This night Willie DeVille came to the Royal Lieu with Jorgen Osterloh, Aurora Clemente, and Dean Tavourlos. Willie was with his wife. We knew each other from CBGBs. He gave me a line of smack. Willie was good for that. It was brown. Jorgen said he was going back to his apartment in Montmatre. I said I would meet them. Instead I semi-ODed in the office. I woke in the morning and called Jorgen. No answer. I took a taxi up to his flat. No one answered his phone. I climbed up the side of the building. I would have been a good cat-burglar. I entered through a window. No one was home. The door was open. No one had slept in the bed. As I left the apartment, a policeman asked for my ID. He told me Jorgen was dead. I didn’t blame Willie. None of us were kids.
I hadn’t seen this photo until today.
I remember someone taking the photo.
I can’t say who.
I saw Willie later in the East Village. He was living down the street on Avenue A. We hung out a little. Anything more could have been fatal for the weak.