As soon as we finished our last set, at 1:30 a.m., I told the other people in the band that I had to split and asked if they’d mind breaking down the p.a. without me. “No, go ahead,” they said. I had my box with me, as always, and caught a cab in front of what was then the abandoned and empty Hotel Commodore, awaiting its transformation into the Phoenix Park Hotel. This was sometime in 1982, as I recall. The cab dropped me off at 9th and F, and I was surprised to see all these punks lying around all over the street, on top of cars, in doorways. Many, of course, were still on their feet.

The guy at the door was hostile as soon as he saw me coming down the corridor. “We’re closed,” he said, “the band’s packed up.” “I know,” I said. “I’m a friend of John, one of the people in the band. I’m a friend of the owner too.” I said this to him in my friendliest fuck you voice. I had been in this town too long to tolerate disrespect from the pretentious morons, like this guy, who litter our lives. He looked me up and down, disapproving of my age, beard, army field jacket, accordion case decorated with decals from Galway, and my plastic shoulder bag from a Baltimore travel agency. “Okay,” he said, with resignation, “give me your name.” I told him who I was and he returned a minute later with the owner who greeted me effusively and welcomed me into her office. I didn’t even give the guy at the door a smirk of acknowledgment as I walked by him.

She told me I could leave my box in her office and go down to the dressing room to check out my friend. On the way down I met the owner’s husband, also a friend of mine, and he invited me into the depths of the basement to snort some coke. This was an offer I never refused back in those days. The dressing room was nearby, in another section of the vast basement, and I could hear the sounds of the band, the band’s entourage, and, I supposed, other visitors like myself talking and shouting. I told the owner’s husband that my friend John had invited me to come down and hear his band, but that I was playing tonight too, and that was why I had only just arrived. He was very kind to me and, like his wife, seemed pleased to see me. Through the miracle of chemistry, I now felt brighter and more confident. The ownerís husband took me to the door of the dressing room, then departed, obviously feeling (or so it seemed to me) that the dressing room was not his turf.

My friend John was dripping wet. His clothes were soaked through. I had never before seen anyone in such a
sweat, and I was impressed. He was a nice Polish kid from Baltimore who used to hang out on the edges of the DC poetry scene in the ’70s. Then he moved to L.A. to become a star, and did, changing his name to John Doe. He looked the same to me-powerful and good looking-except that he was thinner. He was dressed entirely in black, with about half a dozen necklaces adorning him. I waved to him across the room and he motioned me over.
The room was crowded with people popping beer cans, yelling at each other, lying on tables, smoking cigarettes. I felt conspicuous again, out of place. But, to tell the truth, I have felt out of place all my life, no matter where, except maybe my own apartment. But you learn to bluff your way into any context. You tell yourself, shit, I could eat these people for breakfast.

John always had a gracious and warm-hearted air about him, and I was relieved to sense immediately that his character was still intact. It had been years since Iíd seen him. Before he left town, we used to get together once in a while and sit around my place and talk, or wander over to the Childe Harold to hear some music. We never got in real deep with each other, but that happens with only a few people in life.

We shook hands. I said, “Itís been a long time.” “Good to see you,” he said, though he was still obviously wired and distracted from his performance. “I tried to call you this afternoon,” he said, “but there was no answer. I was just hanging around town. It feels strange to be back here.” “I’m sorry I wasn’t home,” I said.
Then suddenly, the way those things happen, I couldnít think of anything to say. Usually I talk too much, but sometimes I just go blank. I didn’t know his music any more than he knew mine and music seemed like the right thing to talk about. We both stared at the floor for a moment, collecting our thoughts. He asked me if I had met his wife, also a member of his band. I said no, I hadn’t. She was twenty feet across the room talking very loud to some guy. She hadn’t come down yet from the show. I understood that. When I get home at night, I spend hours reading, doing crossword puzzles, killing time before I’m ready to sleep.

He yelled across the room and said, “Exene, c’mere and meet an old friend of mine.” She turned around and, with no hesitation, said, “tell him to come over here if he wants to meet me.” Then she went back to her act. I didn’t want to meet her. Ever. John shook his head wistfully. I wanted to get the fuck out of there, go home, be by myself.

Ididn’t get back to my apartment till 5:00 a.m. When I finally fell asleep, it was getting light out and I could hear the garbage truck slowly making its way through the alley behind 20th Street. Depending on which way you were going, it was either very late at night or very early in the morning. I could feel sleep moving right into my bones and veins, like a friendly spirit taking hold of me.