It was a long time since he’d been alone—a lifetime. Before, the person he used to be would seek out others in this mood; to fight, fuck, get high with, or just to laugh. Ronnie could laugh with almost anybody about some misery or missed opportunity. If I had known the mothahfuckah had ten thousand dollars in that pocket, I would have cut his mothahfuckin’ throat, he once said about a man who had just paid off a loan shark and on the way walked past Ronnie on an uptown corner. Girl, I need me some’a that coochie you sittin’ on, he remembered saying to a young black woman he had just met. Her name was Freya Levering. You at least gonna buy me some little sandwich and a soda first? Freya replied. Ronnie considered these memories, and many like them, feeling as if the person he had been was a close and unruly relative who’d died. The blade hand of the South Vietnamese military cop couldn’t kill him; he earned death by pouring life into the girl he’d murdered. Life was strong in the man he had been; his life was strong and he spoke the truth to everyone except maybe his mother and the cops, teachers, and marks.
