AVAILABLE CREDIT

My last lamb-chop sizzles in the uneven skillet, it’s small and pathetic, shriveling as it cooks amid the oil.

Through the window trees bow to a vicious, howling wind, the mountains are snowy in the distance, and the lake is a dark blue bucket of broken glass, choppy, churning against the jagged rocks that line the shore.

The meat finishes cooking and I drop it on a plate beside a hunk of bread and a banana—the last supper—I don’t know where I’m staying tonight, I’m out of money and I’m out of food.

My available credit is $4.47—enough for a cup of coffee.

I arrived in Te Anau yesterday, almost broke, with my fingers crossed, waiting for Capitol One to acknowledge the last few payments I’d made.

It’s cold here—freezing actually—at the mouth of the great glacier-carved Fiordlands, gateway to Milford Sound and it’s brethren, towering unimaginable beauty, day-walks, etc.

I spent an hour this morning, outside, curled in a nook against the wind—fingertips frozen, head congested, nose running—waiting desperately—phone-calling via Skype—on hold—laptop open, listening to that damn smooth jazz playback and waiting for the resounding joy of a “click and hello” that never came.

I lost reception—miserable beast.

I’m broke, busted—standing at the bank, starring at the grossly freckled clerk as she unscrews her mouth and fires: yup, you’re basically screwed.

Not matter the mass sums of sweet paper dough I have, stacked and deposited, at home—I’m all of the sudden impoverished.

Reality doesn’t sink in until I find myself eyeballing phone booths as potential campsites, and my guts start to ache.

Here I am—a sitting duck, spiraling toward an inevitable waterfall.

At least I have enough for a cup of coffee.