Jimmy died and I ate his Cheetos.



There's a knock on my door. I look through the peephole. It's Jimmy. He's dressed like Johnny Cash.

"Hey Jimmy!"


I'm the new R.A. at the Tropicana Hotel. I make the weak of heart feel at home and loved. I root for the underdog. My door is almost always open.


"I'm checking out. Is it all right if I keep this stuff here for a little while?"


He has placed a black netted semi-ridged laundry basket at my feet. It's full of several new white hangers, one bag of Tom's Cheese Flavored Tortilla Chips, one bag of Cheetos, and a jelly air freshener.


"Sure, no problem." I place the stuff in the door jam.

"No, no. I'm going to be awhile," he says as he pushes the basket towards me. "Can you keep it inside?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. No problem."

"Okay, thanks. See you later."


Then, Jimmy's gone.


His stuff has been here for three days. I don't know where he is. I ate the Cheetos after coming home late from the East Bay last night emotionally strained from dealing with relationship issues. I hung my best shirt and my favorite jacket on his hangers.


I'm a cannibal.


People like him and I, we're kind of like those guys that crashed in the Andes. This place is no home. The walls may be the color of tropical fruit, but the air feels as cold as those mountains. Jimmy knew it. I know it. I think it got to him before it got to me.