September 3, 1978 - Journal

After CBGBs Alice and I accompany Guadacanal and his frail from DC to his place. At the bar Aice drinks bourbon with Kim. Various girls flirt with me at the pinball machine. Alice is a little drunka dn I guide her along the sidewalk. We sit at the kitchen table. Alice slips onto the floor. Everyone laughs, as she says her bones have melted to butter. I lay her on a sofa and Guadacanal breaks out an ounce of blow and we huffed thick rails, almost like we have a death wish. His grilfriend joins Alice. We stay at it, then he huffs a finger thick line, coughs and flops on the floor. Not breathing. I thump on his chest. He coughs and vomits on himself. I slap his face. Nothing. Two comatose kittens on the sofa. A dying man on the floor. I lift the phone. No dial tone. Guadacanal's breathing is shallow and getting ready for a flatline. I toss him over my shoulder, grab the keys, and hurry to 1st Avenue to hail a taxi.

"Bellevue."

I throw him a twenty.

"Fast."

It's almost five. Traffic is light. Still dark. No pedestrians. Five mintues later we're in the ER. Doctors ask questions. I tell the truth. They know it before I say it. My friend is swept into a recovery bed. The doctors and nurses see ODs all the time. Guadacanal will be fine. I return to his apartment. The DC girl is gone and I wrestle Alice home to East 10th Street and tuck her into bed.

I can't sleep.

At noon Alice wakes, surprised to find herself in the apartment.

"I had a dream I was in Morgantown with my brother. I want to go to open spaces. I need the country."

It's a sunny day. I still haven't slept.

I had visited her grandmother's house there. It was haunted. Two days of rain. Water dripping inside the house. A cold damp in the middle of the summer. I had felt trapped by the weather and the mountains and hollows. Almost as if there was no where to run, but Alice had escape to the Easts Village inspried by the NY Dolls LP with them standing in glam gear before the Gem Spa.

"New York has gotten to me."

I said nothing about Guadacanal's OD. I could have been him. I doubt he had been in any condition to carry down the street.

"I want to go somewhere."

"It's Labor Day weekend." eevryone in New York is leaving the city, but us and everyone we know. All I want is a hot dog from a BBQ. Instead outside the streets are steamy and garbage line the sidewalks, mostly because there are not enough trashmen, since the President told the city to go fuck itself two years ago adn the sanitation workers went on strike to protest the layoffs. It was either money for the police or trash. The police won out. Torist remark on the swirling trash. The cops raid drug dens. None of the middle class feel safe. I'm not scared and Alice is brave. This is our city. Nothing is going to get better soon. But swe aren't asking for better.