to be a somebody

To be a somebody  When we were young, we lived a café life and often spoke about writing a novel, but mostly we endlessly spoke about other  writers, those how were heavy drinkers we tried to emulate. Naturally, no one understood  our pain  of being talented  Alfred, my friend and fellow drinker, went to Paris to write, he got the clap came home and wore a French beret  and A Raincoat got a poem published in the local paper, forever referred to as a Frenchy  His work, as an artist, was done, he rested  on his laurel, got a job as a clerk at an agency selling Mallorca holidays. when we met up, it was not the same  he was not as happy as he pretended to be jumped out of a window from a second  story house landed awkwardly, limped home to his aging mother, his struggle was not art but to come to terms with him being gay I drew the curtain of the window of art  When Alfred later committed  suicide with a bathroom towel and a doorknob  I sold my café, went to live in North Spain married a local girl who had a flock of  sheep and her own house and settled as  a sheepherder. she told people I was a famous writer to  give herself air and graces, not that  I minded no one around here read a book except perhaps the bible