Hard, hot, hopeless. Even the dust on Gospel Boulevard didn’t let us pass easy. Mama’s always crying. Says we’re gonna die before the money reaches the bank. She’s probably right. Usually is. Clutches the rosary with arthritic hands like granite. Rang Tony Suck. Left a message asking could he retrieve the .38 snubnose from the shoebox under Howie’s bunk. But you know where he is, doncha? That’s right… with a needle in his arm raving about the Soviets, telling everyone his brilliant ideas on how to end socialism. Sure he’d like to help, but he can’t even stand, plus he’s seeing double. Meanwhile grandpa Little is filling his Meerschaum over and over, complaining about gremlins in the attic. Don’t matter how many times we tell him it’s just mice. Any way you toss the dice, they land on grim. Just do me one solid, willya? Go to Pop Cecil’s garage. Tell him you need to take the ’55 Studebaker flatbed out for a spin. Tell him it’s important. You and I got a date with the reflection of the city lights in Saint Augustine Lake. The fishes are calling for us to swim with them, friend. And swim we will. Eternally yours