can i crash with you for a few months?

i get a call

from my friend Billy Bob.

he sounds

depressed,

sad.

beaten.

Yo.

what's up? i ask.

he lets out a long

sigh.

she's kicking me out of the house,

he says.

i have until sundown

tomorrow

and then she's

calling the police.

she's already thrown

all of my clothes out of 

upstairs window.

they're scattered all over

the lawn.

dang.

i tell him. that's a shame.

and i thought you

two were madly

in love.

we were, he says, but i've

been sleeping in the basement

for almost a year

now.

but she's your high school sweetheart.

you have a tattoo of her name

on your arm. Lulu.

you guys have

the same politics.

you both love Hammas, Mamdani,

and Kamala,

not to mention AOC

and Tim Walz.

you like the same music

and movies.

Deniro and Springsteen.

you like to cook, she likes to eat.

yeah, yeah.

i know.

well, what do you think it was

that broke

you guys up?

your drinking, your violent fits

of anger,

not having a job?

no money.

could it be your bi-polar episodes?

not sure, he whispers,

but hey, i'm just wondering, do

you still have that guest

room?

the one upstairs

with the twin bed? do

you mind if i crash

there for a few months until i

get back on my feet?

ummm.

well, you won't believe this but

a pipe just broke

in there the other night and the whole

room is flooded out.

the bed is soaked

and there's mold on everything.

i just chased

out some frogs

this morning.

there's a hole in the ceiling

and the drip

just won't seem to stop.

what about the Red Roof Inn?