By Walter Agnew Moore II

So I needed a mental-health break. My job isn't so bad, teaching at a large school in East Texas, but I needed a break. A drive in the country.

I call up Friend #1 and say "Hey, let's go get a Coke at some little store in the country."

"Sorry, I would, but I have to get X,Y, and Z done."

"So you've become an adult?"

"'Fraid so. But have fun on your ride."

"Oh, I will."

I go outside and take parts of the convertible roof off the car. I call Friend #2:

"Hey! Wake up, let's go for a ride!"

"But—but—I just woke up!"

"I know, that's what I just said—look: sunglasses, cap, t-shirt, jeans, put 'em on, I'm coming to get you."

"I dunno..."

"So you're a Volvo-driving soccer-mom today too, huh?"

"I guess... but have fun on your drive."

"Oh, I will."

So somewhere in the country it occurs to me that there is no reason not to keep driving to Houston, and half-way to Houston I can't think of a reason not to just keep going all the way to Galveston, on the coast.

At McDonald's in Galveston the sunburned lady in the parking lot panhandles me for change with leather fingers. I give her some and then walk inside past people giving me the "She'll just go spend it on alcohol" glare. Well, why not? That's what I usually do with it. The manager is wearing Mardi Gras beads.

Down at the beach, I wade around in the surf for a while, then go climb back up the sea wall and go order some Cajun food at Benno's.

After I order and I'm back on the patio facing the Gulf of Mexico, waiting for my food, the fire-trucks have shown up. Three of them, plus an ambulance. I sit down and watch the crowd peering over the sea wall and crowding across the street. People are everywhere. I wonder if a car will come along and hit an entire family.

There is an old man next to me at the rail wearing blue-striped pajamas and a red bathrobe. He seems to know what's up. "Excuse me, sir," I say, "Do you know what happened?"

"I think somebody fell off the sea wall... Hey Doug! DOUG!" he yells at a blue t-shirted firefighter in a ball-cap, who comes across the street and reaches up to shake his hand. "Hey Doug, what happened?"

Doug takes his walkie-talkie away from his ear long enough to say, "Dude fell off the sea wall and busted his head. Probably be alright."

"Too many Miller Lites, huh, Doug?"

"Maybe."

I say to pajama-man, "It sure does seem like they're taking their time getting him up off the rocks."

"Oh no, sometimes it takes a while, you gotta calm 'em down, get 'em settled in... I worked in ambulances for 25 years..."

"My uncle did that too", I say, "back in the 50's, when they'd race rival ambulance companies to be the first to the scene. Part medic, part stock-car driver..."

"Oh yeah, that was us too—sometimes I'd park my car right up behind the other guy's tail-gate so he couldn't get his gurney out..."

He chuckles "...Then I worked with these lunatics... Hey Doug! Monty! Hey Monty! Joe!" Men wave back at us from the departing fire trucks.

"I shoulda never retired, never retired," he says.

I look at his pajamas and bathrobe: "So, what brings you out here today?"

"I couldn't stand it, lying in that hospital another day. Radiation treatment tearing up my stomache, bored out of my skull. I'm not allowed to have any solid food. They say I've got three kinds of cancer, and so I said to heck with it, I just got up and left the hospital, figured I'd go sit in the sunshine. A hospital bed and no solid food—that's no kind of life."

"Well", I say, "you must be on the mend, you have to be a little bit healthy to get up and walk out of a hospital."

"Healthy? Hah. Hard-headed crazy more like it. I was a fireman, son. Sane people run out of a burning house. I used to run in. And I loved it, I loved every single minute of it."

He says it again: "I shoulda never retired."

We share a couple more jokes, then my gumbo and my boudin sausage come, and I start eating. The food is good, and I feel sorry for my buddy who can't have any solid food. I figure I'll enjoy mine while I can.

A minute later I look back over at the old guy, and he is tucking into a mountain of boiled shrimp, peeling them and eating them as fast as he can.

The sun is warm. The man has chosen his own time and place to make his last stand. That's how you do it: spit in the devil's eye.