Ernest

Every morning after my breakfast, I take the streetcar down St. Charles Avenue just to visit you at the bank.

This daily routine permanently wedged itself into my life the day I shuffled into the Whitney Bank lobby and was greeted by a teller with a smile that reminded me of a 1950s toothpaste ad. I was there to put something in my safety deposit box and spent the previous evening agonizing over the event, but I felt the anxiety trickle away when you looked into my eyes and asked, “How can I help you today, sir?”

You are a sophomore at Tulane University — studying Broadcast Journalism with a minor in English. You grew up in Castor, Louisiana with your mother and three younger sisters. At Castor High, you were a decorated student athlete who carried his lacrosse team to three consecutive state championships. Outside of school, you were a devoted boyfriend to the most beautiful girl in Bienville Parish. And on the day you were accepted into Tulane, your mother cried inconsolably.

I know all of this because you told me so.

Over the past year, I’ve told you about myself, too. You know that I grew up on a pecan farm in Clanton, Alabama and that I received my draft card on my birthday. You know that I returned from the service and settled in New Orleans, where I founded the company that eventually made me a wealthy man. You know that I spent my first day of retirement at the New Orleans World’s Fair in 1984. You know that my wife passed away shorty after the storm and that I’ve been very lonely ever since. You know that I enjoy our visits and that’s why I return to the bank every morning after breakfast — just to spend a few minutes with you.

But there’s something you don’t know: I’ve only got a few months to live, and I’d love to share them with you.

This may come as a shock, but I’ve thought very carefully about this proposal and I believe it’s the one thing that would make my final days worth living.

What I’m asking is that you be with me. Quit your job, take some time off school, and move into my home for the duration of my life. Accompany me on a trip here or there and see wonderful parts of the world. Share my bed and allow me to pleasure you, if you’d be inclined. And in exchange, you will be named my sole beneficiary after my passing — collecting everything I’ve amassed in a lifetime. To me, this is a last-ditch effort to be with someone I care for before I succumb to brain cancer. To you, this is an opportunity to have whatever life you want after I’m gone. Take care of you family. Go anywhere. Buy anything. All I’m asking for is your time and your intimacy.

Right now, I’ve never been more nervous or embarrassed.

I can’t imagine what you think of me.

The truth is, I’ve spent my entire life being a partial version of myself. But I’ve come to love everything about you — even though you’re a straight boy from Castor — and I’m finally ready to be the person God intended me to be. I know this is a long shot, but I really want you think hard about my offer.

No one ever tells you what the end of your life feels like. But to me, every day feels like I’m bound and locked inside the trunk of a car, waiting to plunge into the river. But for a few moments every day, the trunk opens and I can see the sky.

You said you always wanted to visit Southern California, right? Well, we can leave tomorrow! On the plane, I want to hear more about that summer you worked as a 4H Camp counselor. Tell me everything. Let’s have drinks at the Del Coronado and talk about everything. We could watch the sunset and I’ll buy you sunglasses so you won’t have to squint. After I go to sleep, you can go wherever you want. But while we’re in bed, hold me and whisper, “I love you.” You don’t even have to mean it. Just say it into the air around my ear and maybe I’ll hear it before drifting off.

Whatever your answer, I want you to know that you are funny. And you are very, very kind. And you have the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. And on your off-days, my driver still takes me to the bank, even though I know I won’t find you. He lets the car idle while I gaze into the lobby — imagining you walking across the floor to fetch some coffee or deliver a message.

Right now, the trunk is closed and my hands are feet are bound. Very soon, the water will come rushing in and I’ll fight for air. And the water will win, like it always does.

But before that, let me see the sky one last time.

After that, I'll be ready.