A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I appreciate all of the encouragement I've received to continue this story. For those of you reading 'Not As Easy': YES. The answer is yes. I will be posting another chapter as soon as I get rid of my writer's block and am able to write something that isn't worthless drivel.

Chapter Four: A Thicker Skin

Saturday, March 26, 1988
New York, New York

Abe's Candy Store looked like something out of one of those television shows from the 1950's. It had a long wooden counter and see-through jars that were right at eye level so that all of the kids could admire the colorful candy inside. To top it all off, Abe's son Martin, who inherited the place after his father died, insisted that the shop's employees still wear the traditional "candy shop" hats like the man from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Allison thought he was full of shit, but she didn't say that of course, partially because he was a nice man and partially because he signed her paychecks.

There hadn't been anyone in the store for the past thirty minutes and Allison wondered if her manager Mr. Jamison would let her off early that night. She stared at the wall clock, which had different types of candy representing each of the numbers. The hour hand was on the lollipop and the minute hand was halfway between the gumdrop and the peppermint. 7:42 P.M. She glanced outside, where two girls in fishnet stockings and short skirts were chatting casually, glancing around every few seconds to see if anyone was nearby.

"Allison?"

Allison glanced up to see Mr. Jamison poking his head out from the back room. "You can go if you want."

Allison nodded and he disappeared into the back room again. She stood from her perch behind the counter and untied her red and white apron, hanging it up on the row of metal hooks when she finished. Her coat was stuffed under the counter next to the radio and the first aid kit, and she grabbed it, along with three packs of Jelly Bellies that a customer had returned earlier that the store couldn't sell again, then headed outside.

It was a cold night and the first thing Allison did when she got out to the sidewalk was pull a scarf and gloves from the oversized pockets of her coat. She stood there under the flickering Abe's Candy sign watching the girls on the other side of the street tug at their pantyhose and chew bubblegum while they waited for someone to come by and pick them up. Finally, she picked up her Jelly Bellies again and started walking. It was dangerous for anyone, much less a 21-year-old female like herself, to walk by themselves after dark in a neighborhood like Alphabet City, but Allison had grown accustomed to the prostitutes and the drug dealers. When she'd first moved to the area during the fall of 1984, she ate dinner early and kept the doors locked between the hours of 7 P.M. and 7 A.M. Three years later, she just carried a can of mace and tried not to look like a tourist.

As she walked, Allison wondered vaguely what her parents would think if they could see her right then. She'd thought about that a lot during the past three years or so when a homeless man would sit down next to her on the subway or a guy with a razor blade in his ear would come up beside her in a club. She wondered if they would be worried about her, if their parental instincts would kick in for the first time in twenty-one years and they would visit to make sure she was okay, or at least call more than once a month.

When she'd moved, she'd done it mostly to get away from them. Part of it, of course, was that Andy was gone, but mostly it was her parents. There wasn't any reason for her to stay in a place like Shermer if there wasn't anyone that actually wanted her to be there. They hardly even blinked an eye when she told them she was leaving. Her father offered to take her to the train station and her mother bought her a pair of bright yellow mittens to fend off the cold. She left the mittens under her bed and called a taxi to pick her up.

New York wasn't anything she could have prepared for, mittens or not. It was a tough city and Allison was not a particularly tough person, at least not at eighteen years old. She spent her first night sleeping on a bench in Penn Station using her knapsack as a pillow and her duffel bag as a footrest. Looking back, it was a miracle nothing had been stolen. In fact, it was a miracle she'd managed to survive that first week without getting killed, raped, or mugged somewhere along the way. Finally she'd found a job and an apartment where she could go to sleep listening to David Bowie or Depeche Mode instead of the boarding call for the 8:40 from New York to Boston, but even so those first couple months were pretty rough. She had no friends, no family, no one besides her boss and her landlord that knew her by name. Even for someone who was used to being anonymous, it got a bit lonely. The only people she'd kept in touch with from Shermer were Brian and of course Andy, but by the spring of that next year she wasn't even in contact with them anymore. On days that she didn't work, it was possible, and even likely, that she wouldn't utter a single word all day because there was no one there to listen.

It took a while, but things got easier for her. Living alone in a big city takes practice and thick skin, and by the spring of 1985, she had both. She learned how to cook rice and chicken on a gas stove and how to get a guy to buy her a drink when she didn't have any cash. She learned which nightclubs had the cheapest covers and which alleyways to avoid at all costs, day or night. Most importantly, she learned how to stop thinking about the one person she couldn't seem to forget no matter how hard she tried.

After that, drug dealers and gang members were a breeze.

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Allison arrived at CBGB's at about 8:00, just as the opening band was getting warmed up. CBGB's was a local club that was famous for hosting early punk bands like Television, Blondie and the Ramones. It was crowded and loud and there was always music, though some of it was pretty lousy. On those nights, she would sit at one of the back tables to admire the posters that had been glued to the walls, one over another, and run her fingers over the old names and pictures.

On that particular Saturday night, the club seemed even fuller than usual, if that was possible. She pushed her way through the crowd, heading for the bar. She arrived just as a guy with a Mohawk and a nose ring downed the rest of his drink and stood from his seat, freeing up one of the stools. She claimed it immediately and leaned against the counter, waiting patiently.

After a moment, the bartender glanced over at her and she nodded once, confirming that she wanted her usual. The guy didn't even know her name, but he knew that he didn't even have to ask what she wanted to drink since it was the same every single time she came in. Allison pushed a wad of one dollar bills forward and he returned less than a minute later, placing her rum and Coke, topped off with two lime wedges, onto a small white napkin.

Allison squeezed the lime into the drink then turned around to watch the opening act, some local rock band doing a bunch of Led Zeppelin covers, but not a lot else. She took small sips of her drink, knowing it would probably be the only one she could afford that night, and bobbed her head in time to the music.

After she lost contact with Andy and Brian, Allison started going out to clubs at night. At first, it was because she liked the music and needed a place where she could go to forget about being lonely, if only for a couple of hours. After a while, she realized that clubs were nice because they reminded you that you weren't really alone, but they didn't force you to be social if you didn't want to be. Allison could sit by herself or dance by herself or get drunk by herself and not have to say a word to anyone. Because after a while, she realized that she actually didn't mind being alone. She got used to it again, just like she had in high school, and found that it wasn't so bad after all, especially when it was on purpose and not because everyone thought she was a witch.

The opening act finished up at about 9:30 just as Allison was finishing her drink. She wasn't really looking forward to the night's main attraction, some Seattle-based grunge group with long hair and torn flannel shirts. Reluctantly, she gave up her coveted seat at the bar and headed back outside into the cold.

When she got to her building, Allison took the stairs two at a time and ended up at the door of her fifth floor apartment shivering and out of breath. She shared the apartment with her roommate Cecilia, whom she'd met at the candy store when Cecilia had started working there in the summer of 1985. Even though Allison didn't give her any indication that she needed a friend, Cecilia had started talking to her as if they were best buddies and never stopped, even when she got fired for making out with one of the worker boys in the stock room. Allison agreed to let her stay with her and split the rent until Cecilia found a new job and could afford a place of her own. After three years, Allison had to assume that she wasn't leaving anytime soon.

The apartment was very small, but efficient, with a kitchen, a living room, a bathroom and two small bedrooms. Allison shared the bathroom, which was hardly bigger than a closet, with Cecilia and Cecilia's male friends, who stayed over all of the time without even asking. Many a morning had Allison wandered into the bathroom to get ready for work, only to find her toothpaste gone, the toilet seat up, and used shaving cream clinging to the sides of the sink.

Allison walked through the living room, stepping over a huge stack of Cecilia's trashy romance novels, and pulled off her gloves, which she let fall onto the couch as she passed. When she got to her room, she tugged off her scarf and jacket and shoes and threw them into a pile at the foot of her bed. The first thing she did was pull a handful of tapes from a box on top of her dresser, sifting through them until she settled on Joan Baez's Diamonds and Rust.

She had just finished changing into a pair of men's boxer shorts and a t-shirt when the phone rang. She hardly ever answered her phone, but she walked into the kitchen anyway so that she could screen the call. As the automated messaged droned on, she poured herself a glass of water and leaned back against the counter. Finally, the machine beeped and a very familiar voice came onto the line.

"Uh, Allison? It's Brian. Brian Johnson…"

A/N: I'll try to have the next chapter, John's, posted as soon as possible, though I don't know when that will be. Have patience, please. : ) Thanks.