interracial children but then when he was around 70, relented, had an affair with a different black woman, of which I was the product; he died when I was 10, I was raised in LA by my mother, still communicated with her. And I always savored the opportunity to get together to share my thoughts and clear my head. All this Kyle knew because little by little, over countless hours of conversation, I had told him everything.
        I, on the other hand, knew that Kyle, the massive, lumbering one, always wore a befuddled demeanor, lived alone in a downtown apartment, worked for the state, had never had a legitimate relationship with a woman aside from prostitutes and a single one-night stand with a co-worker he’d become obsessed with to the point she took out a restraining order and he was transferred to another part of the bureaucracy; he’d been in the navy and almost busted for drugs because his superior overheard him telling another sailor about getting high with a hooker but somehow the blood results came back negative; he was frequently angry, hated Sacramento, but also hated Redding where he grew up, resented his father and brother, resented most people he’d ever known, but somehow was a sensitive and insightful person, liked literature and art and analyzed all matters thoughtfully; had vast potential but was his own worst enemy, always undermined himself, had long self-medicated with crack which he bought from prostitutes, and beer too, lots and lots of beer, like two six-packs a whack, though he’d go weeks dry, then fall off the wagon big-time and drink-and-dial, which was quickly apparent because his speech would be no longer halting and deliberate, but smooth and whimsical and he’d start with, “I’ve been drinkin’,” then chuckle to himself and speak boldly and brashly, amused by his own wit; that he often contemplated moving to New York or Florida or LA, but then it never happened and he’d bleakly resume the drudgery he hated; though he made an adequate salary, was not a good money manager, was always in debt, would sometimes get out of debt, then slip back into credit card frenzy which he’d pay off in the smallest installments, accruing the highest interest; that he was a talented artist, produced remarkably accomplished oils, water colors, pen and inks, and ceramics, but destroyed many on a lark, only a few remaining, the only real assets he possessed. These things I knew because during countless hours at coffee shops, he had shared every ugly detail.
        We hadn’t visited now in two months, canceling or postponing four times. The effortless give and take had turned tense, both of us suspicious and nit-picking. I told myself I was probably being too sensitive here but remained rankled that a long-trusted friend had turned on me, deigned to find fault where there had always been comfort, consensus and trust.
        The source of the acrimony can be traced to two months earlier