MORT HEINMAN

Estanislao Contreras has been drinking. Mort Heinman has returned after a month in Italy to take care of a child support mix up. They finish two bottles of wine.

"Estanislao, when can we expect the next book?" asks Mort.

"Fuck you, asshole! I can't write anymore. I'm taking downers. I never realized there was such bliss in having a bad memory."

Estanislao opens another bottle. Mort has inherited sufficient money that he can live the rest of his life as a nomad in as many places that catch his fancy.

"How was Italy?"

"You don't want to know. It has exceeded my expectations. It is as close to paradise that we will know on earth."

Estanislao throws his glass to the ground.

"Don't fuck with me! You're bullshitting?"

"You're a sorry fuck, Stan," chortles Mort. "Life's too short to condemn yourself to such misery."

"But I'm a pathetic fuck. I could be in the most beautiful place in the world and it would be the ugliest experience of my existence."

Mort closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"You would forget all this bullshit," he says. "You would be traveling, eating well, drinking better wines, playing tennis and fucking a variety of chicks. You would quickly relegate Brownsville to a distant memory."