It was mid-April when I got home from the offshore rig and discovered my good friend Leonard Pine had lost his job bouncing drunks at the Hot Cat Club because, in a moment of anger, when he had a bad ass on the ground out back of the place, he’d flopped his tool and pissed on the rowdy’s head.

Since a large percentage of the club was outside watching Leonard pop this would-be troublemaker like a Ping-Pong ball, and since Leonard hadn’t been discreet enough to turn to a less visible angle when he decided to water the punk’s head, the management was inclined to believe Leonard had overreacted.

Leonard couldn’t see this. In fact, he thought it was good business. He told management if word of this got around, potential troublemakers would be sayin’, “You start some shit at the Hot Cat Club, you get that mean queer nigger on your ass, and he’ll piss on your head.”

Leonard, taking into account the general homophobia and racism of the local population, considered this a deterrent possibly even more effective than the death penalty. The management disagreed, said they hated to do it, but they had to let him go.

That wasn’t enough of a heartbreak, about this same time Leonard lost his true love, Raul, again, and was in the mood to tell me about it. We drove out to a friend’s pasture in Leonard’s latest wreck, an ancient white Rambler with a loose spring under the passenger’s ass, set up some cans on a rotting log and took pot shots at them with a revolver while we talked beneath a bright blue, cloudless sky.

Way it happened was Leonard knocked a row of cans down with a few good shots, and as we walked over to put them up again, he was beginning to tell me how he and Raul had been arguing a lot – which was nothing new – and how Raul had walked out. This was not new either. But this time Raul hadn’t come back. That was new.