We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.

Bad news about Hunter.

From “The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved”…

I got off the plane around midnight and no one spoke as I crossed the dark runway of the terminal. The air was thick and hot, like wandering onto a steam bath. Inside, people hugged each other and shook hands … big grins and a whoop here and there. “By God! You old bastard! Good to see you you, boy! Damn good … and I mean it!”

In the air-conditioned lounge I met a man from Houston who said his name was something or other — “but just call me Jimbo” — and he was here to get it on. “I’m ready for anything by God! Anything at all. Yeah, what are you drinkin?” I ordered a Margarita with ice, but he wouldn’t hear of it: “Naw, naw … what the hell kind of drdink tis that for Kentucky Derby time? What’s wrong with you, boy?” He grinned and winked at the bartender. “Goddam, we gotta educate this boy. Get him some good whiskey…”

I shrugged. “Okay, a double Old Fitz on ice.” Jimbo nodded his approval.

“Look.” He tapped me on the arm to make sure I was listening. “I know this Derby crowd, I come here every year, and let me tell you one thing I’ve learned — this is no town to be giving people the impression you’re some kind of faggot. Not in public, anyway. Shit, they’ll roll you in a minute, knock you in the head and take every goddam cent you have.”

I thanked him and fitted a Marlboro into my cigarette holder…