|Nick's just over at the Whitney, so when he's done he'll walk over and get me, or sometimes I'll wait by the gate on the street with the limosuine drivers, watching traffic, or letting the white lights in the trees blur into stars in my stinging eyes.
Neither of us can sleep, and the heat's been unbearable recently during honest people's waking hours, and I can't sit at the Majestic for long without wanting to scream, so we'll go down and pay for drinks and gasoline with dollar bills and change and go drive the city. He's never seen another one, no Chicago or New York, just Detroit, with all it's empty hulks and ghosts.
When he's alone, he says, the old women on the corners'll pull up their shirts, roll up their skirts, no teeth, no underwear.
They don't do it so much when I'm along.
He pretends that's why he brings me with him.