Larry was 57, but looked 75. His face was hard and worn, showing years of abuse. He walked with a pathetic limp and talked with a smoker's growl. Alan was affable, but forgettable.

I sat on the bed of death and looked around for awhile. I glanced over to my new roomie's bedside table and noticed a book about Ronald Reagan. You've got to be kidding me. I am being punished, deservedly, I suppose. I put my head in my hands and sighed, wallowing in my own self-pity.

The perfect son, the "All American Boy," as they would say, the guy with a seemingly awesome life, was now fully exposed with all the cracks and imperfections on his shiny veneer. It was almost liberating to show verisimilitude in my life performance, for once.

I stayed on the bed for a long while, writing in my journal and reading inspirational crap.

My roommates returned a couple hours later. Larry took off his clothes to get ready for bed. Not surprisingly, he was wearing tightie-whities, only they were no longer white -- they had a dirty grey hue to them. Gross. Just look away.

I thought it a good idea to get to know the guy sleeping right next to me, which was very unusual since I wasn't fucking him. He told me all about his hard life. He's married, the father of 5 girls, a very wealthy executive vice president of a Fortune 500 company, a raging alcoholic with an affection for cocaine and Valium. He told me he would be admitted to a hospital in a couple days for chest surgery.

"Why?"
"I got shot in Vietnam and it's caused all sorts of problems around my heart."
"Shot?"
"Yeah, some gook shot me, missed my heart by a centimeter. I turned around and this 12 year-old gook girl put a bullet in my chest. I still managed to squeeze out 5 rounds in her fuckin' face. Bitch. She was kinda hot too."
Um, security, I'd like to switch rooms, pronto.

I knew I wasn't going to sleep. I went down to the nurse's station and requested a sleeping pill. "I'm sorry, we can't give you anything without the doctor's permission, and he won't be in until tomorrow morning."

I went back to my room, defeated. Larry asked, "What's wrong?" "I can't sleep."

He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. "Come here." I followed him in. He closed the door and reached into his toiletry bag by the sink and pulled out a light blue pill. Great, my first night here and I'm already breaking the rules. "What is it?" "It's contraband." "I get that, but what kind?" "It's a Tylenol PM. Shhhh, don't tell no body, 'kay? It's our little secret. Let me know if you need any more." The bathroom was now our very own speakeasy.

We went to bed around 10pm every night thereafter. I would sit in my bed and journal and he would read his Reagan book, but mostly we would just talk. After each talk, I would write down what we discussed. I knew I had to document this shit.

I was fascinated by his life; it was so different from mine, yet we ended up in the same place. He would tell me stories of his miserable marriage, his days in Vietnam, his successes in business, and his numerous DUIs. He crashed his third company car, which resulted in his present situation.

I was very inquisitive with him, but one night he turned the tables:

"So you're a fag?"
"I suppose. And you're a breeder?"
"Well, I do like the pussy."
"Apparently. You have 5 kids."
"Why do you like dick?"
"The same reason you like pussy."
"Yeah, but two dicks can't make babies."
"Well, with people like you overpopulating the planet, consider gay people to be God's way of quantity control."
"You're not attracted to me, are you?"
"No offense, but I find you repulsive."
"Cocksucker!"
"Uh-huh."

This kind of banter occurred frequently but culminated in the following exchange:

"I don't know how you could like a guy's butt. Do you know what comes out of that?"
"Blood, urine, yeast infections, babies, afterbirth and queefs come out of vaginas. It's all relative, innit? Plus, I'm sure you've fantasized or even done a woman up the butt, hypocrite."

He never brought it up again.

I would often see him around the campus, outside smoking a cigarette. He would yell, "Teeeeeeeeee Jaaaaaaaaaay, whazzup, buddy?" I would pat him on his back, causing him to cough, and say, "Stop smoking." "Fuck you."

I was eventually moved out of his room into a better residence, but he would always ask me to sit with him outside, while he smoked, to chat. Some stories were tame, like the time he was doing business with the first guy who manufactured tilapia fish in the US, a decade ago. "It was in Chicago. They had Olympic sized pools filled with them. They were basically made in a lab, a cross between a catfish and another type I can't remember the name of."

Other stories were far more disturbing. Some guys on campus told me to ask him about the "incident" at the bar, so I did.

"I don't like to talk about this, but I'll tell you."

In Vietnam, he parachuted with a bunch of other men into some village. They all took refuge at a local bar that was filled with green berets. They were all getting hammered, when a man wearing a long trenchcoat entered. The man walked over to another man sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. He crept up behind him and took out a long machete hidden in his coat. He raised up the machete and with one hard slice, cut the guy's head off. The head went flying onto the floor, while his body stayed in the chair for about 20 seconds, blood spurting all over everyone. People were screaming and running. The murderer was tackled and arrested. Apparently, the beheaded man slept with guy's wife. "Them green berets are fucking crazy," he would say. "I'll never forget the image of the guy's body, sitting on that stool, without a head." I wasn't sure how to respond to this. So, how 'bout that Taylor Hicks winning American Idol?!?

"Have you ever gone into therapy to deal with all this?"
"Yeah, I did when I first got back. Haven't been in awhile."
"I'm not sure what I would do if I witnessed the shit you've seen."
"You develop you're own coping mechanisms, most of 'em aren't healthy. Stress can be a motherfucker. You're lucky you're taking care of your shit at a young age, instead of waiting, like me, to deal with your demons when you're an old man. Consider this a blessing, kid."
"Yeah, but my stress is nowhere near your level; in fact, I'm embarrassed by my silly life drama."
"It's all relative, innit?"

Larry was almost done with his stay; he was leaving the next day. Before the entire campus, he said his thank yous and hopes for the future. He was just about done, when he paused, looked towards me and said, "And I'd like to thank TJ for being the best roommate a guy could hope for." This caught me off guard. I smiled and got all shy and a little teary.

As he walked back to his seat, I stood up and patted him on the back. He coughed.

The next morning, we sat outside on the bench one last time. He was waiting for his wife to pick him up, his bags packed by his side.

As he lit up his cigarette, he said, "Look around at all these fuck-ups. But at least they're willing to admit their flaws and actually do something about it. Most people don't do anything and just complain about how unhappy they are or lie about it. Every single person has demons of some sort -- whether it's drugs, anger, food, shopping, money, work, sex, body image, religion, depression, love, blah, blah. It's just not always visible to the naked eye, but it will rear its ugly head eventually. It'll get you. And if you don't know how to cope, it'll knock you on your ass. Everyone should be able to check out for a month to take care of their issues; it should be required."

I felt an odd sense of pride for a moment; I knew I had done the right thing. Then I thought, am I in a Lifetime movie of the week starring Ted Danson?

"We won't see any of these people again. We'll talk about keeping in touch, but we won't. And that's fine. We all have our own lives, our own shit to deal with. And most of these people will be back anyway.

"That said, here's my card if you ever want to talk. Do with it what you will. It's there if you ever need me. But I think you'll be just fine." I put it in my pocket, knowing I would never look at it again.

His wife arrived. We stood up and hugged. I managed to squeeze out one more cough from him. "Stop smoking." "Fuck you."

I walked away, but turned around to ask one last question, as he was loading his bags in the car.

"Hey Larry, do you think you'll ever be back here?"

"Yep."