"they got these chips, that you use to count the days..."

We walked into his house, up on the hills where people lived on ranches, drove pick-ups and wore cowboy hats. I had just traded in one of my guitars and he had no money. We had, I guess, enough to share, enough to last for a couple of hours. His father sometimes stopped by to give him some money, and then he would leave him. He had a beat-up old house all to himself, with no furniture. I thought, wow, what freedom. He sat there writing lyrics, while I would look at some nude teen magazines he had lying around.

I remember when I first met him at a 24-hour diner. I had not slept for days and stopped to get some food; he had no money and was playing his guitar outside in the patio. We talked while I tried to eat. I gave him a ride back home and he had my leftovers. He seemed angry, I think, that I was going to throw it away.

He had thick veiny arms, but a beat-up face. I was always wary he may lose it on me. There was something aggressive about his personality, but his sunken dark eyes told the same story.

The last time I saw him - I saw him once more after that, but I turned the other way - I told him I needed to get something from my car. When I turned the engine on, he ran out and looked at me and I sped out of his driveway, my door still open. I didn't steal anything from him, but he kept yelling, "where are you going?" I don't know why I felt compelled to flee, but each time I stayed too long, I said I have to get out of here. It didn't really have anything to do with him.