He looked at the cockroach again. Then he looked at the last line he’d written. He smiled. Not because he was happy. But because the cockroach, at least, had died doing what it loved. Nothing.
He typed one more line. Then he pulled the paper out, folded it once, and put it in his pocket. Someday, someone would find it. Or not. That was the point.
He finished the sherry. The bottle joined the cockroach on the floor. He thought about calling someone. His ex-wife. His bookie. The woman with the gold tooth. But his hand didn’t move. The phone was an artifact from another century. A black rotary with a tangled cord. He hadn’t heard a human voice in six days. The last one was the grocer saying, “That’ll be four eighty-five.” He’d paid with nickels. He looked at the cockroach again
He stared at the last line. It was a lie. He couldn’t remember a good day. There were days that were less bad. Days where the landlord forgot to knock. Days where the corner store gave him credit. But a good day? That was a myth for people who believed in God or mutual funds.
He lit a cigarette. The smoke curled up toward a water stain on the ceiling that looked exactly like the state of Nevada. He’d been there once. Lost a hundred dollars on a horse named “No Dice.” The horse finished last. The jockey later tested positive for heroin. That was the closest thing to a miracle Henry had ever witnessed. Not because he was happy
The cockroach died at 3:17 a.m. It lay on its back near the base of the typewriter, six legs pointed toward the cracked ceiling like a tiny, overturned throne. Henry Chinaski, or whatever was left of him, watched it for a full hour. He didn’t kill it. It just ran out of reasons to keep going.
He looked at the typewriter. The carriage was stuck. A half-finished poem sat in the roller. It was called “PDF I.” He didn’t know what PDF meant. Portable Document Format? That was too clean. Too corporate. For Henry, it meant Puta, Dios, y Fútbol. Whore, God, and Soccer. Three things that had never saved a single soul. He typed one more line
The whiskey was gone. The gin was gone. There was half a bottle of cooking sherry under the sink, the kind with the pink label and a price tag that still had a cent sign. He considered it. Then he considered the window. Fourth floor. The alley below was a black trench full of broken glass and the silence of things that had been thrown away.
He’d found the phrase scribbled on a napkin three days ago at a cantina in the bad part of town. A woman with a mustache and a gold tooth had left it behind. She’d been drinking mezcal with a man who kept crying into his sombrero. Henry had stolen the napkin. He didn’t know why. Maybe because the words were truer than anything he’d written in ten years.