Milt had come to Hollywood from Detroit in the fifties, spent a year under contract with Paramount…but wound up hosting game shows, variety hours, and local sportscasts. When he met Reg in the late 1970’s, Milt took the dashing Brit under his wing. “How are you feeling, Milt?”
“Like death warmed over.”
“Yes?”
Milt coughs, then, hoarsely: “But mostly like death.”
“And how does dying feel, old friend?”
“Lonely.”
The headlights illumine only several yards in front of the small car. Dim, dusty blacktop en route to someplace out there…like the surface of Mars, this place.
The vehicle stops, parks, lights snap off and the surrounds are as dark as pitch. Car doors open, feet scuffle, stand, hike. Onward, upwards.
They three travelers do not speak. It is as if they all know why they are here and where they are going. And after a substantial walk, they have arrived.
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