Hypothetical

June 21, 1999

On the last summer solstice of the twentieth century, Gale Jones was not the man he hoped to be. I know, for I was there, living inside his head, seeing the streets he walked in Montreal, feeling his urge to write and earn his name. I smoked a Belmont — inhale, hold, exhale — and crossed the street, heading back to a small un et demi in the McGill Ghetto. I typed on a Compaq til out of nicotine and inspiration, and brought a Walkman to bed at sunset. “Rewind”, “Play” — I fell asleep to an Elgar art song, and dreamed of an evening seven years ago.