HORSEPLAY AND DISEASE
ARE KILLING ME BY DEGREES
WHILE THE LAW
LOOKS THE OTHER WAY...
Bob Dylan - Journey Through Dark Heat
San Francisco. I'm walking up the middle of the street to catch up with Tony Angel who is walking up the sidewalk, when he points to a car parked in the middle of the block. A minute later on the corner he tells me about the festering arm on the junkie in the back seat and how he always tells him "I'm praying for you, brother." The guy always smiles at him. That weak, sad junkie smile.
Walking by, I had noticed the other one, in the front seat. Looks like death. IS death. Nurses a cigaret butt and holds on to the steering wheel, ashen faced, moving like a lemur. When is it a crime NOT to call the cops? Is it enough merely to say, "There, but for the grace of God go I? Is it enough simply to see the man with no legs and be glad it's only shoes I'm missing?
We're standing there on the corner, talking about the alcoholic genes we all inherited from our European ancestors when Tony says, "Do you realize that we are the first generation to ..."
"Recover?" says me.
"'Well, to address it anyway," says Tony Angel.
"Wow. No, I never thought of that before. Thank God for you," says me.
"Thank God for YOU, sister!" And we go our separate ways.
Monday, May 7, 2001