THE RIVER RUNS TO THE SEA

I would stumble home from Matamoros, stop half-way across Gateway Bridge and vomit into the slow moving but treacherous Rio Grande River below. It is like a python meandering through heavy brush, but once it has a person in its grip, it's lights out. The coyotes tell the mojados that they can walk across the surface it's so shallow. That's true until they suddenly lose faith like St. Peter and sink into the unsuspected depths, another desperate human being reamed by the American dream.

I'm not concerned about my ashes. I have told family and friends that I won't be attending my own funeral. I'm asking all my acquaintances to follow my example. I'm sure they will have better things to do. Without going through the travail, I wish hospitals would incinerate a body after death. It would be convenient and I'm sure insurance would cover most the expense. Cremation is the only way to go. I have no desire to cope with the pain of staring at a departed love one eternally sleeping in a coffin.

But what about those ashes? I have often suggested mixing them with good weed. Maybe the buddies could invoke my spirit if the dope was decent and they had thrown back sufficient shots of tequila. Perhaps somebody would remember to bring a Ouija Board. It could be a hoot.

There is the conventional solution of going to the beach and casting them into the gulf. There is the less conventional solution of throwing them into a puddle on Main Street. It's not like I haven't had many joyous moments downtown and still like to wander to the historical heart of our woeful city and throw back cold beers at the various bars..

But if I had my druthers--does anyone use druthers anymore--I would prefer to see my ashes drifting from the halfway point--the official border between Mexico and the United States--of the Gateway Bridge--known locally as the New Bridge although I believed it was built in the 1930s--and down into the serpentine stream--at this point an undocumented tourist could almost leap from one country to the other.

What is life anyway? We are swept along by a river until we are emptied into the sea. My ashes would never complete the 25-mile journey to the gulf. My remains would disappear into the sludge below the bridge. We weren't meant for great things. When we step on an ant and hear the crunch, our own screams when our existences are crushed will be less audible.