The last day of 1977.
365 days.
The most important; moving from Boston, Libbie’s rejecting me, Ro’s leaving for hours before I arrived in New York in a semi-stolen car, and staying her no matter what. I was never going back to the Selma of the North.
On the 7th Avenue Line.
I hit bed in the SRO early. The radio was on. The announcer said it was twenty to five. I had missed the stroke of twelve. New Year’s at CBGBs. Five vodkas fucked me up….I lay on my whirling bed, wishing the mattress had handles.