Alan laid awake all night listening to the storm pound against the windows. The forces of nature did not want Alan to sleep and miss it's violent display of hale, wind, and lightning. The night passed between Alan's nervous alertness or half-awake dreams until a sunny morning dawned.
At eight thirty Alan got out of bed. He had nothing better to do than answer the phone.
The man calling was asking about some office supplies promised to be shipped in two days that had not arrived after five days. Alan hung up, got dressed, and left his apartment.
Walking towards Manny's to buy bagels, Alan noticed the damage in the park. Most trees were knocked over, except for one that stood solitary and depressing. Branches, newspaper, and other debris where piled around under the tree's limbs.

Alan realized that everything was suddenly too bizarre. Struck with a disturbed sense of awe, Alan noticed and reveled in the odd thrills he found. Little sleep and many other things found Alan predisposed to such feelings, but the largest factor was Alan's current situation.
Alan's band -Low Ride and The Manholes- had started to practice, cop, and shoot more. Together the Manholes and Alan embodied wreckless search for fun. No fun of any sort was unavailable when everyone was assembled. Tonight the Manholes had engaged in the normal drugs and rock 'n roll. Copping was next on the list and Alan was quick to show his scamming genius. Everyone grabbed dark blue clothes, fake badges, hats, night-sticks, and flashlights before they all hopped in the black van. Driving toward the abandon building the moon shone through clouds bringing the intermittent and indecisive rain. Screeches, lights, and crashing cars swirled around Alan. Quickly glancing around could almost read the strange notes. The car was nice, probably Italian and smashed into the coupe.
"Motherfucker. That dude just slammed that car right after he swerved out of my."
"Did you see him?"
"After he crashed."
With all the facts now Alan could see George Jefferson -who didn't own the car- getting out from the wreck. Vigilante justice and riches that were meaningless to the waste were scribbled out along with a Sincerely the Ownership. The wasted car was transfixing.
"The kids are gonna be gone after this wreck."
"Hopefully they left their booze or whatever."
"Damn, that car got to do the fun part."

Antiques

Alan came back from his friend's house at seven thirty p.m. the next day. They had had a party, Alan made some money, and everyone stayed up all night. Lots of speed, lots of rock n'roll, and an air of mischeviousness led Alan to pull one of his greatest scams. At 3 in the morning they went out and began walking until they found a sign. Bright neon lights that should have glowed Martin's Package were as dead and hollow as the store. Alan, Jack, and friends detached the sign and lowered it to the ground. All the while they joked about how illegal, blatant, and off-beat their heist was. As soon as it was grounded they jumped in the van carrying off the sign and once back in the house they pulled out the phone book. A for Antiques and they got all the numbers and adresses. More speed, some booze, and Alan's pot kept them awake and playing until the stores opened.
"Hello, is this Old Antiques."
"Yes, what may I help you with?"
"Yeah, I was wondering if you guys wanted to buy an antique neon sign?"
"Well, we'll have to see it first, but if it's working and in good repair we'll probably take it."
"Ok, we'll be there soon."
So they sold the fucking sign and Alan went home with his share after, of course, a victory blunt for such a brilliant scam. Money and all pleasures quick and violent or pleasures of possession in a pile wafting the smell from previous days towards Alan's nose, brain, and longing. The smell that made your brain buzz like the neon lights in antique stores lit up those mangled,drug addled receptors in the brain to own a pleasure that could not lose it's luster. Alan didn't believe that someone could truly own something without having done what he owned. A person owned their actions, everything else was taken.
Anyway, he was walking back across the street from the sleazy bar that had 86'd him when "How embarassing!" echoed across the street that was dirtier than most alleys.
What a crazy lady Alan thought. He'd seen muttering something to herself and then she just burst out, but as he got closer he could hear her singing. No she was talking, but in rhyme and Alan was transfixed. It seemed to flow from her a beautiful and completely out of place poetry. That must be the coolest fucking mental illness a person can have, Alan thought and then tried to rhyme it. His rhyme failed miserably so he began to concentrate on the sleet and hurried back to his apartment.
He entered the apartment just as the phone stopped ringing and a message was being left. The lady from the other night was calling back. He ignored the message for the mean time and made some eggs.
Alan was passing out on the couch when the door start hammering and shaking.
"Dude open up." Alan unhitched the door as the yells penetrated the thin wood.
"Yeah whats up." It was his friends.
"We're gonna go cop with the money from the sign. You wanna go I mean the whole thing was your idea and we uhh kinda need needles."
"Just come in. There should be some needles here somewhere, but gimme your money and I can run upstairs. I mean how much do you guys want to get."
"We should get like a gram each. I mean how much is this dude sellin it for."
"50, pretty standard."
"Cool, we'll wait here." The money was handed over and Alan knew he could get it for less."
He ran up the stairs and sure enough Manuel was there. Alan thought he should be blowing his dog fighting money at the bar or something, but something was up. There didn't seem to be anymore dog fighting and all the drug dealers were acting very sketcy. Alan walked back down to meet his friends and they left with all the supplies.
There was no way on earth Alan was gonna let himself die in the Washington Heights building. Nobody would find him -even if they could- in the event of an overdose or a murderous Martin shooting him. Alan may have accepted living in Washington Heights, but dying there seemed much worse. The place gave him the creeps while he was alive. Alan imagined haunting the apartment building and visiting all the future guests. Living vicarously from the afterlife through the sort of tenants that lived at Washington Heights disgusted him. He wanted no part in the already existing aura of death surrounding Washington Heights. The idea that the place might poison Alan's soul demanded that Alan take every precaution against dying in a place so closed in death itself. The place seemed doomed and Alan wanted no part in that dreary damnation.
Alan's friend unlocked the car and they all piled into the black van.

Forgot...Nothing

Alan Douglas forgot. He dove in and forgot. The phones, the beds, the people, the money, and Washington Heights were not in the hotel room or his mind. Alan forgot the days and felt the couch, the belt, and the clouds. He felt the tears as Morphine Jack tied him off, but there was no understanding them. The clouds enveloped him as he sat smoking and unblinking, but not looking at anything. The radio played and played for eight hours and Alan's sunglasses were fixed on the small, fuzzy box. The past seemed a better time for now than the present to Alan and the serotonin spurred his nostalgia and delayed sense of time. The lights to dusty death are warm and pretty is what Alan thought.
"Fuck, it's like... What time is it?" Alan's eyes focused, but the clock was far away. He got up and swaggered over to read the hands.
"Seven thirty, there's no way. Well let's smoke a spliff and I gotta go."
"Okay, where are you goin'?"
"Band practice. I wrote a song about Idi Amin. Did you hear about him?"
"No, who is this guy?"
"Dictator of Uganada. He drank his enemies blood and ate their entrails to show his ruthless power and complete lack of mercy. He knows how to win by intimidation. He's a saint and a hero in my opinion. America needs some leaders like that. "
"Sounds crazy. I don't know how you could eat someone's entrails, but that would sure scare the hell out of his enemies. I know I'm not gonna fuck with him."
"Well I hope he likes our song because that bastard is not gettin' my entrails without a fight." Alan passed to the left.
"Damn right."
The spliff finished and Alan swaggered out below the gray sky. The wind gusts made him sway on his unsteady feet and he walked to the train station with more stumble in his swagger than he'd like. Alan walked out of the station and transferred to the bus. The ride was slower and bumpier than he'd have liked and he kept waking up whenever the bus would suddenly jerk. The bus jerked him awake just in time for him to get off at Washington Heights. As he got off he noticed the vagabond kid-Phil or something-but pretended not too. Alan was not fond of seeing Fil. Not only could he not spell his name right, but Alan felt depressed everytime he saw him. The little vagabond had no home, parents, or luck. Alan felt bad, but couldn't do anything about the depressing ambush the kid staked out in life. He wanted to hate him for making him feel so selfish and depressed, but Alan knew the kid couldn't have chosen the life and could only hate his saturnine position more than Alan.

A Father and A Fix-ture

The eight o'clock wake up call rang. Alan answered the call, as he usually would,but only woke up when he realized the stupidity in saying "Hello." The call was literally a wake up call and of course he was in a hotel. She was in the shower by the time he had the receiver down and had realized she left the two hundred on the nightstand. "Fuck yeah, I'm out of here," Alan thought outloud. He wanted to say good-bye, but had no idea why nor how to go about it. The whole thing was weird and he was pretty sure she didn't want to deal with the weirdness either.
Out the door, up the street, and on to SMARTA Alan went with a determination. She'd given him a ride the night before and the two hundred dollars were more than enough to get him home now. Alan's day began not very interestingly, but unusually. The feeling was the same, sore, but that was from satisfaction and not the usual violation.
Alan walked into 116 at Washington Heights and took a shower. He felt blank, clean, and tired. At nine thirty in the morning the day was grinding on and Alan was grinding his teeth as he tried to nap. He tried to sleep and had a little success until he could no longer stand laying down. He checked his messages not knowing what else to do and found one unheard message. He listened and he heard his dad. Alan called his dad back.
Alan Douglas' dad was better known as Morphine Jack. He was a sleazy motherfucker. Having knocked up Alan's mother when she was a teenager and when he was in a low-rider gang, Morphine Jack had been out and then all of the sudden in Alan's life. Alan's mother cleaned up after her encounter with Jack and she married a working-man. Alan thought his stepfather was a crazy pigfucker on a Ku Klux Klan level of insanity. He really was a violent and demented prick with no sympathy, humility, or boundaries. He'd sent Alan to the Napa Youth Authority when he caught Alan on acid and Alan didn't come back. Morphine Jack had gotten to Alan. In fact, he'd ripped Alan off on a heroin deal within an hour of meeting him. Jack taught Alan about petty crime and how to get heroin. Now they were going to spend some quality father-son time together.
"Hello"
"Hey dad, I got your message."
"Yeah, you wanna come down."
"I'll be on my way in five minutes and I've got everything."
"Allright, see you soon."
"See ya." Alan hung up, grabbed the syringes, took the money, and dashed toward room 115.
Alan left room 115 ready to meet his father and to forget the previous day when he saw Lola. She was going somewhere, but that Alan didn't notice where. Probably her room or a glamorous day dream. Alan did notice her delightful disposition. Lola got excited about everything and he felt that excitement whenever he saw her. Lola had superpowers as far as Alan was concerned. How else could Alan explain her innocent delight in every small detail. Her kryptonite though was the seeming stupidity in such unconditional excitement and more often than not joy. She couldn't be any stupider than he was, though. Alan wanted that excitement and wished Lola would give it to him.
He would've made that wish, but he had to go back to the hotel. He was meeting his dad now. He would drive himself down and plunge into the hotel out of the rain that dripped from the sky. The raindrops like drops from the needle that would run through the water cycle in the earths delicate, vast veins. He would meet Morphine Jack and find his own excitement lost as poison in the blood-raindrops in the sewers.

Mad Money and Looney Tunes

With that thought Alan got outof bed and found gleaming red and gold by his feet a O.E. 800 bottle. 40 ounces of what Alan could readily abuse. He was ready for the days abuse. Picking the bottle up and taking a drink, Alan decided to put shoes and a shirt on. One of his three pairs of jeans, all skinny and black, was already on his body. His studded leather belt and studded leather wrist straps(the product of slightly altered S&M gear)were already on him also. The shirt was were he started having problems. Turning toward the 40 in his right hand periodically to chug, Alan searched the bare floor, sparse bed, unsanitary kitchen, and desk fruitlessly for his shirt. He gave up, knowing one was somewhere in the closet and that he needed to start his telephone sales.
Alan swaggered over to his stolen desk with the sales catalogs, customer list, and the also stolen red telephone. The telephone was a world in which he ruled. Through the microphone, speakers, and endless electrical connections Alan could talk anyone into buying everything. He was a compulsive and skilled liar so he could easily talk people into buying the office supplies that his telemarketing company supplied without the bat of an eye. He told the truth even when he lied. The people missed the lies, they weren't looking for lies, they were looking for the truth and that was all they heard.
Once at his desk he started making the calls, flipping through the catalogs, and selling his bullshit. His fifth customer was a bit skeptical, but Alan gently assuaged his doubt.
"So you can ship the ink cartridges in two days instead of the standard two to three weeks for a small fee," the customer inquired. Alan knew the sale was made he just had to seal deal with his tongue's transparent film of lies.
"Oh, of course. We can ship it any time you'd like." Alan wasn't lying. His company really could ship anything whenever they wanted, but the company wouldn't. Alan couldn't even request special shipping for phone orders because the company followed a no exceptions policy based on the principle of saving every dime they could.
"Well, how much is two day shipping?"
"It's $3.65 for packages ove 10 pounds."
"Excellent! I'll take the 100 ink cartridges with two day shipping then."
"Well, I'll put you order down and you just need to send a check to the sales office at 11035 Wessex St. in Baltimore."
"What's the zip code?"
"Oh, that's 770709. Sorry I almost forgot to mention it, but as soon the check clears your pakcage will be on its way."
"Great. It was nice doing business with you and I hope to do it again," said the customer attempting to be friendly.
"The pleasure was all mine." Alan really meant what he said. He enjoyed lying through his teeth and felt no sympathy for the man with the insincerely friendly farewell. With everything said Alan hung up and kept going at the phones until 3 o'clock.
He needed to put a shirt on, get his Supplementary Security Income check, cash it, get cigarettes, and meet up with his friend before his date. So, he went to the closet and dragged out the last relatively clean shirt in there. The shirt was stolen from drunk girl at a party. The shirt was white with a target, like the ones used for shooting practice, printed over the heart and had a red wine stain from the party all over the front so it seemed like Alan might really have been a human target. As soon as the shirt was on Alan left for the Social Security office to get his Supplementary Security Income.
SSI is cuckoo money. They give it to crazy people to keep them off the streets. Alan worked his ass off to get on it. Everyday for three weeks he went to the Social Security office acting out of his mind. He enjoyed it. The scamming and the insane antics were his specialty. He'd go in the office shit in a cup and offer the clerk a sip. When the clerk didn't accept, he'd yell and fling the cup. Then he'd start apologizing to the chair for not offering it some feces. One day he brought in a kitten and started accusing the animal of molesting him. Alan would go on crazy rants about his hero Idi Amin while drinking his urine out of a cup. He'd say that Idi Amin was his brother and was coming to take over Baltimore. Idi Amin,the Ugandan dictator that drank his enemies blood and ate their entrials, really was Alan's hero, but the only time he could appropriately talk about him in public was when Alan was trying to get on SSI. Eventually he got on it and now he reaped the benefits. Alan loved his SSI scam more than any other and loved picking up those checks. The scam was his way to fuck with the government and a golden opportunity for petty cash.
As Alan walked through Washington Heights main entrance he saw Delilah. Plunk was her last name he thought, but the name seemed almost too weird to be true. She cast him a suspicious glance as he walked by her. Delilah probably thought he was crazy and the other tenants probably had a similar idea, but Alan thought they were all crazy too. Alan was glad that the other tenants couldn't judge him, at least not with any credibility. I mean what evidence of abnormality could Nicole, for example, throw in his face that he couldn't throw back at her. He'd he plumber yelling about "the bitch" stiffing him and stealing his wrench, so he knew she had nothing on him.
Alan made the walk, six fucking blocks, to the Social Security office. The wind was cold, but he was stoked for the money, cigarettes, and date that would lead to more money, so he bore the cold with a pleasant frustration. He felt like he fought the good fight against the wind to secure his cash and he could overcome the wind for the violent pleasures the day had waiting.
Once he was at the office and had picked up his check he really had to piss. So, he whipped it out and started pissing on this ladies dog to show the people he was really crazy. Not only that, but the reaction someone has to their pet being urinated on is hilarious. The lady with the dog went hysterical. She was dumbstruck and completely offended. People that don't know what to do get violent and this lady was no different. She started yelling and searching for her mace, but Alan ran out singing "You Bet I've Got Something Personal Against You" by Black Flag.
He walked back to Washington Heights, but stopped Manny's to get cigarettes and pineapple white owls. He'd gotten $375 dollars in Supplementary Security Income for the month, so he called his friend to come over and smoke the weed he was about to buy.
Alan walked out of the apartment, up one story, into the hallway, and to apartment 215. He knocked and he waited for the click. The door slid open as far as the chain would let it as Marcus peered out. For some reason he was being cautious today. "Come in," he said as he pushed the door shut, unhinged the chain, and opened it all the way. Alan walked in and sat down. Marcus followed inquiring "what it'd be today."
"Just gimme a quarter of some mids. Thirty, right," Alan demanded.
"Yeah, just hold on while I weight it out. You sure you don't need anything else."
"No, I got a date with a girl whose paying me out the ass and not fucking me in it so I'm holding off until later."
"Sounds good. Here you go." Manuel handed Alan the sack and Alan handed him the money.
Alan left telling Manuel he'd see him later and headed to his apartment where he put on the Archies and started rolling one up. He loved oldies. He got that from his dad who was in a low-rider gang. He was singing along to "Sugar, Sugar" as his friend walked through the door.
"Hey, how's it going." That was his friends usual greeting.
"Good, and you." That was Alan's usual response
"You know, it's allright,but I got jury duty and I don't know what to do."
"Do you have the form they sent you to fill out." Alan knew what to do and he was sure his friend would appreciate the help.
"Yeah,why?"
"Lemme see it." Alan held out his hand as his friend passed over the form. Then he grabbed a thick felt tip marker and wrote in all capitls "VIVA LA ANGEL DUST."
Alan handed the form to his friend and said "Just send that in and they won't fuck with you again."
"I guess that's one way to deal with it. It's sure a lot better than actually going to jury duty."
"Yeah it is," Alan said as he lit the blunt and started smoking. After 3 hits he passed the blunt to his friend who started hitting it.
"So, when is your next show?" Alan wanted to know because he was gonna plan something and he knew his friends in the band would do anything for him to make sure he didn't do anything bad.
"This saturday. It's at venue about a mile away. Do you want to go with us and get in free?"
"Yeah, that's what I was waiting to hear." Now, Alan had confirmation that Delta 88, his friend's band, was going to patronize him all day with the hope that if they did he wouldn't do anything totally out of line.
After the blunt was done, they ate lunch and Alan told John, his friend, he had to go shopping for his date. John had to meet up with his girlfriend, the lead singer for their band, so they parted ways.
Alan went shopping and got a red button down shirt and black slacks for his date using the Supplementary Security Income. He smoked a cigarette on his way back thinking about how awsome the night would be-lots of money, heterosexual relations(his favorite), and heroin. "I gotta get syringes he thought." Alan stopped by the pharmacy on his way back to Washington Heights and picked them up. Luckily, although only in this situation, he was diabetic, so he had access to plenty of syringes. He'd sell them to other junkies too. That was another one of his scams.
Once back at his apartment, he took a shower, ate some toast, and brushed his teeth. By the time he was done with everything the clock said seven fifteen, so he smoked a blunt to the head to pass the time. He thought about what the girl might look like and what she would talk about as he smoked and listened to the Archies again. He listened to them a lot when he was in a good mood. He changed clothes and stepped out on the landing for the fire escape to smoke a cigarette and hoped he could find Manuel later. Finally he walked to the park as the clock struck eight.

Alan "Low-Ride" Douglas 116

There was no alarm clock to wake him. He woke with the telephone's first ring and he began his day with that painful intrusion. Seeing as his business was in telephones that seemed the best way for Alan Douglas to wake-up, but he only received calls for his other line of work and his dad. As he opened his eyes, putting the phone automatically to his ear, a voice on the other end materialized-"Hello,"she said, but like she didn't know if she should. "Thank the lord its a girl," he thought then replied, "Yeah, hello."
"This is Low Ride, right?"
"Of course honey, but what are you looking for."
"Well, my friend said he met you on the corner of Baker and that little street by the warehouse and that you offer services?"
She didn't want to know what the services were. She knew what the services were. That was why she spoke so inquisitively about them. Every word spoken to him was a question; am I really doing this and what if I am?
"Yeah, I do. Whatever you want, but cash only. Got it?" Oh, today was his lucky day and he could feel it in her tender questions.
"Could you take me out-I mean I'll pay-and then well... say the whole thing takes 3 hours? Is that possible?"
"That sounds great, but it'll be... let's say 200 dollars. Also, I need a time and place to meet." He was ready for his big date and to wave 200 dollars of hate at his dad.
"Today at eight, but where should we meet?" She hated asking the questions. The answer always brought depravity to the forefront of her consciousness. She did not want to know any of it. She just wanted it over with, but for it be over she had to ask and was forced to know.
"The park at eight. You know. The one by the synagogue."
"That sounds as good as anywhere." She said it with nervous laughter to punctuate the statement's end.
"Ok, I'll see you at eight. What are you going to be wearing because I'll find you?"
"A black dress."
"Ok, see you at eight."
"Bye."
She made it seem like he was intruding into her morning with those hesitant questions. Her slow answers made her sound like she was cringing-not pleasure not pain, but doubt made her cringe. Alan didn't cringe. Waking on this morning was not Alan's usual intruder bringing dull pain. No lonely homo's or worse, his dead beat dad intruding upon his pleasures. Today he found himself intruding upon a girl's depraved innocence. Normally Alan took the day as it came to him, which was uncaring, reluctantly indifferent, and intrusive toward his violent pleasures. Today, with it's unusually pleasant beginning, promised plenty of violent pleasures, possibly more, and an imminent end. He never got it. He never understood why his dad was a piece of shit or why the days in his life never amounted to anything except another telephone ring. Today, though, Alan didn't care if he didn't get it. Today he got to give it.