He phoned a former girlfriend in Detroit and said he was down on his luck. She had a big heart. Get your ass here. The Greyhound rocked west.
The sirens stop below my window. What’s this? Is the hotel on fire? I’m too stoned to move. Barbara, where are you?
I don’t know which was worse: losing my girl or my white‐over‐blue Monte Carlo.
My friends in the Midwest had warned me about New York.
“You’re crazy going there without job,” they said. “New York will chew you up and spit you out.”