Roaches

Years ago, when we first started our affair, I used to write these angry rants and make him listen to them. I wanted him to know exactly how I felt when he pissed me off and I wanted to make him hear me out. He used to tell me he was just sitting through it to get to the sex.

I was living in Koreatown. He would come over and see the roaches scamper across the counter. He used to say, “When you gonna get out of the ghetto livin' with roaches?” Then one day after I had read a piece to him, he stopped, looked at me, and said, “You know, maybe you will have a book one day…maybe all these diaries someone will want to read…you may make money from it.”

I stopped by to see him and he had just given himself a shot in the stomach. He told me how the woman at the front desk had messed up his chemo appointments and they wanted to hospitalize him for three days. He had to argue with the doctor that he had his chemo two weeks ago and he had his calendar to prove it.

I told him I was doing a reading in his neighborhood next week. He smiled and said I better have changed his name. He said he wasn’t going out in crowds because he didn’t want to get H1N1.

I asked him why he wouldn’t let me take him to chemo. He said he didn’t want to string me in anymore than I already was. I told him I was afraid he was dying. He said that they told him that he would look back on this with fond memories after it was all over and he had to get back to the daily grind.

He said he wanted half of my book sales. I told him it was my story. I was selling it as fiction.

He said, “What, you gonna make him Puerto Rican instead of Dominican? It’s too similar. I’ll see you with my attorney in court.”

I said, “You are a roach that is gonna live forever.”