I used to want to sell a book.
I used to want to make a living as a writer.
Bobby Bradford said he used to want to have a record out,
and see his name on the cover of Downbeat, but now all he wanted was
a big chicken dinner. That was 1958. In San Antonio. He was working as
a porter in a bowling alley and going to the University of Texas on the GI Bill.
In Austin? College Station? I don't remember. I used to want to see my name
in lights. I used to dream about being envied by the hoi polloi. If you get that,
it's bad karma. It eats away at you. At least, it ate away at Jack Kerouac.
He ended up in a tract house in St. Pete, his Greek relatives scheming
to gain control of his estate. He died a classic drunkard's death.
I haven't had a drank since Brenda's birthday. Tomorrow I'll be 70.
I have everything I need. No, I have everything I want. Anything else will be
lagniappe. From la ñapa. The gift. Grace related to gratis, free.
No thanks. I don't want it.