Fog (autofiction)

 

I

 

 

   On a plane I pissed off two Arabs who wanted to sit next to each other and so to throw me out of my place next to the window. In revenge they blown up WTC some time later. I got out of the subway at seventy second street. Yellow cubs were flying between skylines. From a public phone I made Natalie know where I was. She came immediately. Walking, we were slowly reaching a colossal tower made out of red bricks, right in the middle of Manhattan. We were just passing next to an old Buick, blue-white color, with great amount of nickel. I reached out my hand and hide it in my pocket.

   A Cuban door man saluted us in a lobby. Leather couches, palm trees. Natalie's room was ten foots long, six length. It was a sort of a servant's room. A phenomena what was  being shown in Eastern Europe as an example of archaic injustice and underdevelopment of capitalism. Natalie didn't seem to fill unlucky however. She showed me her brand new music player, and black high shoes she wear in Tonic Club every day off. She was a baby sitter. An object of her care was a ten years old girl Stephanie. She was taking her school, riding her back, feeding her (but not with her own boobs), so on things. Some earned money she was sending back Poland for her not very able family. Stephanie’s mother was a lawyer. She worked for Chanel New York's representation. Stephanie was an adopted child, she came from Latin America.

   The lady was outside so Natalie could listen to her favorite Plastic Bag as loud as she wished. It must be said, she was following the fun club roles with devotion. Clothed all black, a perverse carmine lipstick, sadomasochist chains and other details.

   “Want some Coca?” she asked me.

   I asked for some water. I had a bit of an anti-globalist preparation thought. 

   “You can take it,” she said, seeing me watching a bit rusty Jules Caesar by William Shakespeare, the only visible intellectual product in this apartment. A story of the guy who was fucked up by all his friends. Sort of the classic version of The Great Gatsby.  

   “That's great, thank you,” I said, “what do You think

I could do here?”

   “Well son, maybe you should see some bars on Broadway. One of my friends stayed here this summer. She was a dish washer.”

   “Any other vantages?” I asked.

   “You can obviously walk out dogs. Collect their sheets into plastic bags darling.”

   “Relay? You do it this way here?!”

   “What you think asshole, you're in the center of the planet. Search in the Village Voice.”

   “Village Voice? Isn't it that famous magazine that publicized all that bullshit that made Jerzy Kosinski took an overdose of barbiturates and put a plastic bag on his head in a bath?”

   “Maybe, we're specialized in plastic industry as you can see.”   

 

   The house where Natalie installed me was already occupied by her younger sister and one friend. Veronica was sixteen and an administrator's of the house lover. Her sacrifice guaranteed us
a shelter. The friend, Otocki, Fine Arts Academy graduate student, had no apparent complexes. With a proud he demonstrated us rhythmical sequences of some abstract water plants that his prints was imagining. He took an aspirin and put it in a bottle of Budweiser.

   “Did you know Bayer inc. was testing their products on Auschwitz prisoners?” I asked.

   “O yes..? That's why they became such a giants,” he enjoined his own joke.  

 

   Next day I moved to the house of Natalie's boy friend's uncles. Good Manhattan neighborhood. Victorian's style  apartment. This black American advocate was a scatter most of all. He was just kicked out of his job. In the sleeping room, on a wall, over his bed, fluorescent stars were shining. In a bathroom a pear soap.

   Mean while Natalie made me an appointment with George, another friend of her. He owned a room near Central Park. He was in his 40, but he seemed twenty. Colombian, with Sylvester Stallone English Cocker Spaniel eyes. He was a construction worker. It was an evening. We got into his Japanese sedan. He used to use it to transport his building materials. He stopped for a while to consume some sausages with ketchup and French fries in a cheap restaurant. Then we followed to his apartment, 70'th street. Over the couch there was a postmodern variation of Van Gogh's sun flowers. He saw I had a guitar with me. He became even more friendly.

   “I ride a bicycle, you know. Everyone has his cup o tea. I've met my actual girlfriend on a tour. Take your chance with your guitar you too man.”

   Finally we got to my new house. He seemed afraid to go upstairs. I wondered why. He should had shown me my room.
I climbed the stairs. A small man opened.

   “Tell George, Gustavo wants his money!”, he said.

   His mother stopped him to kill me. It was another Colombian guy. Older.  With a mustache.  He seemed one of those coup d’état Latin American specialists. Gustavo, that was his name, loved to watch soccer. There was a huge Colombian flag over his bed. Next to his room there was my one. Half of the space was occupied by a bed. The rest for 

a TV set. I turned on air condition installed in the only window.
I looked outside. Nothing just walls, red bricks. I went outside to the store. I got a sausage and fries. There was 

a yellow cub in front of the store, Robert De Niro inside of it.

 

  In the afternoon I met Natalie again in the the Central Park. We passed John Lennon's memorial. An old hippie was riding a bike. He was coming back from Woodstock that finished 30 years ago. We found a free bank.

   “Where you from kids?”, a typical well dressed, white shirt guy asked us. 

   “Green Point.”

   “Ah yes? Do you want to hear a joke?”

   “We're dying of curiosity.”

   “OK. Here it is! A press conference. Three teams of astronauts. US starts. “Well, we go to the Mars”, they say. “Wow! That's gorgeous”, the crowd applause. Then the Chinese. “We are going to the Moon.” “Not bed. How about you, Polish?” “We are going to the Sun”, they're answering proudly. “Are you crazy? You are going to burn!” “No”, they're replaying, “we are going at night,”.

   “That's awesome man,” I said. “How about this. Every Sunday
a bunch of amatory literates gather together. The first one begins with relation of the progress of his work: 'Well, I wrote a science fiction story.' 'Good', someone answers. Then another turn comes: 'I'm working on a melodrama.' 'OK. How about you man?', they're asking the last one. 'Well', he says 'I imagined
a city...' 'Yes..? Go ahead' 'Then... some people, I put them there, inside.' 'Go on man..! Go on talking.' 'Nothing special fellows, just here I am.'”

 

 

II

 

 

      Sort of a cowboy's place it was. In the center of the main room there was a square buffet. Behind of  it a hilarious boy was juggling with bottles, or playing with water pistols with the chief of waiters, black American from Buffalo, let us call him Bill. He used to say, that Bill I mean:

   “I play guitar. I'm about to connect my carrier with this subject.”

   I didn't laugh straight in his face just because of my kindness. He suited to this whole damn bar like a toilet paper to an ass in fact. Every morning, booming the floor, that fat slim boy was singing his joyful song.

   “I like, what I do, and I do it well,” he was assuring me. “And here you see an electronic computer. Each waiter, in each corner of this place, has his own equipment of that sort. The red sensor square is a hot dog, a blue one

– a hamburger. Here we have ginger, and here, see.., Cola light, light, light..! With three times calories diminished. All those information, generated in this panel, goes right through supersonic underground cave, straight to the kitchen. There, our Mexican mommy waits. And God saves you brother from any mistake! Capito? He, he, he... Remember , if you wish to pass the winter with us, you neeeeed to be fast! Power man, I repeat, power. O.K.?”

   He put his hand on my shoulder. Outside the window glass
a tired hippie passed. He stopped, since he noticed the advertisement: “help need”. Obviously he had no chance, and Bill, with a warm smile, send him to hell.

   Tracy was French originally. With her blond hairs she reminded an authentic beech from New Orlean. I felt in love with her immediately. I assured her I have French roots, and only my grand grand father arrived Poland, coming back from Russian expedition with Napoleon. He didn't liked it, that place, anyway. Tracy didn't like it either, my impure blood, since she was considering me fully original Belmondo first. She seemed sad afterward.

   I had to buy black T-shirts for this prestigious job, since the boss was demanding it. From her corner, with her black lucid eye she was following each movement of this bonanza. Everyone should were black clothes, since our restaurant, even if it stink with a saloon piano, it did it with Boston's class of the East Coast. In matter of fact, our classroom was near the Columbia University, but Leonard Cohen must had already moved out to Nepal in California. I got a T-shirt, famous Lacosta collection discreet fruits emblem on it. A reasonable price, only, the front side was at its back. In the very same store I got also a Chinese soup plastic pot and a spoon – stainless. Each morning I was observing progressing of rust.

   With an inexpressible emotion I regulated my clock. I woke up even too early. I hanged around at the coast of the river watching rats, then I walk to the work. Right by the door there was a desk that made all entertainment seemed more serious. Main waiter was distributing guests out of there, unless he wasn't fucking the owner. 

   The evening I was standing by my computer while
a Spanish girl that preceded me was leaving, visibly fucked up. Conditions were hard. You had to remember what sort of asides wanted this noble father of this noble child, that in effect was sending you to hell with your misfortune potatoes. Those optimistic young fellows, in the meter of fact, were expecting you to have fan, while you dance with hand full of full glasses, changing ashtrays. And then we finished. Big burger for all slaves! The proprietress stands. The barman takes a beer instead. How professional! I walk the street. I'm prostrated. I pass colorful shop windows. Under the public phone I see the man. He's painting on small pieces of paper. There are minuscule green hills there, big white moon, blue sky. I stop in front of it.

   “O shit, man!” he starts,” how round head you have! Like
a moon. That's fantastic...”    

   I'm not sure, if I should not offend myself Obviously he lives in some sort of a fairy tale.

   “Take it,” he offered me a moon picture.

   “Thank you,” I answered. “Since how long you have been in this business?” I asked, since I felt obligated.

   “I used to work in N. Y. television once,” he explained, “they kicked me out of there.”

   “When?”

   “Something like twenty years ago.”

   “What's your name?”

   “John.”

   “Good to meet you John. Take care.”

   “Take care.”

   In a Laundromat, under my apartment, I met Tracy. It appeared we were neighbors. She was sweet. We seat together, in front of machines, and we watched as they moved. My one, next to her one. They moved, revolved, turned, then stopped, they slowed down, turned round, and so on. She give me her number. That was better, since they kicked me out of the burger kingdom very soon. I could not satisfy their enthusiasm expectations. Fuck them all.                                                                                                                                                     

 

 

III

 

 

   I got a new job in a Chinese restaurant for a stock market assholes in Times Square. I needed a white shirt. I confessed my problem to Gustavo. He was a doorman, had thousands of them. Glad to result useful he brought me one. A white piece of textile had two tea color stains. 'I see, I thought. Here it was where the Latin American gold of Incas were hidden. If only Hernan Cortes had known! Gustavo seemed surprised when I refused his helpful hand. I explained him, I had already ordinate my own hand made uniform. 

   I got to my job every morning at eight. Trains are nostalgic by that time. I got out at 42'nd street. Old fagot Lamont was already waiting for us. He was in his fiftieths, starched, sexy, Marcel Proust's manners, mister of universum figure. He also had a desk, but no kidding this time. His English lord mustache, Winston Churchill's voice: “Yes hello, yes please.” On the other side of the cave Truman Capote.

   The local's name was The dish of salt and it suited it. Mostly Polish worked there but there was also one Romanian. Inclined to direct a crew like it were a Zeppelin. Without intuition of its own, similar and. My guardian angel become Chris. A boy somewhere from Lublin. Blond hair, faithful look, Turkish mustache. Like all Slavic race educated for a good Christian. Wanted to be helpful immediately, now, hurry up! He showed me, trying to enjoy me, where the buckets and detergents were. He was convinced he was, making me an enormous favor.

   “Here, you see, there's the main entrance door”, he explained, “it's made of glass and we, those whose turn actually is - our team, of which bunch of people it happens I am the boss, we have to clean it up so unexpectedly brilliant, to make a guest, by the mistake, tries to cross it over. He, he..!”

   I joined his point of view. I showed him my deep understanding with a sincerity evident, almost, even for me. Now I known finally what the hell hidden force was the base of the world wide capitalism. What an effective self control organization! He continued to guide me, he showed my eyes
a bunch of hidden holes of which existence I would never expect.

   “Then you take a Rainbow. And when you finish, then here, on the other side of the buffet, you will find ice containers. You go, my brother, to the kitchen and, with buckets, you fill them up. Let thirsty, poor travelers in Christ cool themselves after a hard work day. Then, when you already find yourself in the kitchen, you'll find another two tasty buckets with delicious, Chinese famous sauce. Sweet one – orange color, and hot one, like a toreador's sward – red. All those hundred and fifty Chinese porcelain pots, you have to fill up them man.” 

   “Is that all, by the way?”

   “You're totally fucked up! Of course not. I'll explain you the rest in the right time. Now go ahead my boy. Enjoy the Freedom!”  

   Chris was a sort of a familiar guy, patriot. Immediately he confessed me his pains. He didn't like it from the very same day he came here, this place. He was with his wife here, she was cleaning toilets somewhere in WTC, wishing to go back as fast as possible. Now! As soon as he would collect enough money. He wanted to settle in some Otvock or something, somewhere between Moscow and Warsaw. Run a restaurant, a motel for trucks for instance. Would he hire me? Rather not. Seemed like he discovered immediately we were from different social classes.

   When we succeeded in introductions, it came turn for the real concentration that demanded dish washing. Meanwhile main waiters were dancing around their guests, fairly demanding the highest level of service, second waiters were distributing atmospheric candles, oil Aladdin's lams, already mentioned sauces, other gadgets. Once finished, they were directing themselves, pushed by the specialize brain program, right to the kitchen, where pleasures of ablution in swimming pools of dishes were prepared for them. This, apparently easy entertainment, was founded, in the meter of fact, under certain heavy restrictions. Immediately, at the beginning, Chris arrived at my position to see what am I doing. He was shaking.

   “O my God! What you are doing? It cannot be like that!”

   “Then how?”            

   “Things that you throw away as rubbish, in such a wasteful manner, are excellent plates. Listen! When you see on a plate
a whole shrimp, remember what Mary mother of Christ said. What a shame, what a sin is to throw away food when children in Ethiopia has stomachs like soccer's balls. Not because of an overdosed dinner. Ah! Here, you see, still there is a good abdomen of a lobster, like a roadster, it's a real luxury. Put all those products aside, search them, don't miss them. I'll pass here later, so you'll give them to me.”

   Just as I was standing there, in a light of a fluorescent light, this order shocked me well. But the man was experienced. He made a gastronomic collage in Poland. Certainly they taught them what to do. Primarily with a disgust, uncertainty, then with an increasing courage I tasted myself a lobster's remains. Lightening! What a splendid solution! I forgot washing, restaurant, planet. The best kitchen worldwide. Or, at least, most expensive. Chris passed. Looked at me. He was happy now.
I appeared one of them. Worth of them. No ostracism to be afraid of. He did his duty of a master. But then, suddenly, from out of my Heaven, a voice of the monster arrived to me. It was the Chinese, the proprietress, standing next to me, furious.

   “Don't eat! Don't eat! What you think you are doing? Work!”

   Old Mongolian beach. Her husband was a cheap painter. He was farting in his chair entire day, while his bullshit pieces hanged all over this place here. She was buying any horror cesspit art he made. 

   In the evening, in changing room, among sacks of salt,
I hang my Armani black trousers in metal case, among sacks of salt. Proudly I put my baseball Yankees hat. George gave it to me, he supported an opponent team. On my way home I stepped to  get a vanilla shake from McDonald. It was empty there.
I contemplated my sweet, cool, thick, dense milk. I wasn't reflecting on cows that were standing in thousands in lines, in cowsheds they never leave. Fixed permanently to their electric milking-machines. From their infected udders pus dripped. Here it was semidarkness and muffled music.

   On my way back I met John the Moon. This time I found him next to the Fair Way supermarket, under a street lamp. I took out from my back pack a piece of salami.

   “Here, take it”, I said.

   He took it, watched it carefully, detested.

   “You know what they put into it?” he started.

   It was not going to be a pleasant conversation.

   “Eyes, ears, tongues... Remember Expired Army Reserves Gate? Twenty years old cans.”

   “One doesn't check teeth of a received horse. You can still limit yourself only breathing.”

   “That's what I actually do,” he emphasized his output taking
a deep breath. “There's a heaven and hell in this city,” he raised his long, bony finger, “in this city there is everything!”

   “I hope so,” I said.

   There was no need to convince me.

   Back home, late night I watched TV, Manhattan neighborhood network. The camera constantly kept on moving through the surface of a book's page. Up and down, left, and then to the right. Then up again. This was a very experimental, sophisticated channel evidently. The ritual continued until I fell asleep.

 

   Saturday we walked: Stephanie, Natalie and me on Broadway. My attention was attracted by the structural, perpendicular streets layout. With a fantastic, apocalyptic perspective they run away in infinity of skylines in an evening mist. Scattered points of yellow windows. Lights of vehicles. Peep show advertisements. Brothels. We watch brand new Woody Allen's movie, this specialist of arcana of everyday life of lawyers, journalists and other clients of my restaurant.

   Next day Otocki was about to live. I accompanied him to get a real American breakfast he dreamed of. Scrambled eggs with potatoes and ketchup. Then he bought in a market a six pack of Bud. We entered with the train on the Brooklyn Bridge. Behind fancy scratched, plastic windows with difficulty one distinguished wire-cables, water, the sky. In N. Y. C., on the Coney Island, next to the famous carousel, I walked with a small black girl. We were gathering shells. I felt a bit like a dad. She explained me that the sun lotion was a sun lotion. Meanwhile Otocki was wallowing in the spoil Ocean. He maintained he deserved his holidays working hard copying masterpieces of great masters for German pulp amateurs. Those who cannot afford originals, but will masturbates themselves with approximations. Only, let God save them from experiments with a real, living artist. Dirty water, full of dangling in cement under the surface colleagues of Al Capone, was penetrating the dirty send of the beach. Natalie was taking a sun bath.  

 

 

IV

 

 

   In the morning I went to the Fair Way supermarket to get milk. There was a cow on a packet. It was violet color and it was hanged in the air of the night, full of stars sky, among buildings of some fairy town. I came back home. I put some crunchy into
a pot. I heard how they fall, reached the bottom of the bowl. Their atoms met the plastic's atoms. The most wonderful ceremony of the day begun. Afterword I added to my collection Delta airlines promotional points from the cartoon package of crunchy. I already had fife. I needed another fife hundred to get to California.

   In the restaurant I got my own office room now. It was upstairs. I had to fulfill oil lamps with petroleum. It was blue color, it smelt distinguish. Those lamps decorated tables during dinner's time. Meanwhile working I was unpacking from cellophane papers Chinese cookies in chocolate and I was consuming them. In each one I was founding a foreseeing for the future. Each one different. Kris appeared with his trendy combed head suddenly, asking me if I would have a wish for a drink.

   “Working hours?” I acted surprised.

   “Don't worry son. There's a trick about it. I learned it back home,” his eyes were focused on past, fulfilled with nostalgic ecstasy.

   He took a big tea pot, and he filed it with liquor, that he kept hidden beneath his elegant black and white uniform, on a breast.

   “Now you know how is it going!” he was extremely content.

   When I finished with candles (I try to do it precisely, what needs time), I went on with silver pots, I glanced them. For smaller equipment like knifes, spoons I had a machine. All spoons and family were taking a bath there vibrating, trembling, sinking, appearing unexpectedly again in the other corner of a bath.

   I was swallowing another Chinese cookie, when suddenly the Chinese woman got into. There was a party today in the restaurant. The local had been booked. She was palpitating, but she dominated herself. She stepped forward. She smiled at me. Very, very gently she asked me to follow her. I checked my tie. Perhaps she wanted me to fuck her. My suspicions were reveling themselves just, since we entered a bathroom. She moved her head like a little bird. Such a cute person. At this very moment the mystery become clear to me. Her head indicated a small Persian golf of vomits on the floor. Someone got ill. Chinese candies fault for sure.  The Chinese leaved me with  balsamic aroma and a mop. Good luck!

  After the party, at night, I went down to the bar. Chinese was out. Everyone could ask now Johnny whatever he wanted too. Johnny had been playing stock market for years. He collected
a big amount of money. He was about to get out of here. Then boom,  A bridge too fare, John is empty again, as when he was living his mother's belt. I seat next to the piano. I improvised. Every third day a man came here to do it professionally. Once he used to work with Barbara Streisand. Now he drinks more.

   The day was over. I close myself in the bathroom. I shit,
I took out of my pocket dollars, I counted them carefully. Once, twice, I dreamed, I planed, I projected. I was leaving, passing the kitchen, when I felt someone's hand on my ass. I turned around. It was Lamont. 'I'll have to kill this bastard', I thought. I stepped forward. He played as if he were scared. Old coquette from the  Toulouse Latrec pip show. To calm down me he offered me Chinese magic tool bar. There was one like that posed close to the kitchen entrance. There were two candles there, Buddha's image, oranges. I found also so called  Heaven Dollars in my complete. When one of them Chinese dies, they put it in his pocket, so he can afford himself to cross the Sicks river. Saying good bye Lamont asked me a minute of conversation. I got nervous.

   “If you would only like to, you know how you can always get some extra money”.

   Those days I didn't not treat it serious yet.

 

   Sunday, at Broadway's street market, a pair of snake skin cowboy shoes bombed me like a lightening. I took them without any hesitation. Fuck, that was what I always wanted. The price was cool. I called Tracey. She proposed me to come over to her place. We feet each other. She was in a western cowboy shirt when I arrived. She offered me a drink. 

   “What's you life's plans?” she wanted to know.

   “Well, I'm a film maker a bit, you know,” I explained, “I've done two years of Polish film school. I was living in a room at student's house where Roman Polanski, during a party, thrown a TV set out of the window. How about you?”

   “I'm working on my movie carrier. I would love to be an actress”.

   “Sounds cool. We could gather our forces together”.

   “Yeah”.

 

 

V

 

 

      Once I was passing near plants market downtown Manhattan, when I saw a girl. She was an Asiatic. She was like swimming across the sidewalk. Over her hairs were hanging palms. Destructively blue sky all around. Monochromatic squares and rectangles of buildings in the background. The red logo of McDonald. Something like Edward Hopper's synthetic realism. Ascetic spots of contrasted colors. That woman in the middle. Alone. Submerged in emptiness of a relative welfare, in melancholy of the Great Crisis of thirties. Distressed by the main paradox of the Tocqueville's democracy's miracle's description. It promises equal chances for everyone to have a successful life, but since it promises it for everyone, it promises it to no one. I took a picture of her. Then I painted her.

   One day I went West Broadway. There was a street art gallery there. Each weekend artists gather together. All of them were trying to figure out a regular exhibition in some gallery. I walked and watched their output. I stopped in front of one of those losers. The one I didn't like mostly. Just to feel better, you know. In sort of  aquariums I saw a real garbage. Pounds of shit of all kind objects. Little Beethoven portraits from some music newspapers for housemaids, chess figures, nails, all mixed together in a sort of, let's say, intellectual arrangement. With an evident aim of originality and intrigue. I scratched with my shoe an empty Coca Cola can that was reposing next to the merchandise, and I asked a guy:

   “Does it belong to you?”

   “Yeah man, but non this staff,” he pointed a can, trying to be funny.

   “I see. Cool man.”

   I was about to live, when his girl friend arrived. Very typical American girl with weight problems. An extravert one. She was recuperating her beauty minuses with a straightness of character and a sense of humor. She could have been even considered even beautiful in Ruben's times perhaps. I was trying to be honest with them. This sometimes complicates my contacts with people. They were aware of a populist strong accent of their work. They took an advantage of it however. They were convinced to make most money Broadway wild and long. They suggested me, that if I had something to show, I should join them for my own good.
I liked the idea. I must admit it. I had enough of the People Republic of China. They had promised me to make me a regular waiter weeks ago. The main waiter, William, even suggested me to learn the menu by heard. The time was passing, nothing happened.

   I got ready for the next Friday. I found my friends easily. They occupied a quite bit of area with their treasures. There were an eccentric old man with them this time. He was wearing a hat from sixties, which he had stolen from Sinatra for sure. Probably, as one could guess from its shape, he didn't leave it even for
a bath or shit. He's name was Rod. He asked me without introductions:

   “Who is the biggest representative of the polish nation?”

   “Chopin? No, he was French.”

   “Wrong! Go ahead.”

   “No idea. Kościuszko?”

   “Curie asshole. Maria Curie,” he reveled me his riddle.  What
a jerk,  I thought.

   “Are you a feminist?” I asked him, “Never mind. She was French also.”

   He was a painter like all of them. A master of Sarah and Gabin. Rod, as it appeared, was able to make a precious charming objects too. There were one of them here too. On a blue sky,
a hipper realistic bird, put in a frame made out of an old window taken straight from some sailor's cottage.

   “That's pretty nice,” I said.

   “I know it,” he answered, “but no one's buying it. Since it's Art, you know.”

   We went to the bar nearby, on the other side of the street. The long mirror on the wall. Tall sits. He asked for a cafe.

   “Once upon a time it was the cheapest neighborhood in N.Y.
A lot of abandoned factories. Rental houses, almost for nothing. Such fellows as Jackson Pollock, or Andy Warhol were coming here. The last one was from Russia, his real name was Warchoł.”

   “It suits him. In Polish it means a lazy one.”

   Our conversation was getting more and more eloquent.

   “The time was passing,” he went on, “prices were increasing. Today, without a million, you have nothing to look for here. Instead of artist's studios, that lived here in fiftieths, you have just snobs. This city has been sold!”

   “Did you hear of P. K. Dick?” I asked him.

   “Who is he?”

   “A science fiction LSD experimenter. He had a conjure theory too. Was convinced USA is the Roman Empire continuation. Have a look on Washington DC: Capitol, white marble, pantheons, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian. Watch...” I took a quarter out of my pocket. “You see this bird? What's in his hands? Roman's state's power insignias.”

   “And look at this scripture behind”, he added, “'In God we trust!', what a sort of Got is it? Could you just tell me?”

   The conversation as getting pathetic.

   “On the other side, look Rod, Socrates would never be able to expose his anarchic statement in Sparta. They would kick him out immediately. They would have killed you in China I guess.”

   Dried, unshaven, was a living example of some Faulkner's village's saga. We went back to our exposition.

   “I will show you something,” he said, “you want to be
a painter?”

   “Obviously.”

   “Then let me know, what is it that you should change?”

   “You mean..?”

   “Look around, and say it!”

   One of his riddles.

   “No idea man. Permission? An MTV advertising?”

   “An exposition! Have a look at your merchandise, what a mess! A first wind would just blow it.”

   A wind blown. The one like sirocco. The same one that in North by Northwest moves Cary Grant's jacket. Or maybe it was a plane there, I don't remember. I decided to have a walk and see others here. Examine them. I walked forward, watching their landscapes, flowers, deviations, their old-school vans, when I got to the end. There was a black American there. Tall, black clothes. Proud among his rather controversial output. XXL Donald Duck was Jesus during the Last Sapper, while Mickey Mouse was John apostle, so on friends. Donald was transforming wine.

   “Kill 'em now”, Rod exclaimed when I came back. He 'shot' me with his finger a Clint Eastwood's way.

 

 

VI

 

 

   Those days a guy moved to our Polish-Colombian brotherhood. He's nick name was Rooky. He had dread locks, and a hat in a spectrum of colors of United Colors of Rasta. A bit trench. Sort of stench. He immediately invited me to his new place. He rolled
a joint. There was a mess in his, next to my, room. Large, transparent plastic bed, a computer. 

   “This poster I've stolen in a book store,” he mentioned proudly, “I study in an Art Academy, nearby, then I work in a video store. This DVD I 'borrowed' from there. I like The Clock Work Orange, then Brazil is one of my favorite movies. Want to see it? Doesn't matter I already know it.”

   We smoked. Then he put another movie, and another. We saw motions, registered from a bird fly perspective, that represented a center of a city. People, cars were moving fast, and, all of the sudden, they change in electrons, building changed in microprocessors.

   “It's about patterns,” he said,

   “Symbols of transformation,” I added, “or a prelude to schizophrenia rather.”

   “I'm hungry”, he said, “Let's get something to eat.”

   We went down to the grocery. A small store. Two sad Chinese, sorry to be where they were. Rooky took a couple of avocado.

   “I always buy things in small markets,” he said, “it helps individual against great global trade net.”

   “I see. And that's why you took avocado. They grow in Pennsylvania. Anyway, even if you had taken potatoes, you wouldn't be able to be sure if they weren't from Portugal.”

“Fucking smart,” he answered.

 

VII

 

 

  I called Lamont in the morning.

   “Fuck you man, and you shitty slave factory”, I said.

   That's not truth. There was no Lamont by that time in the restaurant. There was a Chinese manager. He even had some kind of his own Confucian wisdom.

   “Listen fellow”, I went on, “my wrist (first I've asked
a passing by person on a sidewalk showing him my wrist, how do they call it here), so, my wrist, I've broken it rollerblading. I was reaching the work by that time, so, you know, I'll have to ask my lawyer for a sort of recuperation from you. Listen, I'm giving you my bank account number already...”

   He just hanged off.

   Fresh air of the morning carried some aspects of optimism. Sarah was standing next to the wall of the French Connection clothes store and was rolling a cigarette. Inside of a packet there was a slice of an apple.

   “It keeps humidity on. You want to role one?”

   “It's been a long time since I haven't been trying it. I do like the smell still however. Let me have one.”

   “We can go and have a breakfast. Nothing's going to happened at the moment. I know a nice place nearby.”

   We went. We were passing walls covered with publicity. Stinky corners. On a side walk were flying flayers: “Jesus loves you!”. We ordered traditional scrambled eggs with potatoes. We put some Tabasco.

   “You should visit us one day. We would introduce you into arcana of our fair-well.”

   “That would be nice of you. Since how long you've been staying here?”

   “Couple of years. At the beginning it was hard. It was Rod who brought us here. He was our teacher back in Main, in our home land. He knew a bit what's going on here.”

   “I've noticed. We had a nice conversation together.”

   “First we lived in our Van. Having food from Sisters of Mercy. After a while an affair started getting better. We rent a house in Staten Island.”

   “Splendid solution.”

   “Now things goes well, but we still keep a part of our staff in
a locker.”

   “You mean?”

   “You can hire a locker. You have a few square meters for your belongings, you know. It's good, when you have no fixed address.”

   We went back to our market places. There were Chinese, Africans, Mxicans, all of them there. One Mexican was girl's face, with some red spots on it, long hairs, name Alejandro. Was painting water melons.

   “You're a Mexican, aren't you? Why you are not inspired by the great art of Aztecs, instead of witch you deal with this kitchen equipment? Shame on you.”

   “People are not interested in our original Native American culture.”

   “Bullshit! Let you interest them. I'm interested.”

   “My older brother's making an Indian art.”

   “Ah yes? Let me see it.”

   “He's with other our products.”

   “Lead.”

   There was nothing more to do there. You could only go on with exchange of your disappointment. We finally arrived to the place where the other brother was. He had a bunch of rolled canvas with him. Tool Asian girl was accompanying him. Without hesitation he demonstrated me the contain of a package. It was Frida. - la Madonna Mexicana. Their one and only painter.

   “It's original painting obviously, isn't it? How much do you want for it?”

   “No, no,” Alejandro denied, “my brother, Francisco, has painted it. Isn't it nice?”

   “You shouldn't duplicate famous artifacts. You should use your skill for some individual expression.”

   They were listening to me with attention and trust.

   “Come on, let's go to a bakery.”

   An Italian baker was occupying one of parallel streets. Small store, extremely clean. On a photo that he put in the window he was standing next to the major Giuliani, both smiling. Giuliani
- the man who knew how to figure out with criminals from Bronx, but he didn't know how to do it with Arabs. We bought two long baguettes. Delicious. The guy was kind, dressed professional white, clean. He had to be the oldest and most prestigious baker on Manhattan. He impressed me. My new friends made me a sightseeing trip through surroundings. They all wanted to see the Wall Street. Ass-wipes. The Asian's girl's name was Kwanta. She showed us her hand made soap and elephants she had with her. She came from Thailand. During subway trip I was sitting next to the girl. I took her hand. She was pleased. Francisco looked at us. We walked outside, straight into hygienic nightmare, decorated with some cheeseburger empty packages here and there. Kwanta lived here in the center. In an exclusive skyline. She invited us for a dinner. Creamy walls, leather couches, pink bears, extra large TV. Dead and mom photo, their villa in the second plan, gold framed. She made us sushi.

   “Gorgeous,” I appreciated.

   “We stay here with my sister. I can make massage. I'm looking for an employment. I don't want my daddy to maintain me.”

   “Why not? You cook god, you know.”

   “Thanks.”

   She went on changing, make up making.

   “I'm going to the Tay party with my sister this evening.
I do not take you, since it would not be interesting to spend time with Thai people for you.”

   “Sure”, I said.

   Next one was Argentinean. She was sitting on a sidewalk. Lots of an old Latin American newspapers there were all around her, all painted with strange faces. She was emerged in melancholy.
I sit next to her. Mexican guys were gone.

   She knew just a little English. I asked her if she would like to get something to eat. I had Russian sprats with me – the cheapest you could get in a Fair Way. I opened the can with my Opinel I've stolen in France. She was pronouncing
“I” sweetly, in an Argentinean way, like “g”.

   “Teach me some Spanish, I will teach you English in exchange”, I said.

   “O.K. In Spanish we have a different world for a fish in the sea and a fish on a plate.”

   “Fish doesn't think, cause the fish knows everything.”

   “Something like that”, she smiled.

   We went downtown Manhattan. We past the corner of some crappy street, and we turned left. There was an old bed next to a garbage can. She stood on it and went on jumping. She was laughing like a nut. “Susanne takes you down, to the place by the river... and she is half crazy, but that's why you want to be there...” In the perspective one could see two towers of the WTO. They reminded UFO in the fog that surround them. The fog was like smoke from their engines. Leaving the Earth, they left finally.

   Our market traffic was small. Rather symbolic trade. At once
a guy with his father came. He stopped next to us. Looked. Thought. Reflected. Looked once again. Then he asked his father.

   “Dad, it's not bad, don't you think so..?”, indicating Gabriela's paintings.

   Then the father took 100$ from his heavy leather wallet, and he handed it Gabriela in exchange of a drawing. She felt sort of preoccupied. She said, she would take me cinema this evening.

   A good fortune doesn't go alone. It continued with
a Frenchman. He was about between 40 and 50. He stopped, took a small book out of his pocket, he opened it, went on reading. It supposed to be his own made poetry. A type of Hindu one. He kept on reading it shamelessly. Then, in another pocket, he found a bunch of small pieces of paper, he chose one, and he handed it to Gabriela. “You smell like a rose”, something like that was written there.

   “I can see in you something that is very close to my sensibility”, the Frenchman continued to Gabriela, “I'm in meditation, you know. I rent a place near here, on Manhattan. I teach Yoga. Through a touch you can transmit lots of feelings. Warmness for example. Want to try? Give me your hand, I will show you!”

   He took her hand, and she, fascinated, like a cow, was waiting in attention what's gone happened. Watching me from time to time to see my reaction.

   “Why look like that”, she asked me, “you think it's impossible?”

   “Of course not. I think it's relay extraordinary, one can transmit feeling through touch. I didn't knew it. Thank you for opening my eyes.”

   “Are we going to the cinema?”, she asked.

   “Too see what?”

   “You chose.”

   “Dancing in the dark? An emigrant cheated and rubbed buy
a policeman. Then trailed and hanged.”

   “Thanks for telling me the story.”

   “Never mind, the soundtrack is still good”, I said. 

 

 

VIII

 

 

   I was constructing my paintings exposition,
a construction I was making of wood, the one Rod ordered me, when Rooky came in.

   “Some chick is searching you.”

   It was Gabriela.

   “My cousin had come. We cannot see each other today.”

   “That's O.K.”, I've answered.     

   Three minutes later we heard another ring at the door. It was Kwanta. She desperately wanted me to join her in her searching a work as a hostess. I didn't know what a hostess do, but
I agreed. I left her in a nice bar. I stayed with a ball pen tattoo, she designed on my arm meanwhile.

   “What does that mean?”, I asked her, pointing an unknown alphabet.

   “I won't tell you”, she said, kissed me, and run away. 

   I was on Canal street, when I saw Francisco. He seemed sad. Probably he was kipping on thinking Gabriela was madly in love with him, while she had let herself been kidnapped by some Yankees art collector. Well, he paid, it was just that he received something in back.

   “How does people live in Poland?”, Francisco asked me.

   “Normal.”

   “I know, but, I mean, what sort of relations are between them?”, he insisted, “cause in Mexico for example, you can be invited by a stranger to his house, and went on living there for how long you wish.”

   “Sorry, no things like that in my father's land. If
I remember well.”

   “Spaniards destroyed our culture.”

   “I know. From about thousands of  Mayan manuscripts are left ten. I'm sorry.”

   “Doesn't matter.”

   “Did you have a meteorological god? Sort of being responsible of weather? Rain, good weather, bad, snow... fog, you know..?”

   Yeah man. There's Tlaloc. The God of rain.”

   “And is he able to perform weather? Whenever he wants?”

   “Sure. It's like with those paintings in caves, in Paleolithic
I mean. They were painting animals to incant them, to haunt them easily. Once painted deer was like hypnotized. He was coming himself into a hunter's web.”

   “I know.”

   A Mexican and me, we were reaching Harlem on our way back. This, once very elegant part of the city, was its own-self ghost now. Every 50 meters an old Black was sitting on a chair posed in front of his house. Silence, peace and silence. Relax. So called effect of a relented time. Out of a fucked up rat race, you entered in a transcendental paradise, extra temporal, levitating. No one had any illusion of his own possibility to reach a success here. So, no one even tried.

   “What do you do here white boy?”, one of them, some local John Lee Hooker asked me suddenly. He was wearing brown hat and a brown jacket. Warming his chair with his ass in front of his house.

   “Well, I don't know myself”, I discovered honestly.

   The Mexican's house was in a Victorian style – Alice in the Wonderland epoch. Immediately a neighbor reached us. He might has thought I'm from the same gang as Mexicans were. He went on talking with no hesitation.

   “What do you need brother? Driving license, passport?”

   “Magnum..?”

   “'I know what you thinking, you think did he fire six shots or only fife...'”, he laugh.

   “'...I must tell you I've forgot myself in all those excitement.'”

   “O.K. Man, whenever you want. By now I can offer you this brand new, special price notebook. What you think?”

   And from under the ground he reached a delicious Apple Professional.

   “I appreciate it,” I said, “I'll be considering it.”

   “No problemo!”, he concluded kindly.

   Francisco finished his shopping in the nearby Mexican grocery. He took those bananas that remind potatoes, you need to cook them. Then a great amount of pepperoni, tortillas. Their room was painted turquoise, with an acrylic paint. They put tortillas on fire. I tried pepperoni.

   “Remember the guy outside?”, Francisco asked me. 

   “Yeah...”, I answered. I couldn't speak. Vegetable was fucking hot.

   “We are not Francisco and Alejandro really...”, one of them confessed and the other confirmed, “lots of Mexicans are here like that.”

   “Don't worry, I do not find it a sin son.”

   “We do not like America.”

   “Go home then. I stay.”

   “You are “uero”, the white man”, the younger brother interrupted me. They went on laughing like idiots.

   “So, why are you fucking stay here around with those bastards you hate? All those your Guadalupe Virgin Mary, it was you who should had organize popes assassin. Instead you kiss Christian leaders ass.”

   “We? You are fucking wrong! We fuck Virgin Mary. Fuck pope. Fuck Mary, fuck Mary, fuck her!!!”

   I created a monster, I thought.

   “If you want, you can stay here with us”, they added.

 

 

IX

 

 

   “What the fuck you think you're doing?”, Rod was asking me, while pointing my pictures exhibition.

   “You mean..?”

   “It's all the history. All those your discoverers. Someone has already done it. Those points for instance. Where does they come from?” 

   “No idea.”

   “Veira da Silva my boy.”

   “Who?”

   “Come on, I'm not gone talk with an ignorant. She did such
a reduction of the matter to camps of pulsating energy in sixties!” 

   I took advantage of Sarah and Gabin invitation. I went to their Chestnut Ave Long Island house to learn something. We were sitting, smoking Drum in their kitchen. We were listening to the real American music, talking bout literature.

   “The very first lesson of the United States. Do you see this type recorder?, Sarah asked.

   “Ehe”, I answered.

   “We got it from the Congress Library. We just called them, saying we're blind. We didn't even need to get out the house. They send it directly to us. Added a complete collection of the best performed world literature audio books, interpreted by Alexander Scourby.”

   “Unforgettable voice”, added Gavin.

   “We have Tocquevill, Bible...”

   “Like all fucked up Yankees should have one”,
I encouraged her.

   “Do not be sarcastic. Better think bout your future professional life. You should figure out it in a more marketing know-how way. We can help you. You do it this way: you take a few of your best photo, and you go to the copy point – probably you have seen we do not deal with originals at all. It is the first step. Then you come back to us. We're gone take care of the rest.”

   I decided to go and get some materials first. I was wearing my roller-blades – a gift from Bradley, Natalia's boyfriend, when
a noble old black mama stood nearby.

   “You can figure it boy?”, asked me that Billy Holiday.

   “Sure madam.”

   “God bless you then!”

   I just crossed a few streets. Then, suddenly, I've found out myself under a big big Chevy van. My brain 5 inches from its registration numbers. I could smell his burned tires, could heard them smashing asphalt of the road. God saved me, but who put me here?

   I stood up. Smiled kindly to the driver. 'Sorry'. I cleaned dust out of my clothes. It was a traffic-jam this hour. A long line of vehicles was covering the horizon on the road
I was about to follow. They were moving slow. I showed
a fuck to the cup who was trying to calm me. 5 minutes later
I was in artist's store, Canal street. It was enormous. All sort of brush, canvas, paints the world could only imagine. I took
a couple of square canvas. Then I went Fair Way. I took some pictures of fruits and vegetables that were disposed in original structural shapes. A rhythmic sequences of oranges, cucumbers, mushrooms. The staff get worried. Someone asked the boss to come. He arrived and asked me what's wrong with me.

   “Where do you come from?”, he asked.

   “Poland”, I said.

   “Oh, Poland! Kurwa, cipka, dupa, he he he... (fuck, pussy, ass...)”

   “Yeah man, ass, pussy, fuck, whatever you want!”

   “That's OK”, he said, “this man is my friend,” he cleared up the situation.

   Next step was to get a copy of those photos. I went to an adequate institution. The day was lovely. Full of sun. Copy machines were automatic. What a surprise. I never saw such technical advancement before. Some older, well conserved lady looked at my staff.

   “Ho, ho, ho, that's nice boy! You're rely talented.”

   “You think so?”

   “Sure, particularly this composition. Strong.”

   “Thank you, it embarrass me.”

   “Nothing to be shame of. Here, take, is my number. Call me. Maybe I'll take some picture of you.”

   “That would be great. I can't wait it. Nice visit card.
I mean it. Helping me in carrier included?”

   “Ah ah ah. I like you. See you soon.”

 

   A half an hour later I was on a fairway, pointing Staten Island. The Statue of Liberty was slowly disappearing. Drunkards were sleeping on banks. Waves were stimulating their digestion. Then I took a bus.

   Sarah and Gavin were waiting for me. They prepared
a production line. No kidding. First Sarah was calibrating
a size of illustrations. Then putting them on a piece of wood. The wood was installed on a frame, on its hand. The ready product, Sarah was covering it with a layer of a transparent paint, so to make it look like it was all an oil painted, handmade picture. She was smiling contentiously compiling that horror. The ready one piece was then being packed in a transparent plastic bag, with help of a special vacuum pomp machine. Tired, after good work was done, we went on with market speculations. Prices, incomes, so on.

 

   It was a Thanksgiving's day. They prepared enormous turkey. There was also Rod obviously. Smoking his bed smelling tobacco. Sort of fucked up this day he was.

   “Castles, stone Gothic churches, nothing like that here”, he went on, “US is a poor continent!”

   “Bullshit! America is fresh. It's potential. Young. Virgin. The problem is, that your history books starts with European arrival.”

   “And the Thanksgiving holiday, it memorizes our liberation from Indian invaders!”, Sarah added ironically.

   “You know nothing”, Rod continued, “what Indian culture? They used to eat each other harts! They were beasts. Bustards, can you get it?”

   “Not correct”, I interrupted him, “harts were also being eaten by Europeans. You remember that Greek girl, Iphigenia,
I mean.”

   “Would you like to go to Main with us?”, Sarah asked me. “It's beautiful there. You would see the real America. Forests. That's where we came from.”

   “Sure.”

   “You have no insurance, no actual registration either”, Rod intervene, “does it make any sense?”

   Outside the window there was an American flag in the wind. Sarah looked at it.

   “In our elementary school we had to gather together in front of a think like that. They were making us sing, “ she laugh.

   The autumn was coming. Everything was yellow, orange, brown. In front of houses were standing pickups.

   “You want to have a walk”, Gavin asked me, “I need something from a tool store”.

   We walked. On a horizon there were rests of industrial buildings, unrecognized factories, magazines.

   “There are more of them all around the country”, Gavin said, “and their amount's increasing.”

   “All's made in China now”, I said smartly.

   Colts, guns and rifles, chewing tobacco and whiskey,
I loved that store we got into. Back home Sarah was waiting us.

   “My family came here once upon a time from Poland”, she confessed.

   “And your Gavin?”

   “I don't know. I don't give shit”, he answered.     

 

   The very next day after, on West Broadway, Sarah was dealing with my strawberry, oranges and apples, when suddenly, somewhere in the beginning of the street, we heard a rumor. It was a tax control. Social security officers. Sarah and Gavin were all right.

   Mickey helped me to pack. She was Japanese. She didn't has a lot of her own things. She was painting water mythic monsters most of all. Half fishes, half women, half herself I guess. She put herself in explaining me what was the connection of her Japanese name with an egg. I was patient. She was half crazy, but cute.

   She took me for an exhibition opening. Free champagne, so on. Then we left. We went to see another one. Airbrush Mona Lisa free style was surrounded by psychedelic mushrooms. She was a DJ. It was Naoto Hattori masterpiece. Next to it, Jesus was hanged on a cross made of Paleolithic bones. He was wearing mammoth skin, cave man ages clothes. On Abby Genet photos there was a chick in a pink dress, purple red lipstick. She was in a bath room of some night club, just after abortion she did by herself.
A child was in a trash can already. On another photo a boy was copulating with his teddy bear.

   “Does my name has some meaning?”, I asked Mickey, “It sounds like Japanese, doesn't it?”

   “Healthy pork”, she answered.

   “No shit!”

   “I mean it. Can I tell you a story?”

   “Go ahead.”

   “There was a couple. She was living on one side of the river, and he on other. They wanted to see each other very much. She didn't know how to get on the other side however. The ferryman wanted a lot of money. So she let him fuck her, the ferryman
I mean. In this way they could get together. Do you understand?”

   “Sure, but why didn't she ask the guy she loved, to come to her side?”, I asked.

   “Well... I didn't think about it”, she seemed disappointed.

   “Don't be sad, maybe he didn't know how to swim.”

   I had no intent to get into any personal drama, that could has been covered under the surface of this story. No explanations,
I wanted to search for.

           

   

X

 

 

   We were sitting in Rookie’s place, smoking joints. We were constructing a robot's town from elements of old computers and tape. Rooky made an entrance gate with a moving bridge. On ruins of the Western Civilization it was growing a new, economical, ecological live. I took a deep breath of smoke. The whole place was fulfilled with smoke. We could have seen nothing but a fog. Then, all of the sudden, I've found myself walking a street.

   “Where are we going?”, I asked.

   “ABC no Rio, a squat”, he communicated me.

   “What's that?”

   “It's in the Village. They show a documentary bout Seattle and Prague G7 demonstrations.”

   “Rooky..?”, I asked.

   “Go ahead.”

   “Could you explain me what's going on here actually?”

   “Sure man. WTO, Word Bank, they give a long term credits to the poor Third World countries, so they get addicted.”

   We were passing red brick buildings, squares to play basket ball, sort of Brooklyn.

   “In this journey you're the journal, I'm the journalist. Am
I eternal, or eternalist..?”, he intoned a song. 

   “You're the journal, that's me who's a journalist!”,
I disagreed.

   We reached No Rio meanwhile. The sale was full of people.
I found an empty chair. In front of me a police squadron, on horses, was literally massacring people that were sitting in peace all around. Like a train in the first Lumier brothers movie, was about to smash the audience. The girl next to me showed me her baby guitar. Crashed too.

   “Nice isn't it?”, she asked. “I've found it in a garbage close to this place.”

   “Awesome!”, I exclaimed.

   On my other side was another. She had a Franz Kafka t-shirt.
I don't remember who of us went on speaking first.

   “My name is Kenton”, I said stupidly.

   “I'm Bug”, she said.

   “And you're a relative with this one?”, I pointed Kafka picture.

   “Sort of.”

   “I love you”, I said.

   “I hate you”, she answered.

   The movie was finished. The music was on. Pogo dance and so on. Kick it back son. Kick it back! At once the party was finished. We found out just in two there, me and her. Her and me. Buuug. She looked into my eye, or, rather, I looked into her. Her eye was space full. There was  L'etre and le neant inside. The eternity opened between us and closed. After our death we were about to come back to that very same place, no matter when and where we die. I followed her. She climbed the stairs. Stopped.

   “Want an apple?”, she asked.

   It was small, red forest like apple.

   “Yeah. Thanks... I like your back pack”, I said. She smiled. “What we gone do now?”

   “Sit, smoke”, she answered.

   I agreed.

   She opened her bag, took out some tobacco, papers, weed. She rolled. We smoked.

   “Where do you live?”, she asked.

   “I'm searching for a squat”.

   “Me too. Let me know, when you find something.”

   “Done.”

 

XI

 

 

    “Look”, I said to Gabriela, “I have stigmata on my hands. It's all because of you!”

   “You're fucked up”, she said.

   “This two squares are for you”, I said showing her two, pink and blue painted square pictures, “if you take them
a photo, they become gray together. They are like us, you see, apparently conflicted, in the matter of fact indistinguishable.”

   “Sure!”

   “But you can also see it another way. You can call this installation 'I don't give a shit'.”

   “Would you keep them for me?”, she asked, “I don't have enough distinguished place for them”

   “I'll do it, mom!”

 

   “Oh, I see you are progressing in your art history journey”, Rod said arriving.

   “What you mean?”, I asked.

   “I mean you acknowledged Klein's convention and his famous 'All over'. Painting pictures in one color.”

   “You mean someone had already done it?”

   “Sure man. Fifty years ago.”

   He was about to continue to fuck with me in this manner when a guy with a dancing step of a styled gay came.

   “Oh, that's fantastic! Is it your? I loved it. I must have it”, he looked at his partner, so to see if he's agree with him. The other confirmed. “How much you want? I'll give you any price. Well, almost any.”

   “Would you give me a hundred?”

   “You're kidding. It's only what you need?”

   He took out of his wallet a brand new George Washington and he posed it in my hand touching it softly. From the Central Park direction was slowly reaching us long haired, long leather jacket, cowboy boots and a hat on his had someone.

   “Yesterday”, he went on when he found out himself with us,
“I sucked a dick of one fellow for twenty bucks”, he begun,
“I caught him on '42. Now the subway is in construction. You need to watch out which train you choose to stay in for a night. Some of them get out from the underground on a fresh air during the trip. So, when they stop and open the door, you can catch cold. The fresh air gets inside and you wake up.”

   This guy was out of time. He was a beast, hunting all the time. All time in a jungle. Seemed to be a mythic personality among Broadway's artists exhibition area. His name was Ernest. He was black. Coming from ex Southern great slave plantation lands. Dirty dress. Dreadlocks dirty as well. Basquiat's imitation style. Had his regular buyers. He called them collectors. His canvas were covered with half smoked cigarettes, used condoms, garbage. We become friends. I went on asking him bout the rules of living on the street. I found it gorgeous. Good for the writer existential experiment.

   “How do you do.” he smiled like an idiot. He was creating an idiot's image. Some sort of a psychopathic. Like a one that was degenerated by the social circumstances.

   “Let's get out of this grave”, he went on, “let's search for
a party!”

   “I don't know any party today”, I said.

   “There are a lot of them. Every step there's one. I'm the party.”

   In fact he was right. Just after a few steps we've seen two big big guys with two toll toll chicks, guarding an entrance to an elevator. Girls were studying something that had to be the guests list. Guys were focused on their silicone's mussels.

   “Hey sweedy, hey boys”, Ernest went on. He was a vanguard painter, classic example - this has to be said, “we are Mr. Kowalsky and Mr Rico Santini”, he began, “we're invited here”. He pretended a foreigner, French accent.

   Girls went on searching affectedly.

   “No guests of those names, sorry sir”

   Ernest looked at the list with them.

   “Oh, yes, yes, here we are, Adam Smith, Gregory Peck, that's us”, he found some names from the list and announced them smiling. Actually, they all knew we were giving them a shit. What was important, was the way we were doing it. And the way was correct. We were original, funny, decadence dressed. We were wanted at this party. It was as clear as shit. Girls smiled, boys smiled, and let us enter into the elevator. It was some sort of
a charity party. Painters, models, businessman. The artifacts were about to be sold, the money was about to be given to all that needed it, all around the town. I found a nice girl immediately.
I went on figuring out to take her bed tonight. Ernest found drinks.

   “What's your name”, I asked.

   “Betty.”

   “Betty Davies?”

   “You guessed.”

   “That's a nice name. I mean it.”

   “OK. What do you want?”

   “To sleep with you.”

   “No way, I have a menstruation period this days.”

   “Oh, I'm sorry”

   “No need to be sorry. It's normal with women, you know.”

   “How about some sport. We could do it together one day, don't we?”

   “No doubt.”

   “Rollerblading?”

   “You must be kidding. I practice only tennis.”

   “I know tennis, but I'm a communist, it would be too conformist for me”

   Some, kicked by a car of time, lady arrived.

   “I'm finished”, she started to confess. They're kicking me out of my agency. They want me to get out of my '72 street apartment, you know...”

   “Oh, what a story”, my princes answered. Waiters brought strawberry on silver plates. Girls got occupied with fruits, forgetting absolutely their contingent problems. No matter it was winter, we had strawberry, and a penthouse – a garden on a roof. Some of guests was already there. I looked for Ernest among the crowd. He was there, drank like a pig or some Hemingway, explaining secrets of his skill among collectors, he charmed meanwhile. He was scandalizing. Destroying tables, wanting to fight with everyone. Everyone loved him. Everyone was content. That's what they needed. They own Charles Bukowski, for their party. The big big senator type dude stood next to me and my kitty.

   “It's my daughter”, he said pointing my almost hunted dear, “isn't she nice?”

   “In fact she is, sir”, I answered timidly.

   “What are you doing boy?”, he wanted to know.

   “Well, I'm a literate”, I said with respect.

   “Ha, ha, ha!”

   “But I also studied. Psychology.”

   “Rely? I'm a psychologist.”

   “That's marvelous discipline, isn't it”, I said, “Jung, you know, symbols of transformation, schizophrenia causes, Osiris who enters the Ocean with the end of the day, where he fight the eternal mother, get out with a new day, sun rise, and get a pick of his glory with the afternoon.”

   “That's interesting. Give me a call.” He give me his visit card.

   “Thanks for the trust, you invested in me sir.”

   Ernest was getting closer to us, with his irrevocable bottle in hand, all puked, disgusting.

   “What an horror people can make with themselves”,
I sadly observed before he reached us.

   “You want to fuck her?”, he asked me, so everyone could hear, “him too?”, he pointed my future father, “I'll take him, you get her.”

   I felt finished.

   “Listen Ernest”, I said confidentially, so that none could listen us, “I don't know you. The only think I know, is we must stay here forever. It's too good here place. All we need is to pretend we're from here. Some sort of artists that were on the court of Luis XVI'th. Residential. They're gone sponsor us gladly. You'll see.”

   “O.K.”

   Slowly the party was closing. Quite none left. Only two of us. Some forty years old lady took care of us.  

   “I'm mister Master's of the ceremony manager, miss ex Miss”, she introduced herself.

   “Pleased too meet you. Who's mister Master?”

   “He's the owner of this apartment”

   “Oh yes..?”

   “No. And I am Kate.”

   “Like all chicks here. How do you do Kitty.”

   Ernest reached the floor. We had to help him to get up. The lady offered us her visit card. 

   “The party’s finished. Mr. Master is very glad to know you”, she said, when Mr. Master with two Playboy like beaches appeared in the doors of his sleeping room. Golden ring on his solarium treated breast, among a teddy's undulating hairs, covered with
a blue Chinese silk. The doors then closed, swallowing them girls, gold, Mr. Goldberg, and all the Metro Goldwyn Mayer with them. We said kindly 'Good bye', and we got out.  The day was about to come. Osiris on his way back. Cold, wet, green fog the Ocean all round. Among us.

 

 

XII

 

 

   We were, as usual, at Rookie’s place. Smoking marihuana. His room was getting more and more stinky. Old socks, eternal shits. He cut his trousers, he bought military boots. Some boiling water sounds were coming from speakers.

   “What's that music man?”, I asked.

   “Look, just look...”

   He took an enormous water pipe, that was resting near the window spot. He switched on the computer. Installed
a microphone, which he posed next to the pipe. Here was where the sounds were coming from. On the monitor of the computer I saw amplitudes of sound frequencies. Sort of a medical EKG diagram.

   “Smart, asshole!”

   “Now let's move to the place that needs to be visited today. Smoke! The smoke will transport us.”

   “Sure”, I said, and I smoked.

   There was a lot of smoke right there. The smoke from Gustavo's cigarettes was migrating under the doors that were joining my room with his one, then it traveled through my room and through the corridor, right to the Rookie’s room. Lots of smoke.

   One floor under us, next to our window, on the other side, the family lived. They all gathered in front of the table. Eating supper. A child in a high chair was eating too. Next to them there was a washing machine. It was washing happily, colorfully.

   Suddenly, me and Rooky, we found out ourselves on East side Manhattan avenue, among grand amount of people. They were shouting. “Free Mumia! Free Peltier!” - a Black and an Indian imprisoned. Cups everywhere. Military vehicles ready to sprawl pressured water on people. Rooky and his other friends indorsed gas masks in Mc Donald's bathroom. The party began. Quickly, most of them found out themselves in police buses. They enjoyed a trip somewhere outside the city. Some fresh made journalist went on asking me and Rooky, what are we going to do when we get old.

   “We are going to die”, I said.

   I went on searching for Bug, whom I wished to find here. “You'd been to the station to meet every train, You came home without Lili Marlen”.

 

   I entered my room. I put a TV on. I swallowed a piece of salami with kosher bread -  best prize. In front of me there was a lady, smoking a cigarette. The movie was made in video technique. Considering the frequency that gave a characteristic, slow motion of her figure, colors spectrum, strange buzz of the audio, the film was made in late seventy's. An actress, hard make up, long steam red nails. She was surrounded with a fog of smoke. Waving gray thongs of smoke were embracing her head. In a toned dark light of the studio her statue was punctured by a search light. Shades, tongues of smoke mist were distinguishable clearly. She was comfortably posed on a cabaret chair, and she was smoking. Fife minutes, ten, half an hour. Next to her high-heels was an ashtray. Full of ash. Butts on the flour. It was good after midnight when I felt asleep. She was still there in the meanwhile. Sitting, consummating a carbonic cloud. Looking at me. With desire, or annoyed, or without any expression except of the one made by her makeup. Like a Greek theater mask. Unforgivably the same for the last thirty years.

 

XIII

 

 

   I wasn't making any good money on painting, so I went on looking for some restaurant to become a slave again. I got an appointment with one gay first. We went to his place. He went on showing me golden little stars in a blue sky he's boyfriend designed for a bathroom.

   “Marvelous, isn't it?”

   “Oh, yes, honey!”

   “Beg your pardon..?”

   “Oh nothing, I really mean it”

   I think he didn't trust me, since he didn't hire me. Then one fucked up Italian insisted that I need to learn first Sicilian dialect to get into his sixth class Mc Spaghetti so called restaurant in uptown Manhattan. With an air of resignation I sit down in one of a nearby bar. They didn't need anybody us well. The bartender asked me what sort of a drink I would like to at this very early hour, and he sponsored me a scotch, then smiled. So I did. It was a typical Frank Sinatra's times local, Columbus Ave situated. High chairs, jazz music on the radio. He offered me a cigar.
I lighted it. I took Times magazine that was nearby situated. Local was empty. The street was empty. Sunny day. Nice day. Silence. Peace, let’s say, if one didn't thing bout the Persian Gulf, Afghanistan, so on taboo. I said thank you, and I meant it. I went out. Relaxed. Optimistic. Ready to conquer. Ready to invest my new discovered Nietzschean will of power that slept in me.

   Finally I found a place in a gay restaurant. A Village zone one. “We can check you”, the old, tired, intelligent, realistic looking face man said. It was dark inside. The bartender was tending drinks. Fagots were drinking them. I wouldn't give a shit what sort of games they were playing under those tables, only that they were expecting me to admire their brave nonconformism. Some fifteen years old Arab boy was working with me. His skin was glimpsed, oiled one.

   “You're a gay?”, he asked.

   “Certainly”, I answered, “one hundred percent.”

   I must say, I prepared myself. I put on a black, sexy, tight pants, a tight shirt, and a tie I got at the Salvation Army Sunday market. Wild, the '70 style one. He must had noticed that.

   “You like boys and girls, or only boys?”, he continued interrogating me.

   “Well, I like children, pats, Marlin Monroe”, I enlighten him in a light of an Enlightenment's tolerance. He didn't give a shit bout my tolerance however. He wanted to know how does it happened, how I got acknowledge I was gay. Thanks God a new client arrived. Hard to say what gender it was. It had boobs, but also mussels, and Arnold Schwarzenegger's sharp face. It set next to the bar, went on telling us the story of he's plastic operations. Brown fleshy skin was exploding from his blue dress. Carmine lipstick was contrasting to this celestial blue. He looked at me. It's tongue appeared out of it's mouth, and moved like a snake.

   “How do you like it kitty?”, he asked me.

   “I appreciate it. You are a nice cake, if you want I can taste you,”

   “In a sperm cream, how about that?”

   “Yeah, vanilla taste. That's my favorite.”

   “I can't do it already. Sorry. My surgery specialist doesn't finish my lady's equipment yet.”

   “I'll wait.”

   She/he smoked Marlboro. All a mankind wanted, could came truth. Existentialists were right. Values were in us. Freedom as well. All relative. It made me optimistic, looking at him. He wasn't gay actually. Not any longer. He was nobody. Like me.
I felt free to get a fuck out of this place, before they ask me to, which they were already doing.

 

 

XIV

 

 

   I came back home. Opened the door. Long empty corridor in front of me. Blue one. Moving softly like I were on
a boat. On my left Gustavo's room, then my one, then Rookie’s one, then Gustavo's brother's room, a painter, and so on, through the bathroom, right to the kitchen. A long trip. I choose Rookie’s one's entrance. He was decaying progressively. He shaved some of his hairs on his temples.

   “They proposed me to play in an advertisement. I wonder if they'll keep they proposal after that”, he pointed his head.

   “I guess no”, I said sincerely.

   “I'm going to make a movie myself. You know, there's
a secret city under the NYC. No one knows about it. There are apartments there, shops, exchange. One can get into through entrances in the subway. I've seen you repainted all your squares gray?”

 “Yes, I called it the fog.”

   “Yeah, no more smog man! No more fog”, he said. “That's how you should call it.”

   “You think it's gone be the same thing?”, I asked.

   “Yes, I think so.”

   “Then, I'll think about it.”

   He offered me a pipe.

 

   He wasn't in shape to stay in the city any longer. His mother came and took him.

   “See you when I see you”, he said to me.

   We hugged each other. I took some of his staff, he thrown away. Star Wars poster he had stolen from the cinema, Budda pictures, instant soup. Rooky went to his underground city.

 

   Snow was falling. I was walking West Broadway. John The Moon was in his office. Dealing with his small moons, suns, mountains. All that on pieces of, no one knows what toilet he got it from, paper.  I didn't see him for a while. He was sitting, us usually,  next to the Fair Way supermarket. Only, he was wearing Santa Close red-white hat on his head. The beard he had was his own. I saluted him, and reached Barnes and Nobel book store.
I sit on one of leather couches. I took out of my pocket the message from Bug, I printed. Some strange creatures were invading her room, destroying her pictures. She was making them every day, otherwise she would forgot what she was doing a day before. “Fuck them”, she concluded. I was having my breakfast thanks of the kindness of Sisters of Mercy in Bronx. The one, Sarah and Gavin showed me. Sisters were giving me some food packets too now and then. If no, I could get waist fruits from the Fair Way Web all around the town. Those, that didn't respect heavy norms of control. Then, there were some free samples of food. To encourage new clients. The staff saw me, when I was trying pieces for sale too. They kicked me out. 'A man can make a mistake once a life, doesn't he?'

 

 

XV

 

 

   I moved to Rosemary's place, since she wanted me to. She was Francisco and Alejandro's friend. She was from Bolivia. I've met her once in a bar. She was with her boyfriend. She didn't like him enough, I guess. I think he liked her, so I was uncomfortable bout the situation, but... what could have I done.

   I came to Harlem then. She lived in the same house Francisco and Alejandro did. I put a military sleeping-bag, they gave me, right on the floor. Mexicans painted walls with some sort of design. They invented it, biting walls with old rags with paint. They thought, obviously, this bird shit was an art. Bastards. I went on collecting objects people throughout every Thursday evening. To participate in decorating our new place  too. Once I found radio-tape player-TV set in one. A prototype for sure. One that was made in late sixths. It only emitted nature programs. Under-water life precisely. Then, I found coins, quarters, forgotten in public phones. Once I even found a whole, fresh nut cake, left on a of a public phone near a restaurant too. Then, lot's of quarters in fountains all around NYC museums. You know, tourists through them into the water for a good luck. Rosemary was working in a bar, so she was bringing sandwiches now and then. We were consuming them, listening to tapes, I borrowed in a public library. Mainly W. S. Burroughs. She couldn't understand a shit. “Te chireo”, she only repeated to me. Once I was walking West Broadway, when a few guys, red hairs, surrounded me shouting:

   “Are you a Jude, are you a Jude?”

   “OK, I'm a Jude, but live me alone.”

   “Are you a Jude?”

   “My mother was, a bit.”

   “So you are a Jude! You are a Jude! Happy Hanukah! That's
a gift from Reba Levinkopf, The Hanukah candles set. Enjoy!”

   And they run away. I took the gift home. I opened it. I read: 'Once upon a time The Great Temple was destroyed by Romans. It happened in 66, numerologically most happy for Jude day. Romans drank all oil. There was no oil to light the sacred lamps. Only a little. So, the saint girl came. She lighted a fire from what was left. And it kept on burning for the all eight days, miraculously.', so the script was saying. 'Waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come'. Why not. Let's try it.

 

   The New Year came. Rosy took as for a theater play. Henry Miller. A servant kills her landlord-oppressor. Suffocated with
a pillow. All Times Square divided in zones. The center for the rich. From open windows of skylines, lines of toilet paper were falling. Straight on proletariat, that gather together under them. I was in the center of the World. No doubt. Times Square – the square of the time. In ancient Egypt the time was being counted from the beginning, every time a new pharaoh was born. Also here the time was beginning on the square of time. Exactly in the middle of the planet. The time was circular. It was moving, transforming. The Roman Empire eagle, migrated across Napoleon Empire, Hitler's one, now he stopped here, in the USA. No visa need. Over the advertisement with an enormous cup of soup, over buildings, fireworks were expanding itself in the cosmic space. They were what planets, suns, black holes were. Nothing was smaller or bigger then something else, because everything was infinite. We all were in a great cafe express, that was ready to blow up, serving a new amount of nice smelling liquid.

   From there we went to Brooklyn. Rosy took ecstasy. She was gangling around, asking everyone how do they like her party. Then we went back home. I took my square fog paintings, and
I hang them in the Central Park. Also those I had promised Gabriela to keep for her. I kept them. Till now. Rosemary was wearing her blue long jacket, pink scarf, she was taking photos.
I hanged one of my pictures on the wall near our house. I painted on it a question mark. An old black man from the other side of the street shouted.

   “Put also an exclamation mark boy!”

 

 

XVI

 

 

   Mexicans were working. House constructions, painting, earning money. I was nobody. They were fucked up, I'm living at Rosie’s place, paying no cash. Then, she was about to quit her job too, inspired by me, she wanted to paint. I gave her materials.

   The black guy, the one that was painting Mickey and Donald sacred interpretations, gave me a key to his magazine. It was located in the very same building where Rosemary and Mexican lived. Then he made a party in his place. He invited Gabriela too. Secretly, he showed us his masterpiece, the picture not for sale.

   “I'm showing it to you, since I know only you two can appreciate it”, he said.

   The picture was representing a party. Jesus and Satan were keeping enormous knives and forks in a body of a man on the table. Done relay well, realistic. Gabriela shook her head approvingly. She made some mate. Kwanta was there too.
I disposed myself on a sofa. Kwanta went on making me a massage. She was damn good at it. She took of her long boots and sit on my back heavily.

 

   “Get a fuck out of my shop”, a Niger shout on me since I've put my boots on a couch, listening to Carlos Kleiber Beethoven, I've ordered in Virgin Records, Times Square. I took my ass. I went to the Columbus movie center, where Hidden dragon, crouching tiger was on. The séance already began. “Listen, my girlfriend is already in, with tickets, may I come in?” Tricks like that,
I invented a couple of them. Next, it was to be the Metropolitan Opera House.

   After a few days Ernest move in to my place. He was degenerating visibly. Drinking, making sex for money. Pissing into empty bottles. The situation kind of problematic. Ernest was packing smoke into glass jars. Or, an air form a room of
a prostitute, or elsewhere. Labeled.

   Once, we decided to bring it, along with my fog, to the Metropolitan. As we came, the director of the Museum asked us to write him bout what the project is about.

   During weekends we continue our Broadway expositions. It was still cold. We sang Christmas songs. “Santa Close is coming to town, he knows when you are stoned.” A Spanish girl was hanging around. Someone said, she wants to be an artist.

   “What an ass”, Ernest exclaimed.

   “You are a Niger, she's gone choice me, that's for sure”,
I answered.

   She was dealing with handmade products, they brought with her boyfriend from Indonesia. She offered us a cup of soup. None treated us so gently till now. She looked at our pieces. Painted, used socks, gathered together. Alice in the Wonderland - a girl's head image, put on a washing machine wheel, surrounded by doll's hands, legs, like in an explosion. The idea was, that the face expresses a stoic peacefulness in the middle of a disaster. I was inspired by Alice in the Wonderland book, I used to read in the toilet every day. She reflected on it.

   “Is that what you are doing for your living”, she asked me, “what does your mother think about it?”

   She's saying, she would be honored to meet you”, I answered.

   She looked at me. There was passion in her eyes. 'Problems',
I thought, 'like with all those Mediterraneans.'

   She looked at Ernest's work.

   “You two guys suit good together,” she said. 

   She had to go back to her boyfriend. She wrote me on a piece of paper her mail address and she disappeared. Worst was my situation, more women liked me, I thought.

 

   One day one of our friends give us two gifts. In a small, Plexiglas box there was a little man trying to catch a car, to give him a ride. It was black and white. Behind, on the other side of the box, there was a color one part. Lots of flowers. Ernest didn't want to show me his box. He got crazy instead.

   “You still me everything. You want to take also this!”

   “You're fucked up. Put yourself a security hologram on your head”, I said.        

 

 

XVII

 

 

   I spend days in Metropolitan Museum of Art. Mostly in front of Jackson Pollock's Pure Form. Walking under walls of Egyptian temples, they brought here from Egypt in pieces and put together. I was slipping on eclectic mobiles.  An older fellow paid attention on me once there. Leather motorcycle pants, so one like jacket, a red sign of a campaign against AIDS on it. He thought I was some of their hero. He invited me to his place.

   “I used to live with a friend till now, you know, but she died recently. She was a writer. Sometimes she used to walk around the house for hours, looking for the right word. Now she's here”

   He showed me a box on the chimney.

   “Next to her there's her dog.”

   In fact, there was a smaller one box, close to the first.

   “He had passed away before,” he said.

   “I'm sorry,” I said.

   “No need to be sorry. I hated her. I was under her influence. Just afterword I discovered a real life. I become hippie, punk, metal, now I'm a gay. I run a psychology cabinet. I help others to discover their real personality”

   “You sure exists one?”

   “If you want, you can stay here, you can take a bath. This watch, you see here, it belonged to my father.”

  I wondered what would the father of this gentleman say about him now. He took me to his psychoanalytic cabinet, where purple cottar were covering windows, purple were armchairs too. Then, he showed me his bathroom. From the wall was pending a big ceramic penis in erection.

   “Cute”, I said.

   “Wouldn't you like to spend this night with me?”, he asked.

   “No”, I answered.

 

 

XVIII

 

 

   So, here my dream came truth. I was living in a subway.
I always set in the corner of a wagon. I put a hat on my eye, watching what's going on from behind holes, half asleep. Once two cups came in.

  “Wake up sir. Where do you live?”

   “Here.”

   On one stop a girl came inside. She seemed Latin American emigrants daughter. She was obviously stoned. Something must had happened in her life this very day. One could saw it. She set in front of a guy. She went on laughing at him. Obsessively. Insistently. I saw he felt uncomfortable. He looked at me, to know if I was with her. I send him a telepathic message to calm down. Then the train stopped, the girl run out, and me with her. Since, in the mind of the guy, we were already together, I had to do it.

   We were riding trains together all night. She was beautiful. Telling insanities, keeping her head on my legs, sleeping. Then
a group came into the train with wine and candle. Then
a policeman, saying candle must be turned off. She was waking up, and falling asleep. Saying something bout a dead sister or friend, about Jesus. Fuck Jesus, I told her. In the morning
I proposed her a breakfast in Bronx. I thought however, she didn't look that bad to go there with me. She went home. She was slowly disappearing, meanwhile looking at me constantly, till she was gone. All with her orange-blue-black back pack. It was an
A train.

   I spend a day sleeping, in a book store. As soon the night came, I was back in my underground anti-Iranian atomic bomb save apartment. I was waiting for a train, when two girls stood  nearby me.

   “We have the same shoes as you”, one of them said.

   “In fact.”

   “What you do this evening?”

   “As always, have a good time in my wagon.”

   “Wouldn't you like to have a good time with us?”

   “Gladly. I can read you my poem.”

   They were nice, good, clean girls.

   “OK, go along with us then.”

   They had a small place in Harlem. They were Spanish teachers. They took out tobacco, papers, and weed. They rolled a big one. We smoked. Two of them appeared lesbian, they were partners.

   “I think Gore is zero, Busch is an idiot”, I went on with politics, since it was elections.

   “That's what Woody Allen said”, the one answered.

    Dressing, call for a limo, ready to go. Black driver was from Algeria. I talked with him French that he knew best, to get familiar with him. In case if girls wanted me to pay the trip.

   “They (two others) want you to pay the trip”, alone-one told me confidentially, when we got out.

   “No bother”, I tranquillized her, “I ain't got any money.”

   The club was trendy.

   “I like this eagle on your shirt”, I said to one girl, I didn't know.

   I left. I went to Kwanta's restaurant. She was a waitress there. It was nearby. Exotic. Thai. There were Thailand Emperors portraits on the wall.

   “What do you do actually?”, she wanted to know serving me
a delicious sushi.

   “I'm a writer.”

   “What you mean?”

    “You know Hemingway?”

   “No.”

   “He was the one who was hanging around, visiting places other man are afraid to go to, speaking of what he saw.”

   She shook her head understandingly.

 

   She was right. I needed a real writer's experience. Something rely extraordinary. Step after step the ground was covering me, meanwhile I was reaching Times Square Metro station. I've seen two types there, images of whom alarmed me. If they were cups, I was going to tell them, 'I was a businessman who lost everything with a stock market crash'. That was, what should have touched them. It didn't. Just when I was jumping over the barrier, to get to the station, they screamed. I didn't escape. I had my story. They asked me to put my legs in a distance one from another. They checked out if I had a gun. They took me to the car.

   “Did you see Hannibal Lexter? Wait a minute. We're going to put you with a teddy like that.”

   “Go on. Take your chance.”

   I had a closet with a big Black. He proposed me to use bed, which was only one, every two hours each one of us. The scream was reaching us.

   The cup: “Your social security number?”

   Someone: “Six six six, that's all the devil needs!”

   In the morning they gave me a soup. They proposed me
a house. Only, they stolen my Parker. Finally, I had my own, not a rent one, space in the city. I went out of there. I watched the street. In front of me whole area was covered by dense, feathered fog.