Wednesday, September 19, 2018

I was hanging out in a bar downtown with G. C. and my old hometown friend B. S., who grew testy and obnoxious. At one point he grabbed my arm and examined the crook of my elbow, claiming to see needle tracks. There were indeed little holes there that seemed to go past the sinew and all the way to the other side. I protested angrily, saying maybe at one time that was true, but not anymore. B. had a second mouth at the level of his chin, a wide, grimacing maw full of sharp little teeth.

The bar was one of those old ones that claims to be the first in New York City. G. C. said it’s funny, there’s a different address on the door than the actual address. I said it’s because 170 years ago—I thought carefully before choosing this number—no one gave a fuck what number they were at or what street they were on.