Alice and I are stuck in the East Village. No one has invited us anywhere. The telephone has not hung with any invitations. Alice checked it to make sure it was on.
There is a dial tone.
I turn on the fan and the black and white TV in the living room. It's warm, but not hot. I sk Alice, if she wants to go to Coney Island. She shakes her head and sits next to me. I want to ask, if she wants to have sex, but she's still recovering from her bourbon bash two nights ago, spending all yesterday puking. I give her giner ale.
"I don't like ginger ale."
"No one does, but puke taste better when it's part ginger ale."
The TV reports no fatalities at the Speedway bombing during the Indianapolis 500, but hundreds of people are crashing across America. Over two hundred deeda already. I have survived two totals. One in a VW at 17 adn another in a Boston Checker Cab in 1976. But more than a few sideswipes and fender benders. Driving drunk was my sin and a good reason to move to New York. I haven't touched a wheel since our trip to West Virginia. I was a careless driver in the city, but an ace on the highway, although in June 1974 driving cross-counttry with Andy Korfeld, I fell asleep at the wheel of a For Torino stationwagon in the dead of the night. Iowa. Skating across the meridian strip. I righted the car bakc onto the Interstate and relingquished the driver position, but I wish I was on the hgihway somewhere out west. Alone or with Alice with her hard on my lap.
I years before I succumbed to the call of the road and hitchhiked far from where I started. East West, north, rarely south.
Today I'm trapped here and pulled Alice closer. She knows what that means and rubs my cock. I know she hopes fucking will clear her head. I aim to serve and we fuck until she cums twice. I fake mine.
Photo by Peter Bennett.
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