| 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 rememberedthhem 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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