PUROS HUEVOS CON CHORIZO

Dr. G.F. McHale-Scully met Don Pedro at Emilia's on West Elizabeth Street. The place was packed as it usually is on a Saturday morning. There is something about beginning the day with a cup of coffee. Somebody said a "hot" cup of coffee, but that would be as redundant as saying a "cold" glass of beer. Doc was seated when Don entered shaking his head even before he had taken his chair.

Don: You've lost it, Doc.

Doc: As long as I have my wallet filled with cash and credit cards with thousands in their accounts and I can still breathe deeply, I haven't lost it.

Don: You're like The Brownsville Herald. You aren't relevant. Nobody reads you. Nobody takes anything you say seriously. You write rumors, puerile poems and senseless stories. You don't have your mojo anymore. Somebody said you've stopped smoking dope. Border schwag was always your inspiration. Nobody sees you downtown anymore. What happened to Brownsville's last standing bohemian?

Doc: I don't get around much anymore and I'm not smoking dope or drinking wine with the same reckless abandon as I once did. As a result of succumbing to less vices as I have in the past, I don't take that last bus downtown to revel with the buddies, but I'm still pounding the keys in order to satiate my muse.

Don: You don't have the same fire anymore. The Herald's Steve Clark is kicking your ass. The Brownsville Republic's /DP-M has reduced you to an unimaginative hack. El Rrun Rrun's Juan Montoya cranks out one scoop after another. The Brownsville Voice's Bobby Wightman-Cervantes suppurates with passion. The Brownsville Observer's Jim Barton has found new life with a new lady. You're not writing shit. Are you suffering from a mental constipation?

Doc: I'll have to admit that there's solid competition in the Brownsville news world and the days have long since disappeared when I was the only voice in the wilderness, but I'm not as prominent as I once was because I'm surrounded by outstanding talent whom I do my best to promote in order to provide the public with a variety of sources so that average Jose can make informed and educated choices and decisions.

Don: That's not you, Doc. Are you saying that you are no more than an editor sitting at your desk proofreading other writers' copy? How many times has /DP-M reproved you for skating instead of scrutinizing? You were once a heavyweight. Now you're a lightweight. You were renown for packing a punch. You would be lucky today to defeat that Southmost pest Roman Perez in a pillow fight. You're a 98-pound weakling when you were once Kid Lonas, the reigning champion of Brownsville's journalistic world. Have the passing years turned you into a has-been who at best can only aspire to being a wannabe?

Doc: My back hurts. My belly is expanding. My skin is flabby. Wrinkles line my face. Hair grows out my ears and nose, but my head is turning bald. I need Viagra to fuck. I need pain killers to walk. I need pills to keep from dropping dead of a heart attack. I need Aleve so I can loosen my fingers to play the guitar. I'll be 70 soon. I can't jog a quarter mile without my knees swelling. I can't see the tennis ball anymore, let alone hit it. I shoot baskets at Gold's gym and every shot is an air ball. I sit down to pen a piece and the most I can achieve is this bullshit I'm spewing right now.

Don: You are a sorry fuck, Doc. You used to be a somebody. Now you're like Pat Ahumada and Ernie Hernandez and Carlos Elizondo and the rest of the motley characters you have castigated over the years: You're a nobody.

Doc: You're right and your wrong, my ancient amigo. I have always been a nobody because I have never desired being a somebody. I've taken one day at a time and I have let the chips fall where they may. If you want to know the truth: Never have I taken one day at a time more than I do now and never have I enjoyed life more than I am enjoying it now except for my goddamn back. It's all out of our hands, compadre.

Don: Puros huevos con chorizo?

Doc: Puros huevos con chorizo, compadre.

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