The Commodore

    He was menacingly tall, with a jaunty captain’s cap on his head. And his ice-cold blue eyes chilled you to the soul. But he easily made friends in the bar at the end of the world.

    When he laughed - especially after copious dirty jokes - he had the thunder of Pan. 

    He bellowed cigarette smoke outside on the patio, and made a god-almighty sound during a football game. He asked for money often, which went to cigarettes and beer and jager shots. He was desperately poor, though told of past riches. 

    His name was forgotten a long time ago, so he had one given to him: the Commodore. He was a shocking man when he wanted to be, and was more shocking when he didn’t mean to be. 

    And when he died in that Airstream trailer he rented on a plot of land off of Camino del Sur, he was given a dignified send off by his few friends and me.