathe deeply and hope that COVID doesn't ambush me and pray that Trump will soon be gone."

"I'm sorry to hear that your good intentions have backfired and left you in such a delicate psychological condition. I believe the solitary life will relieve you of your strife. You're too old for this shit. You have been a good father and you have three fine sons who should bring you succor. I bet the American people are wishing that the president was leaving The White House as quickly and as quietly as you're departing your former abode."

"Shall I order another bottle?"

"No! I will not contribute to your self-destructive tendencies. You need to embark on the straight-and-narrow right now. Let me leave you with this counsel that you once gave me: No matter how bad things are, it gives you something good to write about."

I returned to the hotel. I watched the cable networks and learned the latest on Trump's blatant attempt to steal the election and rule as a dictator. I turned off the television. I turned off the lights, but I couldn't turn off the wrath. Only a double dose of Xanax could turn off my mind.

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