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     I open my eyes.  My room is dark and my body is cold and clammy.  At first I’m disoriented.  Gradually the sounds of street traffic and the sight of fog crawling among the buildings on the hill outside act as a GPS, informing my sleep-shrouded mind that I’m on the 14th-floor of the PARC 55 Hotel in San Francisco. 

     Earlier, when the sun was up, I was warm and had deliberately left my window open.  Presently, well after the sun has gone down, the onshore breeze brings not only fog, but also my dream by rubbing a Naugahyde drape against an armchair; creating that dreaded, squeaking sound I so hate.

     I never even knew that Black dude, dear reader, so why the fuck am I continuing to carry him around with me after all these years?  I’m not the one who shot him.

     I get up to close the window.  Coming back to the bed, I catch a glimpse of myself in a full-length mirror.  I’m wearing a white T-shirt, with a V-necked, gray pullover and washed-out, comfortable Levi’s.  I’m six-foot-two with a wrestler’s build.  Since 1980, I’ve grown a mustache, and, as of 1985, I always shave my head.  I’m told I could pass as Jesse Ventura’s twin (the pro-wrestler/Governor of Minnesota); at least that’s what people tell me when asking for my autograph.

     My name is Clinton Peterson Chisholm, and I’m afflicted with a slight stutter.

     The names parents dream up for their children...there oughtta be a law! But in the spirit of keeping your life uncomplicated, dear reader, you can call me by the handle my close friends use: “Pete,” or “Petie.” 

     I pause for another moment and study my reflection.

     What a tragic mistake that is!

     Today is my birthday.  Somehow I’m suddenly fifty-nine. 

     How in the hell did that happen?

     A tired, broken Jesse Ventura looks back at me.

Jesse Ventura.

     Currently I live in Thailand, but I’ve been in San Francisco three days now and still can’t shake this damned jet lag.  Hence the quick nap this afternoon, which has lasted...I glance at my fake “Bangkok Rolex.”

     Holy shit...it’s almost 8:30 P.M.!  Screw jet lag!  Screw the doctors!  Screw my life...or what’s left of it.

     I sit on the edge of the bed alone in the dark, and watch the fog outside swirl about the lights of the city.

     Happy fucking birthday!

     I’ll level with you, dear reader, at this point - if I had a snub-nosed .38 - I’d take a “cop’s exit visa” (place the barrel in my mouth and pull the trigger).

     It’s funny how a stupid, casual remark can change ones whole life.

     A month ago I started passing blood in my urine.  We’ve got good hospitals in Bangkok and, after a series of tests, a small tumor was discovered in my bladder, prompting them to perform a TUR (Transurethral resection).  They gave me a spinal injection, and while I was conscious the Thai doc ran a steel rod up my prick with a light, TV camera, a cutter and a claw.  I was amazed they could get all that equipment up my penis, as unfortunately I’m not hung like a horse. 

     Maybe I’m the real comic book hero “Plastic Man,” dear reader...or, at the very least, “Plastic Cock?”  Could that type of super hero sell in the comics?  Would that puppy hunt?

     In any event they located the tumor, cut it out of my bladder, and hauled it and all that equipment out of my battered, stretched Johnson.  Just my luck the tumor tested malignant.

     So I decided to come back here to the States for further treatment.  I had a second meeting with the doctor this morning and casually mentioned something really stupid.      

     It was probably the jet lag talking.

     This past year I’ll sometimes spot a familiar face, normally an old flying buddy, in a crowd. 

     Okay, what’s so unusual regarding that?  You may well ask, dear reader.

     That particular buddy that I see has been dead for a number of years...and hasn’t aged one day. 

     I told the doc that I was chalking it up to old age, sentimentality and wishful thinking; feeling he’d get a good chuckle out of it and prescribe me a shrink.  Instead, the doc had a sense of humor failure and asked if I was experiencing headaches, dizziness, nausea, or strange odors followed by seizures.  To which I replied in the negative.  Despite this he set me up with an MRI of my brain ASAP. 

     More rat-shit bad luck!

     They found another tumor, a prominent one, in the anterior third of the right cerebral hemisphere of my brain, and there’s a good chance it’s also malignant.  Now the doc is hot to bore open my skull, cut the tumor out if it’s operable, and put me on chemotherapy if it indeed is malignant.

     At least I won’t have to worry about going bald, dear reader.  Jesse Ventura and I are already there!

     So here I sit on my 59^th birthday, totally alone in a semi-strange city, betwixt wives, no kids, not much money in the bank and with my flying career finished.

     Between the brain tumor, dear reader, and the fact my “Big 60th” is immediately around the corner, no airline or corporation will touch me with a cattle prod.  I’m washed-up as a pilot...the only thing I ever wanted to do...or was genuinely any good at.

     I carry no health insurance because, as my story unfolds, you’ll learn I was severely screwed-over by an insurance company and have never trusted them since.  All my family are deceased, and all of my current friends are as broke as I am, from living overseas.  Therefore, I haven’t any way to pay for these extremely expensive treatments I’m facing.  Frankly, I’ve literally reached the end of my journey on this planet.

     Fuck this!  I’m going to celebrate my last birthday, dear reader.

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