Part 4 (1/2)

He got early release, and when I finally got out, he was waiting in a Pinto, some speed, a six of Miller (ice cold), and a wedge, said, ”Some walking 'round bills.”

A buddy. Am I right or am I right? We had one alb.u.m in the joint, belonged to Jimmy, Patti Smith's Horses Horses. f.u.c.k, goes back thirty years. How old is that?

Thing is, I flat out loved it, still do. The reason why, in this tomb hotel room, I have the new one, Trampin Trampin.

f.u.c.kin' blinder.

Dunno is it cos Jimmy's dead, or the whole screwed-up mess, but the G.o.dd.a.m.n songs speak to me.

You're on the zillionth floor of the Airport Marriott, with the sole view being the runways, planes moving 24/7, you better have something talk to you. I'm chugging Jack D., singing along to ”Mother Rose.”

And is this weird or what, I sound like Roy Orbison. My mom, when she wasn't whining along to Irish rebel ballads, would play Roy endlessly.

Man, I don't know politics from s.h.i.+nola, but Radio Baghdad, hearing that, watching CNN and the body count, I'm weeping like a baby. Like what? Some kind of loser?

Loser? Me?

Hey, s.h.i.+thead, look in the corner, see that hill of c.o.ke, the bag of Franklins? Who's losing?

My mom, her wish was to get back to Ireland, walk the streets of Galway, have oysters near the Spanish Arch, do a last jig in the Quays, but money, yeah, never put it together. So I'm, like, gonna make the pilgrimage for her-why I'm at the airport, got the doc.u.ments, ticket, the whole nine.

Only worry is the beer isn't cold there. How weird is that? But hey, I'll drink Jameson. A few of those suckers, I might dance a jig my own self.

I rang a guy to offload the c.o.ke. Can't really bring that s.h.i.+t to Ireland, and I'm worried he might sell me out, but we've done business before so had to tell him where I'm at, thinking maybe that was stupid, but I wasn't focusing real hard when I dropped the dime.

Gotta get my s.h.i.+t together.

So I jump in the shower, blasting in the scald position, and I freeze. A knock at the door.

The Sig is where?

Think, f.u.c.k.

Another knock. Louder. Insistent.

And I'm stumbling outta the shower, hit my knee against the sink, that mother hurts, hobble to the bed, grab the Sig from under the pillow, shout, ”With you in a sec.”

Slide the rack, my voice coming out croaked, sounding like, ”Wiv y'all.” Texas, right?

I look through the peephole, and it's the maid, f.u.c.kin' room service. I shout, ”I'm good, muchas gracias muchas gracias.”

Hear, ”De nada.”

And the trolley moving on, oil those G.o.dd.a.m.n wheels. My body is leaking sweat, rivulets down my chest, back, thinking, Gotta...get . .. straight. Gotta...get . .. straight.

Rest of the day is purple haze, must have ordered some food as I came to on the floor. It's dark, the only light coming from the runway, throwing an off/on flicker across the wall.

Half a turkey hero is on the floor, close to my mouth, smothered in mayo. The Sig is in my right hand and, yeah, my nose is pumping blood again.

The carpet is, like, f.u.c.ked.

I have clothes on, 501's, and, naturally, a white T with the bloodstained logo.

Redemption Road.

Almost illegible, it's stuck to my chest.

I get to my feet, stagger a bit, so do a quick hit of the snow to straighten out, no biggie. I'm sitting on the bed, waiting for the rush, the phone rings, I pick up, figuring reception.

A voice goes, ”You're dead, sucker.”

Things to do in Houston when you're dead.

I slam it down, hurting the palm of my hand.

I'm waiting. Let 'em come. I'm, like, ready...ready-ish. I'd play Patti but I'm listening to every sound, for every sound...a 747 about to take off...

Wonder where that's bound?

Kurt Hegre

DONNELL ALEXANDER smoked crack for about six weeks in 1985, before the drug's warning labels were printed. When his buddies started p.a.w.ning their s.h.i.+t just to get another hit, dude figured that scene was not his. In 2003, Crown published his memoir, smoked crack for about six weeks in 1985, before the drug's warning labels were printed. When his buddies started p.a.w.ning their s.h.i.+t just to get another hit, dude figured that scene was not his. In 2003, Crown published his memoir, Ghetto Celebrity. Ghetto Celebrity.

beneficent diversions from the crackdkins diet

by donnell alexander

She was the most accomplished person in Jerome's life. Something central to her, he could not trust. Down and out, Jerome couldn't fathom the chasm between Elaine's refined l.u.s.t and his own hunger.

His lover held a doctorate in sociology and an undergrad minor in statistics. Daughter of a minor painter mom and a doc.u.mentary editor old boy, the woman's sense of applied visual art was not something he could argue with-even as an artist, one of almost feral ambition.

That animal appet.i.te would ultimately win out, Elaine told him time and again. It would save him from the insinuating downward tug. ”Follow that thaturge,” she said, ”and you'll be free in no time...It will feel like nothing.”

Usually she had just swallowed his s.e.m.e.n, and before that demanded ”baptism of the throat”-her words. Then she forecast. Elaine also offered her most explicit descriptions of the fas.h.i.+on in which he would recover.

She would wipe her chin clean of-again, her words-the ”gravy,” his silver, silky gravy.

And next she'd rise and take Jerome by the shoulders, tap his chin up so that their eyes met, and swiftly paint a picture with words, numbers, and theory. Taken as a whole, they said, ”It's going to be all right. I swear it will be all right.”

He hardly ever ate because Jerome was on what he called the Crackdkins Diet. The habit had brought about an effortless-necessary, frankly-yet undesired weight loss. For Jerome's first date with Elaine-downtown, off Ludlow Street-he forced himself to consume four pieces of sus.h.i.+.