Lenny calls from the airport.

“Brother, there’s no one left to hold my hand.”

I hear what sounds like slot machines in the background.

“Arcade,” Lenny says. “I can be in Tucson by morning,” he says.

I flip a coin in my imaginary mind.
“Better not,” I say. “Janice and I are splitting for the weekend.”

“Why do I even bother getting married,” Lenny says.
“It’s like I’ve got a ‘Beat Me’ sign on my forehead.”

“‘Open all night,’” I add.

“I don’t get it,” Lenny says.

My brother Lenny is in LA.
We used to share bunk beds
in a ranch house in Encino
back in the old days.

When we were little kids,
losing sleep over whose frog it was,
over tree houses.

About the Author

Bob Hate

Bob was a rock and roll musician who had a failed career playing in clubs in and around Dallas, Texas. He was born in Bossier City, Louisiana in 1958, but then disappeared and was rumored dead in 1999 and later in 2014.

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