It was Monday, May 16, 1988. 9AM.

It had been an interesting weekend. Wyatt was high most of the time. He’d gotten fired from Hot Rod’s, so he was looking to be even shorter on the money. And I was starting to look for a way to jettison his freeloading ass.

And my best way of doing that might just be arriving. Today, I was supposed to call Charles, the program director in Orlando, to talk about flying me down for a job interview for an evening talk show – the perfect next step in a career that’d been on hold for over a year, now.

I threw caution to the wind; at 9AM sharp, I dialled the number.

“Buenos Dias, Radio Espanol por Orlando!”, a cheery and not-remotely-Anglo voice welcomed me.

“Oh, I’m sorry”, I stammered, hoping it was a wrong number, even as I remembered enough high school Spanish to know exactly what she’d said. “I’m looking for Dave”, the program director.

“I’m sorrrry, sir”, said the woman. “Thees station is now Spanish rrradio”

Dave, the entire staff, and the plan for the evening news magazine were out on the street.

I hung up. And stood by the phone for a couple of minutes.

Finally, I put a leash on Mookie, and went out for a long walk. My legs felt like they had sandbags strapped to the ankles. My vision narrowed to a faint little tunnel at times. I felt sick, intermittently, with flashes of anger interspersed.

I walked for hours – at least until late afternoon. I came home as Teresa was leaving. “Hi, Mitch!”, she chirped, looking fresh and blond and beautiful, in her uniform for a day at work at the nursing home. “Hey, Teresa”, I nodded.

I took a shower, got dressed for work – City Limits, tonight – and passed Wyatt in the hall. “You got the rent money?”

“I’ll get it, man”, he said, going into the bathroom with his “night out on the town” clothes, sounding perfunctory and clipped and not at all like he was gonna get it, man.

F*ck it.

As I walked out to the car, Michelle walked up the sidewalk. “Hi, Mitch”.

“Hi, Michelle”.

I slumped into the driver’s seat and sat for a moment, my arms feeling too heavy to lift to start the car.

It feels like I’m watching someone else’s life, I thought. And it’s starting to suck.