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a truck driver, that’s fine with me. You could be a stock boy in the back of a shoe store in some mall in Nebraska. As long as you’re doing something that you like. Nothing would make me happier.
    Okay, so here’s the serious part.
    I need to share some news with you, Jamie, and this is not easy. About three months ago I collapsed in the middle of the night while I was on my way to the bathroom and a few days later I woke up in the hospital to discover that a malignant tumor that was attached to one of my adrenal glands decided to explode and seed itself throughout my hips and abdomen. I lost a tremendous, almost impossible amount of blood, received a transfusion the size of Lake Erie, and I was lucky to live through the trauma. Well, I lived through that mess, but after a series of tests it was discovered that there was still a serious amount of metastasizing cancerous cells to deal with. Who would’ve thought, right? I mean, there isn’t a soul on either side of our family that has had cancer, so call me a pioneer.
    I was advised by my oncologist to receive chemotherapy treatments right away, which I did, but unfortunately it didn’t work very well and the bad stuff has recently spread to my lungs and throat and I have fallen into serious decline.
    Jamie, as you know I turned twenty-seven last month, and I had this sudden realization that I’m not going to make it to my thirtieth birthday. Hell, the truth is, it’s doubtful that I’ll make it through the next few months — I’ll be lucky to get through the spring. I’ve grown so weak that I’m having trouble writing this letter. Jorge has urged me to tell you this news and I have resisted for a long time, partly because I didn’t want to burden you, but also because the coward in me wasn’t prepared to completely face up to it.
    As you know, aside from a great deal of tragic sympathy I feel for our poor mother, I do not feel much of a connection to our parents. You and Edward were there at the dinner table when I tried to come out to everyone four years ago — God almighty you were a precocious ten-year-old! You no doubt felt their cold, judgmental stares as potently as I did. One can go get a good healthy injection of Novocain from their family dentist and feel about the same sensation of chilly, bloodless diffidence.
    Aside from you, Edward, and Grandma Beauty (bless her sweet heart; she still sends me chocolates on Valentine’s Day), I have no other family — at least anyone I feel connected to — not even Aunt Julie, who is technically my godmother. She has expressed outward disgust at my lifestyle and when she finds out about my medical state (yes, Jorge is planning on telling Mom and the Major as well at some point), she will no doubt be prouder and more confirmed than ever that homosexuality is a godless, damnable existence. I can just see the fire and brimstone shooting from Aunt Julie’s nostrils after she hears of my demise. Even though I know Edward would like to think that he is open-minded, he is so thoroughly following in our father’s footsteps that I wouldn’t be surprised if they wind up with the same trick knees and arthritic hips.
    So, urged by Jorge, who has fearlessly stood by me as my body has started to rot and wither, I am reaching out to you, Jamie. If it is at all possible, I would love it if you could come out to Memphis and spend a little time with me before I make my merry way out of this godforsaken world. Although I don’t have much money (the medical bills are unbelievable, even with the help of my Actors Equity health insurance), Jorge, who has actually sold a few paintings in the past month (he thanks you for asking!), has been kind enough to enclose two hundred dollars to help you get here. I think taking a Greyhound bus might just do it. The Greyhound bus system may be the last affordable way of crossing this inflation-riddled country of ours.
    There’s plenty of room for you in our apartment. The hospice people