Paris - 1982. I'm sitting in a two-story house on Rue de la Tour not far from the Eiiffel Tower. A chic neighborhood as opposed to my top-floor maid's quarters next to the 3e arrondisement prefecture or police station off Rue Reaumur. The walls have been stripped to reveal ancient timbers. Almost like they date from the time of Quasimodo.
I'm renting the 19th century flat from my girlfriend from Avignon. Ex-girlfriend. She's a junkie now like many young Parisiannes. Persia brown. 100 new francs a bag. $20 US. I'm working at the Rex, a nightclub, for the famed counterculture magazine. They have no writing gigs for me. Just work as a doorman, but that's okay. I'm writing a novel about teenage devil worship. onOn page 15. After a month. People tell people that I am a writer, a poet. white wine and writing about teenage devil worship. 30 years ago I was in Paris typing out a Brian ferry interview for a German gangster.
Jorgen.
Playboy of the West.
"Do you want anything?" He asked placing the tape recorder on the table next to my typewriter.
"Just a glass of champagne and a line of coke."
He came back with both and he said later, "That is my idea of a writer."
I was glad to not disappoint him then or now.
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