I woke early for a change. The clock said the time was 7:19. Alice is asleep after a long night at CBGBs. I nuzzled her neck. She mumbled, “Not now.”

“I’m going out to eat.” My usual breakfast was a coffee and bagel at Veselka, but I dress thinking maybe someone from the scene was at the Kiev. I almost brought my journal to write poetry, but I hate writing in public. It is not a spectator sport.

I had played pinball for money at CBGBs. $1 per ten thousand points. The money roll in my jeans held about $190 and I shouted to Alice, “You want something?”

“Sleep.”

I left the apartment and walked down the block. Hakeem was on the opposite side of the street from the gang controlling the sinse trade. The junkie was harassing passers-by for drugs. He sneered at me and looked up to my floor. I read his mind and warned, “I’m only going to the bodega and if you ever lay a hand on my girl, you’re a dead man.

“We got you, gringo,” said Franklin, the # 1 dealer. I had never bought anything from the young Puerto Rican, but he always tried and I respected him for his drive.

I didn’t trust him for any good and got a coffee, a bagel, and the New York Times from the corner store. When I exited, I glared at Hakeem, who shambled away, muttering, “You white boy think you own this block, but no one own this block. Not you. Not me. Not the cops and not the mayor. The Lower East Side belong to all of us. Remember that, white boy.”

I sat on the stoep and read the sports. The Pirates were playing the Orioles later. After finishing my breakfast, I went up stairs. Alice hadn’t moved in my absence. “I’ve got to go out. I’ll be lack this afternoon.”

“I’ll be working on the show late.” She reached up and pulled me to the futon. “No telling when I’ll be home.”

“No problem,” I said, but sensed the New Wave Vauville Show was stealing her away from me. I kissed her with tenderness, wising she had more energy. Not a change. She was already asleep again.

I traveled by bus to the Path Train on Sixth Avenue. I jumped the turnstile. The next subway was packed with New Jerseyites from across the Hudson. They looked scared of New York, but happy to live in New Jersey. I got off at Penn Station and went to my landlord’s office on West 35th Street. I paid Mr. Golding $182 for October and he said, “You’re ten days late. I hope this isn’t a trend.”
”

“Leave the boychek alone. He’s a poet. I’ll always find the rent.”

Yes, but never on the first.”

Jerome and his wife were good people and I thanked the old Jewish couple for understanding my situation.

“How’s that girl of yours? I hear she’s putting on a vaudeville show. Give her my besst wishes.”

it was only 10 am and I wasn’t ready to return to the East Village. I walked up to Times Square, counting women in my age group. Only one caught my eye. A blonde model with a portfolio. She was so different from Alice. I trailed her north and she spun on her hell at the door of a high-rise.

“Are you following me?”

“Yes, but I’m no threat. Just a poet on the way to play pinball. Two fellow models exited from the building and laughed at me., as the blonde entered the building. They were used to being followed by strangers and we all looked alike.

A weirdo.

I spent two hours at the Amusement Center on Broadway, beating all comers. Nobody wanted to gamble against me and I departed from the pinball emporium to catch the R Train.

Alice was gone. I laid on the futon and picked up Melville’s TYPEE. The sheets smelled of her sweat. Before I could turn a page, the telephone rang. It was Mark Amitin, who asked, “I’ve been calling since noon. Where were you?”

“Uptown.”

“You want to meet later?”

“I’m not feeling so well.” I lied rather than tell the truth, that I had blown off Mark, because he hadn’t paid me for my assistant tour manager gig for ALBEE DIRECTS ALBEE. “I’ll call you in a few days.”

Not likely, I was tired of doing unpaid favors from friends, who abuse you for not working extra hours.

Day went to night and night got late.

Alice hadn’t showed up at 1am and I wandered over to CBGbs, where she was leaning into the bar with Susan Hanneford, who didn’t even bother to say hello. Her boyfriend, Tom, was high on smack. Walter Stedding was on stage droning on his violin. Normally his screeching was intolerable, but I suddenly understood his magic. Alice looked cute in a green two-piece dress and black tights, although her hair could have been cut more to accentuate her eyes. The Hillbilly actress could see that I didn’t want to be there and asked, “You don’t mind if I stay out a little more?”

“Not at all.” I hated her friend. Tom would have been okay, except he was in love with the skinny bitch.

I took a taxi home, said hello to Franklin, bought an apple juice, and played solitaire, at which I cheated more than once, wondering where is Alice. Something told me Susan’s Chinatown loft. I put away the cards and got under the covers. They no longer smelled of Alice.

“Baby, where are you?”