I’m in Kurtz’s Tower looking at that old German Goethe. What a smart guy he was. A man focused on the art of writing. A true hero to artists everywhere. I’m trying my best, you old kraut. I’m trying my best.

I open the squeaky doors of the cabinets, and there is nothing. No crumbs of bread nor noodles to boil. Not even a spoonful of peanut butter. And the same is true for the refrigerator. No moldy lunch meat or cheeses. No soft broccoli or rotted lettuce; not a bit of food in the place. I look again at that marvelous statue, and I say to myself, this is the life you’ve chosen. Now get to work. But it’s impossible to work on an empty stomach. There is a constant growling, noises from within telling me to eat you fool. Eat.

This meant seeing Cleo. She had the goods. Ham and turkey on Rye with Swiss cheese and mustard and thick slices of onion, don’t you know. Yes, she was what Miller would call a patron Saint of the Arts. She fed me, and fucked me. Took to my times in need. And the need in that instant was great big sour pickles floating in seasoned brine, a nice bottle of merlot, or a cheap red. I looked in my penny collection and found quarters and dimes, for wine, enough to look like I’m making an effort and traced through the snow-covered streets of Chicago’s Northside to her apartment on Dearborn.  I was on a mission to eat and drink. Perhaps a little merriment with her.  Spend the winter in her place like a babe wrapped in a blanket and fed every hour on the hour.

What was I saying? I could not survive  a season with her. Trapped in her clutches. No writing would get done. But that music would be played. That beautiful music. Bach and Chopin, and Beethoven and Mozart all at me beckon call. She would play for me. And, please me. But, everything comes with a price.

Cleo wanted me to move in with her. She said love had struck her. She could not live without me. This poor creature had no idea what she was in for. My tyraids, my ups and downs. The crying and laughter at odd times. My whole outlook on humanity or lack thereof. I knew one thing. I could not afford to lose her. Financially, there was too much at stake. Emotionally, I figured I could deal with if she ever kicked me out to the streets again. But, I had no wanting to be a part of that. Too much. I could always jump off the downtown bridge in spectacular fashion. End it all if it came to that, I said. End it all.

So, these were the choices. Stay in Kurtz’s Tower with nothing but pad and pencil or live the good life for a change with nightly cocktails and morning coffee, sweet marmalade, and warm wheat toast with seeds on the edges. Eggs and pot roasts, with carrots and potatoes and onions and beer and seasonings for Christ’s sake. Do not spare the salt and black pepper ever. There was plenty to go around. This life. Waking up at midnight and making a sandwich of cold cuts. Eating potato chips. Washing it down with a Coca-Cola. A constant feast. And an ever filled wallet, which I would donate a tenth to the church of  misfortune. Hand out bills to the poor, right under her nose, and then ask for more. Why not I said. Why the hell not. From her father’s bank account to her given to me and passed out to the masses. Christ demanded it. Who was I to let him down.