a/n: Enormous thanks to my pre-reader Liz3615 for holding my hand through this and my beta EverlastingMuse for trying to fix my mistakes!

…who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in

Paradise Alley, death or purgatoried their

torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-

cohol and cock and endless balls…

"Howl"

Allen Ginsberg

1956

Peter and I were drinking with Burroughs and some young man he had his eye on at the San Remo. Peter and I drank cheap Italian wine and smoked weed. We called it reefer then. Burroughs was in a functional nod like the maintenance junkie he was. The young man was taking Benzedrine and drinking whisky. A combination I always thought was both ridiculous and masochistic.

It was a weeknight, a quiet night in September. We discuss sex and what drugs make it better. I know, it's embarrassing. The conversation was usually more intellectually impressive, you know, God, the Devil, choice, fate, what-have-you. But with just Burroughs and a chicken there just wasn't much motivation.

There was the sound of scuffling outside and one of the hookers who hung around us those days ran in looking for help.

"It's Dewey, he's been in a fight and he's bleeding like a pig!" She was overexcited and unsteady on her feet but the place was quiet enough that we could hear her fine. I got up to go to the door.

Dewey was a nobody, an old bum, but he had done me a good turn when I was new in town and I felt obligated to help him out.

"Leave the scum to the cops to deal with." Peter didn't want to get involved too much with the low-lifes, he didn't know he was living with one.

"Fuck off, Peter. Are you worried Mama's gonna find out?" I knew exactly how to push his buttons. I shouldn't have been biting the hand that fed me but it made me angry some times, what a voyeur he was, you know, slumming it with the freaks in the Lower East Side while he called his mom on Sundays.

I went outside to see Dewey slumped on the sidewalk, slumped over and bleeding. I asked him what happened but he was too out of it. I yelled into the bar to Peter that I was going to take him over to Beth-Israel. He ignored me. The whore and I propped Dewey up between us and started to walk him over to the hospital. I had to offer her some money or some dope, whichever I could get my hands on, but it was worth it to clear my debt with Dewey. We made it about half a block and were just cutting through the park when a man approached us, coming out of the dark.

I was frightened at first, I knew from firsthand experience that bad things could happen to girls in the park at night. But when I looked at him closely I decided to take a chance.

To start with he was obviously rich. He had an expensive suit and overcoat on and what he paid for his shoes would have paid Peter's rent for six months. I'd never owned those kinds of things but some of these guys came around in those days, looking to experience the underbelly of the Village. He was pale and I could see blond hair underneath his hat.

Being rich didn't mean he wasn't a pervert or killer but he just didn't have the look. Besides, he was carrying, of all things, a doctor's bag.

"Your friend looks like he needs some help," he said. "I'm a doctor. Can I take a look at him?" I agreed readily and he set his bag down and began examining Dewey, who we had set down on the path.

He said his name was Carlisle and he was on his way home after dinner with a friend. He patched Dewey up and helped us get him to the Emergency Room. He said that Dewey might not have made it if we hadn't seen him. He was polite and gentle. He didn't look askance at me or the hooker, nor did he ask how Dewey had gotten hurt. He insisted on giving the old whore some cab fare, which she doubtless spent on pills.

He asked me to have a meal with him at one of those all night diners. I was pretty sure I knew what was coming next. An offer of some money for some attention, a request for a connection for what the Village had to offer: sex, drugs, girls, boys, whatever his ache was for.

I complied, because I could stand to benefit from this deal. Besides, he was kind and that was a quality that was rare for me to encounter in those days.

I ordered a hamburger and some pie. He got some coffee but didn't drink a drop, just wrapped his hands around it, first one, then the other, as if cold or nervous. I figured it was the latter, it's not easy for nice guys to step into their sin, even if every ounce of them desired it.

So I tried to make it easy on him. I told him what I could do for him; I spread the menu of the East Side out in front of him, even using the most tantalizing adjectives.

I told him I what I could do for him with my body, my mouth. I told him that I would hurt him if that's what he wanted. Or he could humiliate me, tie me up, that was a popular one. Teacher and student, tempted priest, whatever story he had been dreaming about. I told him that if I wasn't his taste I could find what he wanted; Asian girls, Greek boys, fat women, prep school students. If it wasn't sex did he want to take a vacation from his mind? The Village had a pharmacy of prescription drugs and a forest of illicit ones for him to chose from.

Carlisle looked at me with such ageless, deep sadness that I had to look again at his young face to reassure myself that he wasn't really 100 years old. He sighed and said that he didn't want any of that. He asked me how I happened to be living this way when I was so young and he told me he wanted to help me.

I was humiliated and furious. How dare he treat me as though I was someone to be pitied, as if I were powerless! I got up from the table and told him to leave me the hell alone and I left.

I had met my second and most loving father and I had cursed him. But I would see him again in just a few weeks when he brought me back from the dead the first time.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Nick Geracimos set his messenger bag down on the floor of the small electronics store and set the digital recorder and a package of batteries on the counter to pay. He was sure that his notes and memory would help him to reconstruct the story so far but he wanted a better way to record her story for the next time they met.

She was insane, that much was true. Talking about the East Village in 1954 when there was no way she was older than 20 or 21, easily half his age. Crazy or some kind of eccentric performance artist. Either way, Nick had lived long enough in the city to have seen some strange things and he knew a great story when he heard it, whether or not it was true. Either she was crazy and he could write the story of an encounter with a brilliant, crazy woman or she was a highly talented storyteller and they could collaborate; his connections at magazines and her creativity. It was a win-win situation.

But he knew that wasn't why he agreed to follow her back to her hotel room and listen to her talk. It was those mesmerizing eyes, flawless face, exquisite body and even her smell. Everything about her drew him in, took away his power to say no.

And then she started to tell her crazy story and he was hooked. He weighed the possibilities in his head and tried to figure the odds on her sleeping with him. She certainly talked as if she was sexually promiscuous and even if she wasn't, maybe she would be so grateful to him for listening to her crazy story that she would have sex with him. He decided to bring a bottle of wine to their next appointment.

Nick made his way to his apartment and pushing his door open he noticed a white envelope on the floor. There was no gap between the floor and the front door and no way for someone to get the envelope there without getting in the door, whether they broke in or had a key. But there it was, on the floor just 2 feet away from the door. He picked it up. The paper was heavy, textured, expensive. His name was written on the front, just his first name. The script was feminine, elegant and written with a heavy, dark ink.

He opened it and read the letter that was written in the same old-fashioned, heavy hand.

Dear Nick,

It is very dangerous for you to hear her story; it could cost you your life. If you don't show up for your next meeting she won't pursue you. Please believe me when I say you have no idea what you are getting involved with. Please consider it.

Yours Truly,

A Concerned Stranger

Nick laughed. It was just the kind of theatrics he could see her participating in. She had to know how making what they were doing seem dangerous would do to a writer with any curiosity whatsoever.

Whether she was crazy or just some eccentric artist Nick knew that there was no way he wouldn't make their next meeting. This was too good to pass up.

a/n: Thank you to my early adopters willing to give this a try! I'm only a little out of my depth!

Also, there's a compilation being put together for Fandom against Domestic Violence. There are 130 authors, including some of my favorites. Go here: http:/fandomagainstdomesticviolence (dot) blogspot (dot) com/ (remove my spaces) to check it out. I have never participated in one of these but the cause is particularly compelling for me and I hope they can get a ton of support! Thanks! JuJu