The Ticket That Exploded. William S. Burroughs

watched my hand and checked the denomination of the note I was slipping under the frayed green blotter.

      He picked up the passport and leafed through it. “Oh yes . . here is the date of entry . . Yes everything quite in order . . your passport señor . .”

      “Genial” stood there with the passport in his hand . . “Come along ‘Genial.’” I put a hand under his arm and led him out onto the road.

      “Adiós señores.”

      “Adiós.”

      I guided “Genial” with one hand under an elbow. He weighed no more than his clothes. We sat down under a tree worn smooth by others who sat there before or after time switched the tracks through a field of little white flowers by the ruined signal tower. We remember the days as long procession of the secret police always everywhere in different form. Outside Guayaquil sat on a river bank and saw a big lizard cross the mud flats dotted with melon rind thrown from passing canoes. It was the end of the line. My death across his face faded through the soccer scores the urinal and the bicycle races . . faded into Iam’s face at the Green Inn looking across the valley.