Roy was my best friend the summer I lived in Dallas, when I was 19. He was a drunk, in his sixties, a cabby, and an Ayn Rand fanatic. I had bad insomnia and lived alone in an old truckers dormitory in the back lot of a radiator repair shop in the industrial area, not far from Deep Ellum. I was only two years out from the accident and had just left a six month meth addiction. And I got very lonely. I cried a lot in those days. It’s the summer I discovered masturbating (I’d already had a baby and 12 lovers). And I could call Roy anytime I wanted and he would come and pick me up and I could drive around with him, him drunk, me lonely, and he would regale me with stories of his life and hard-sell me on Ayn Rand while he collected his fares. He was quite into The Fountainhead. I didn’t know anything about anything and so didn’t know that this should be a red flag. He was my best friend. I miss Roy sometimes, oddly. Randomly.