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.