One of the guys I knew in Monroe died a few nights back, after a couple weeks in the ICU after some terrible stuff from undiagnosed cancer in his colon. It happened fast.

In the three years I was there I may have only talked with him twenty times, but he made an impression on me. He was a small guy, intense and wired, with sharp, intelligent eyes. There didn't seem to be anybody who didn't know him. He was a painter--the local catholic church hired him to paint their ceiling with clouds and blue sky. He had the most fearsomely huge german shepherd that drove around in the station wagon with him. He told elaborate, sinister stories about the government in his bare feet, smoking handrolled cigarettes.

We always talked about going camping out on his land.