The Man Called Elroy: Part Three

         His half-closed eyes stared out at me -- half-closed because he would want to be described in that pessimistic way. From his thick lips came gray wisps of smoke, rolling out like storm clouds, fogging the light in his face. The corner of those lips slighted at my remark, the arrogant smirk of a 'wise' stoner. He remained slumped in the couch, staring out at me with unbelieving thoughts.

         "You're a poet, man," he told me, slow as if each word carried heavy weight. "Whether you like it or not, you're a poet. A real poet of the soul."

         He was the only one who understood my oddest thoughts, the only one that really could. We were roommates, or perhaps it wasn't that type of relationship. He was more of a parasite, slacking in his share of the rent payments and smoking up the house.

         "No," I said, "I'm just an idiot."

         "What's the difference?" His words jumbled out in the midst of a cough and a laugh. "You're just lovesick, man. And not like 'sick of love,' but homesick-ish. You long for love like li'l kids long for their homes."

         "Doesn't it ever worry you?"

         "Eh...Things will come as they mean to be," he said. "The best we can do is just prepare, get ready for what will be."

         "You like to preach, don't you?"

         "What does that mean?"

         "Is smoking your money away how you prepare?"

         He shook his head, loosely tossing around his dreadlocks. Smoke billowed out from his nostrils.

         "I thought we were having a pleasant conversation here," he said. "Why d'you have to be so damn judgmental about everything?"

         I didn't know. Do you need to be in order to be a writer? I didn't understand these things. I was aware that you must be sensitive, as a writer, otherwise you'd miss out on all the details, like everyone else.

         "You know that guy Elroy?" I asked him.

         "Who?"

         "Elroy," I repeated. "He's the homeless man who walks around all the time, always with a trash bag full of cans."

         "Oh, him? What about it?"

         "Have you ever stopped to talk to him?"

         "No. Have you?"

         I hadn't told Michael about Elroy. I'd been visiting with Elroy for weeks at this point, stopping for a casual talk or treating him to a drink or meal.

         "Yeah, he's a smart guy," I said. "A real good man."

         "A real good nutcase. That man got his teeth knocked clean out by Pedro Carrasco when he was young."

         "Oh yeah?"

         "That's what they say."

         "They're dirty liars," I said. "You know how quick a man must lose his teeth without being able to brush daily?"

         "How much quicker would they come out in a boxing match?"

         "That would've had to have been in his teaching days," I argued. "He wouldn't be that dumb."

         "Priests have sex with children."

         I thought about it. Maybe he had a point.

         "You're right," Michael continued, "you are an idiot."

         "Doesn't mean much coming from you."

         "Damn, man!" he cried. "Conversation with you is a battle. You're too defensive."

         "Yeah, I have other things I need to do anyway," I said.

         "Like hole yourself up and practice your writing, eh."

         "I can't do it anywhere else. Too many things on my mind in crowded places," I said. "It's much like your smoking, in a sense. Except, that might be the only time I compare my writing to your smoking."

         "Just 'cause you haven't tried it," Michael said. "As if God might smite you for one quick drag."

         "I don't plan to."

         "Then why d'you keep me around?"

         "Let me get back to you on that one," I said. "I'll write you a story about it."