Letras
Never answer the door at 5:45 AM on a Sunday morning. Either
Somebody's too high, somebody's just died, or somebody's arrived
Who probably wants to kill you. I drove 2777 miles just to get away
From him, from the Hudson River to the Pacific Ocean, and I still
Wasn't far enough away. A low-brow dirt-bike racer from Topanga
Canyon who was hell-bent on a cross-country creepy crawl had pulled
Up, swept me off my feet, threw me into the front seat of his
Dilapidated pickup truck and headed west, gunning it at full speed
Until we hit that slum by the sea, Venice, California. He said he
Was on a rescue mission to "save" me, that he'd been sent east by a
Mutual friend who was concerned for my safety after hearing stories
About hospital stays and late-night 911 calls. Great. The sociopath
Abducts the schizophrenic out from under the psychopath in a late-
Night snatch-and-grab. But something had to give, because I was at
The breaking point: the burnt-out buildings, uncollected garbage
Broken streetlights, the endless break-ins and chronic shakedowns
And general havoc in the streets of New York City's Lower East Side
Circa 1979 were a cakewalk next to the damage being done in my own
Apartment. The alcoholic, pill-popping Irish construction worker who
I'd been holed up with for the past few months was getting kinda
Mean. Jealous, cruel, beautiful, an irresistible combination of mania
And machismo. By day, he played ironman, up at the crack of six
Sporting boxers and a wife-beater, Lucky Strike behind his
Left ear, throwing sandwiches in a bag, filling a thermos with
Black coffee and Irish whiskey, singing silly rockabilly songs
A smile dancing under his sleepy green eyes, happy to just be
Alive as he kissed me goodbye and disappeared out the door
Everything hunky-dory until the sun went down and the knives
Came out and he stumbled back from the bar half-plastered after
Banging steel girders together for another eight-hour stretch