P.H. Madore is an associate at Girls with Insurance, a co-editor at dispatch litareview, a podcaster, and generally of ill-repute. Find him here.

The Stories of Men Whose Lives Are Over (April 20, 2011. Issue 27.)

We met as I sat on the dock flicking my last dimes into the ocean, daydreaming a utopia of surfing, steak, and expensive beer. You plunked beside me, lit a cigar, and told the story of your rise to riches. Hours passed without interjections.

I chewed Big Red and offered my last stick to you. Seizing it, you asked what was I doing there.

Planning to drown myself, I explained, because I was too lazy to dig myself out of the mess I'd tilled. You convinced me I was joking and produced your checkbook. You asked me how much money I made the previous year, as if it was routine, inscribed exactly double what I claimed, and stood up to leave.

"Wait!" I shouted, frantic. "What now?"

"Now do something with yourself besides listening patiently to the stories of men whose lives are over," you said. "Tell this story to someone at the end of your life―better yet, tell it sooner. Be a writer or a singer, kid. Everyone wants to be a writer, right?"

Right.