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.