The show was fair at best. A mix of new-age beatniks and hippies jammed in tight with punkers and drifters and frat boys and sorority whores and anyone else who still knew who this guy was. To me, he was a hero. To me his words carried me through the good and bad, inspiring me to put the pen to paper. He had a way of weaving the obvious together and making it conversational. He made art out of reality, I thought.

The line moved slow and I had flashbacks of the DMV. I almost bailed several times but stuck it out because I wanted to meet him and I figured if I'd waited this long, I'd might as well stick it out.

The girl in front of me was pretty and young. I spent the hour smelling her hair and it smelled good. Better than the soiled clothes I'd sweated up and dried out over the past two days. It was finally her time to meet the legend and she moved to the table apprehensively.

She was excited and flustered when she met him. The words that came from her mouth were not the ones her brain intended. She was a fan and it came out that way, unfortunately for her.

"Oh..wow..it's so great to meet you. I mean…uh…I've read all your books..they are..so…uh…you're just awesome."

He was old. Time had weathered him and not kindly. The drink had done worse. His skin was bad, his teeth, yellow and black, and his nose was a swollen, disfigured mass of purple. The booze had formed his body into lumps of flesh that appeared to spend most of their days hanging in the seated position. He smiled lecherously at the girl. She was barely twenty.

"Well now, I'm surprised someone your age even understands any of this."

She continued to smile maniacally, her eyes looking like they might fire out of her sockets at him.

"I'll tell you what. I'll let you buy me some drinks after this and explain some of this to you. About life. About art."

I thought she might explode. He leaned into her for a whisper. I leaned in to listen.

"And then I'll let you suck my dick. I bet that sounds good, eh?"

Frozen. Her body ceased all motor-function capabilities.

He leaned back, smiling twistedly, the folds of skin on his face seemed to break hundreds of blood vessels simultaneously. "Now you go wait outside for me love, ok?" he dismissed. "Next!"

Her expression was drawn, the blood flowing to her feet and through the cracks in the floor. She moved slowly out of the book store oblivious to the carnival atmosphere around her.

"Next!"

I threw the book on the table and watched her negotiate the crowd.

"What the fuck is this?"

I turned and looked at him and then the book. It was an old tattered copy of one of his early works, the first I had bought and read and re-read. It was my favorite and what got me into him.

"Yeah, " I said. "It's an old copy. First one I read. Got it when I was like fifteen." I looked at the browned and wrinkled cover. "Yeah, I've had it a while."

"No," he grinned. "I mean where is the new book? This is a book signing for the new book." He raised his arm towards the counter where a display sign read 'Oh the Humility' with a picture of him that looked pretty good. I was continually amazed by the magic of airbrush techniques.

"Yeah, well…"

"Look," he sighed. "I don't just sign anything here. You have to buy the new book. What? You gonna put this on ebay and make money off of me? Just go over there, buy one, and get back in line, son."

I felt the blood rush upwards but kept myself in check. "New book? Oh, yeah, well I don't have the money for the new one. Hell, I didn't even know there was a new one. It's like thirty bucks, right? I just spent twenty on your show. Like I said, this is the first one I…"

"No new book. No autograph. Next!"

I looked at him, my jaw grinding my teeth into powder. He appeared more loathsome than before. "You know what. Fuck you."

He leaned back in his chair, his yellow hands drumming his bloated belly, chuckling condescendingly. "Oh…so you must be a tough guy. Is that it? Hmmm? You a tough guy?"

I leaned in. "You're a dick."

He leaned in. "What, you get some tattoos, shave your head, read some obscure books, listen to some crazy messageless music and that makes you some kind of cultured badass? Get the fuck out of here before I kick you're ass in front of all these people."

I couldn't believe it. I looked at this old man. He didn't seem to have much life left in him. I'd read his words for years, influenced, inspired, and now I wanted to strangle him. "Go fuck yourself," I said calmly and turned to leave.

I heard the table flip behind me and its contents hit the floor. A glass shattered, books drummed off the ground, and and ashtray skidded to a halt against the wall.

"C'mon you punk! I've taken ten of you at a time! You ain't shit! I'll kick your ass! I'll waste ya! What? Are you some kind of pussy? C'mon pussy!"

I turned and his entire face had swollen bright purple filling all the broken capillaries to match his distorted nose. He was shaking from the grandstanding. Adrenalin tremors had put his entire body into convulsions. His knuckles were white as he squeezed his meaty paws tightly. "C'mon you bastard! Let's show these people who the real badass is!"

I turned to leave again and heard him stumble across the overturned table, falling hard while landing a soft, lifeless blow against my back. I spun quickly, watching him attempt to regain his footing while momentum swayed his body wildly and his tiny arms swung furiously in all directions, still attempting to head towards me. "I'll fucking kill you!" he spat.

My fist came sliding around quickly and landed soundly on his misshapen nose. I felt the cartilage crumble and he fell backwards hard, over the fallen table, bouncing off the chair, landing solidly on the floor. I waited for him to get up, but he didn't. The room had become dead quiet. A small, skinny many with bad hair screamed from behind the counter.

"Get out! You bastard, get out! I'm calling the cops!"

I looked at him and then the heap on the floor. I picked up my book, now stained with the foul mix of gin and ashes, ripped it in half and tossed it over the sleeping giant. The pages scattered covering most of him and the floor beneath. I turned, for the last time, and left. As I made my way past the line of shocked faces, I heard an occasional soft clap and a comment here and there.

"Yeah man. Fuck him."

"You're crazy!"

"Fuck that old man!"

I got outside and the street was dark. The street had a slight wash on it that glowed dimly. The girl who had been in front of me in line was leaning against the brick wall of the adjacent club where the performance had been. She looked catatonic, clutching her book with the fresh inscription. I walked over to her, wiping the sweat from my knuckles.

"Go home," I said. "It's all over."

She snapped into recognition and looked at me and nodded slowly, her lips trembling and eyes looking through me. She turned and disappeared into the streets.

People began to slowly file out of the book store acting oblivious to my presence. I stood there for a moment staring up at the burned out street light and the moon beyond. Another hero had failed me.

It wasn't the first and it likely wouldn't be the last. The worship of false prophets was a sickness and would always lead to disappointment. When you put too much stock in someone, in something, it's guaranteed to be a let down. Too many of these people we put on pedestals become jaded by fame, money, and self-destruction leading to their alienation, distancing themselves from who they once were. I watched the people departing and knew I wasn't alone.

And that's the way of it. The one's lacking the staying power, the ability to remain creative, they sell out or destroy themselves. They never seem to fade away gracefully. Whether it's marketing what they were, selling lesser goods under their copyrighted name, or attacking anything new because their ideas, which were once revolutionary, have dried up and run their course, it all seems to end the same: whored out, in the gutter, or sucking the wrong end of a shotgun. It's all bullshit in the end.

I rifled through my pockets finding my ticket stub from the show. I threw it in a trashcan next to the streetlight and in a a fit of anger and disappointment, kicked it hard, emptying its contents across the sidewalk. At that moment, two kids on skateboards rounded the corner, their eyes popping out of their head when they saw the obstacles. The smaller carved around the debris aggressively while the older kept his speed, slapping the board's tail hard, sailing effortlessly over the downed trashcan. They rolled to a stop past me and looked confused.

"Damn, man," said the older of the two. "What happened?"

I looked at him smiling, feeling a bit ashamed. "Nothing, bro. Nothing at all."

"Was there a riot?" asked the younger watching the people filing away, now more quickly then before.

I smiled and started down the street.

"Hey man! You got a dollar?" the older hailed me.

I turned and took a step towards them. "Why?"

They looked at each other and their glances dropped ashamedly. The older brought his gaze back to me and said "umm…well, it's just…" I waited. He found the courage. "We just haven't eaten today and we'd like to split a burger."

"Go home then."

They looked at each other. The youngest spoke up. "There's no food there. Our mom…well…she's not around much. Actually, we haven't seen her for a couple of days. She's out a lot."

I looked at them. Stained shirts and shorts. Old beaten sneakers with holes everywhere. Scars on their knees and elbows. Yet, a determination in their eyes that I remember I once had at their age. I saw me from long ago standing before me. I found a ten, my last ten, in my pocket and gave it to the eldest. I smiled proudly. "Go have a feast, bros. It's all I got."

Their eyes sparkled and their faces were flushed victoriously with joy. "Man! Thanks man! God, thanks so much!" They turned and hooted and hollered, tearing down the street at a furious pace, jumping curbs, carving transitions, attacking anything and everything in their path.

I was wrong. I had new heroes. I turned and began the long walk home.