1987
I AM ON This bed in a cheap motel listening to the growl
of the Gulf. My cameras remain in their silvery Halliburton
case. I have hung the shirts and jeans in the closet. On the
wall there is a fading photograph of the Blue Angels flying in
tight formation over Pensacola. There is no room service and
I am hungry, but I don t care to move. It is a week now since
my third wife left me, and I am 1,536 miles from home.
It was easy to pack my bags and drive down here, to the
places l had not seen in more than thirty years. I was weary
of many things: New York and the people I knew there.
Photography. Myself. We were in a time of plague. All around
me people were dying, as a fierce and murderous virus spread
through their blood and destroyed all those immune systems
that had made them so briefly human. Each day s newspaper
carried the names of the previous day s body count. I knew
some of them. Their names filled my head as I remembered
thhem i~life and tried to imagine theirpainful final days, hut
after a few hours they just became part of the blur.
In restaurants with my wife, Rose, in the final weeks, I
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