New School (The Writer's Life in New York City) Burroughs’ coffee grinder voice was coming through the driver's side speaker of my beat up ’82 Volvo as I cruised slowly up 23rd, nursing a Johnny Walker headache with medicinal Good Morning America taken black and Dunhill smoke. A draft came in through the busted passenger window and tickled my exposed chest, carrying memories of Marsha tearing my button down shirt open last night, buttons flying everywhere, and her husband, my literature professor, walking in just as they hit the floor. A little blood still trickled down my nose from the few good shots he got in before I made it out the door. I finished up the night at Cafe Tangiers, woke up passed out in my car. I had spent my last $3.50 on a croissant from Au Bon Pain which didn't fill me up at all, and made my nausea more acute. I was bleary and wall- eyed, trying to take advantage of it by reading O'Hara with one eye and Ashberry with the other and drive at the same time, carefully planning out the poem I would later write about reading John and Frank while listening to William S. and cruising up 31st or maybe 17th with my java and cigarette when the car suddenly stopped. I staggered out to see what the deal was. Turns out I had run into the side of one of the Big Apple's countless historic landmarks. There was some cat playing a moody sax on the corner of 61st and 3rd and I thought I guess I couldn't see where I was going, after all.
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