4922. FAME

FAME
(NOV. 1967)
The ram-rod stiff potential, the strengths of
expectations, they were all riding the streets
that night : I was a ghost, walking along 14th,
one garish spot after another and each with the
token aberration of some debauched dark-night
of the soul. I kept my silence, and my shoelaces
tied tight. Having to run was always a possibility.
-
Why was I here again, and what was supposed
to keep me now? Let's take everything at face
value : the bakery truck was backing into its slot
for the night; the fortune-teller's stall was lit with
yellow light. An esoteric bookstore, Weiser's or
something, was telling me tales of Arabs and
wizards and genii and saints. Everything was
wide open; acolytes' lights and crystal balls.
-
Now the sanctioned air-force of a yellow cab
pulled right up to the curb - a Checker, with
its pale meter running. Out steps some babe I
was supposed to know - sick as hell, ermine
and jewels, staggering along the curb. The
taxi unloads and speeds off.
-
I put out my hands to steady her - she took
advantage of my help, slurred thanks, and looked
into my eyes. I had no clue who she was : she said
'take me to that doorway, you sweet young thing.'
No words passed, and I did what I'd been told.