Egon slept through his subway stop.

He slept through the next one.

And the next.

Head back, mouth open, he slept through more stops, sweating, breath ragged and raspy…

…as someone grabbed him by the braids, holding him down by them, the sting of a belt on his shoulder blades, of hiding under beds while his father raged around the house looking for him, stealing cigarettes from the candy store, of lighting up in the school bathroom while trying to memorize formula, staring longingly at the dresses in the downtown shop windows, getting caught stealing a pair of shoes, of stealing leftover spaghetti from the trash cans behind his best friend's father's garage one cold night because his new stepmother wanted to go the Vegas and didn't want a kid along, of picking the lock of his best friend's house during Christmas break, softly walking into his room, watching him sleep on clean sheets, of envying his microscope, his telescope, his model molecules and the poster of Einstein, of taking the stack of coveted college textbooks – they were so rich they wouldn't miss them, right?

(So that's where they got off to.)

If he could only read them, he could catch up with his best friend and join him...

...of running away to Woodstock, of wandering around in the music and the mud at the age of thirteen in a dress made of somebody's old lace curtains, half stoned out of his mind, hair unbraided and down to his waist, flowing in the wind as Jimi Hendrix (I hate Jimi Hendrix.) bared it all through his guitar and Janis (Who is Janis?) took everyone all the way – doing everyone that came along, of getting caught on the ride to Haight-Ashbury when the Quaaludes he'd gulped down reacted bad so that the ghosts he could usually ignore became threatening and he'd flaked out during Easy Rider (That was a boring movie without a point.) and being sent home to his father in disgrace, of being dragged through the house, (a strange, dirty house, not at all the surgical cleanliness his mother demanded) as his stepmother (I have no step mother.) jeered insults, the slap of the belt, back still stinging from the belt, back in blue jeans, taking the books out of their hiding place under his mattress, making notes in the margins, promising that he'd return them as soon as he understood them – they were so rich they wouldn't miss them, of going back to school, the stares, the ghosts, always the ghosts, his grandmother screaming until the County took over, the welcome silence, the belt, the stares, the running away over and over again, of sending his best friend a birthday present – his favorite snack and a drawing that took a week to do when his dad and the teachers weren't looking, of wondering if he got it (My freshman room mate, Peter Venkman, tore the drawing into strips and roiled joints in the paper. Then he ate the Twinkie after smoking an entire nickel bag of marijuana during finals.) of never hearing from him, of stealing pot roast from his dad's trash cans one night because he couldn't take the hunger and it had smelled so good, of hitchhiking to MIT and standing outside in the dark, ghosts, curtain dress, and unbraided hair swirling around him in the evening breeze looking up at his profile in the third floor window against the light as he studied until 2 a.m. – wanting to toss a pebble against the window to get his attention just so he could wave and maybe come up and hang out for a while, maybe talk physics and art but not having the courage, of getting sent back by Campus Security, of another beating, in school suspension, of accidentally failing English Composition, of dropping out surrounded by ghosts, of hitchhiking to Haight Ashbury of hooking to earning his way – men like 'em young, of wandering the streets of San Francisco, caught up in the magic until he got caught and sent back in disgrace… of the abortion, (?) of dropping out, of trying to get into the WACS (I sat with Peter as he got silently drunk the day his mother's letter came informing him that his older brother Robert had been killed in the Tet Offensive, would he please come home for the funeral?) Of trying to get into the WAVES, the SPARS, the WRENS - nobody wants a minor with a record...

...of being personally asked to leave the Family by Charlie Manson himself because he was too weird even for them, of hearing the news of what Charlie and his Family had done to Sharon Tate the night after he'd left, underage, hung over, and wondering where he could go, the books that he thought were his ticket OUT so very far away under the mattress in his room, his old man waiting for him with a belt (My father never laid a hand on me.), of sending another birthday present...

...of waking up one day in the mid-70s in rehab, of walking into a High School somewhere in Kansas City and absent-mindedly passing the G.E.D. upon request without even studying, of getting into some small-time State university (I was working on my fourth Doctorate at Cornell.), of casually wandering through the four years it took to get a B.F.A in art because it was the only thing he could think of, figuring that he was stupid to even think he could play in his now un-findable best friend's league, of taking small jobs here and there just to pay the rent, of blowing his stack, ghosts streaming around him… of wondering where hi best friend had gotten off to, of seeing his picture on a national magazine the day he got fired AGAIN for blowing up at a client and his stupid diaper campaign, of facing reality and doing the best her could to record what he saw that everybody else seemed able to ignore...

...of getting a tattoo of an 8 ball on one hand because it seemed right... (Tattoos are irrational.)

...of finding a gallery willing to sell his work, of waking up in the back of his battered BMW at 2 a.m. reading by the flickering dome light once more about his best friend in the same old magazine, of how he was doing so much better than he was, of how he wanted so badly to see him again, of finding the courage to go home (I don't like home.) one more time because maybe your best friend would like his books back and hey, stealing 'em hadn't been as good an idea as it had seemed at the time, what had it gotten him?

…of not even making it to his old room before his old man caught him slipping back into the house he'd tried his best to escape over and over again.

…of the argument that led to a shoving match.

…of falling in the kitchen...

…of catching the back of his head on the edge of the stove on his way to the dirty, cracked linoleum.

…of the world going red, then black as his father, dirty and unshaven as ever, leaned over his him, slapping his face, shaking him, apologizing for the first time in his angry, drunken life, trying to get him up on his feet as hot fluid poured out of his ears.

…of being dimly aware of being wrapped in something.

…of a long, rough ride.

…of the cold…

…of the sensation of flying, stopped the cold, wet slap of water… (Help! Dad, where are you?)

…of trying to break free… (I can't breathe!)

…of bobbing to the surface… (This isn't real.)

…unable to move… the water painfully cold… (Help! Father, how could you do this to me?)

…fading away watching the stars as the icy current dragged him under a bridge he thought he recognized…

"Yo, buddy. You can either sleep it off in the drunk tank or you can sleep it off in your own bed. What'll it be?"

Egon surfaced, gasping, dropping the painting, banging his head on the glass window behind him, trying to process what was going on in his head while focusing on the cop standing over him poking him with a kitana.

Egon mumbled out something, gathered up the painting (The phrenology head was gone, as was his wallet), and with a slight stagger accompanied by hot and cold chills, made his way out of the empty subway car, across the platform, up the stairs and on to the street where it was snowing, only the snow melted before it could reach the ground.

"Sorry, asshole didn't mean to leak all over you like that."

"Who said that?" Egon turned slowly, thick glasses glinting in the streetlights overhead, eyes scanning; except for the falling snow and the painting, he was alone.

He waved down the one lone cab that he saw; Peter, or was it Ray? Paid his fare when he got back to the station.