'I want to pitch for the Giants and run for the Mets,
I want to drive one of them Cadillac Escalators, and
right to the top! As good as it gets!' He spun around
just once - it was a song of some sort, or at least a
tune for his hand to stretch out. Fifty cents here, a
dollar there. Funny stuff, good for the poor man.
All as it is, I'm stuck in a room with Melody Faye -
she's a local critic of, well, of just about everything.
We met in the hallway of the old Village Voice, in a
skinny building no wider than her waist; or maybe not.
Here, I'm holding her again; it just goes like that. We're
supposed to be talking about the Whitney, and we are.
In between gasps. That's how this new world goes.
As Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan sang, 'I been everywhere
man.' Or, no, maybe it was just 'Wanted Man in....' I can't
remember any longer those incidental things which once
pasted my scrapbook in memory for me. That's all over;
you may still look like the king's daughter, but it's not
important any more. I told her that as I was getting my
jacket and she was in the other room. We left together,
to go get a sandwich at some old downtown saloon.