ALVI DRAKE
They speak to you in Los Angeles , soon as dusk settles , every night — all night . Some give off a lazy buzz while others pulse in crackles , hellish arrows pointing in the same direction that my life ’ s been headed . Down . I ’ d never paid much attention to them until Angie became drunk on their siren calls . Documented every neon tube in the city . That was back when she wanted to write a book about them , back when we were foolish enough to believe everything would pan out for us — a family , a future . Sometimes , I wish I still felt that way — interested in the world ’ s possibilities ; but , I know better . Right now is as good as it gets these days , alone , seated in my bucket Mercedes that runs on waste vegetable oil . Grating lines of Xanax and Vicodin ES to suck into my face helps numb the void while I monitor Santa Monica Boulevard . I ’ m here most nights to make sure my friends remain safe as they strut their wares up the block . The array of prosties runs the gamut : runaways , veterans , transexuals and others . Most nights pass with a flotsam of johns and the occasional vice raid . Mongo usually has me drive some of the girls to appointments when the heat is on , sending a couple bucks or a free high my way . Tonight she works the boulevard because she ’ s short a few hundred to cover rent . This is all thanks to Gabby . No one has seen her in a few days . I want to think she skipped town with the cash she owed Mongo , but my gut won ’ t allow it . Hell , the girl had it in her , but something feels off . We dated for a few weeks when she first came into town last year . Dated ? More like watched movies , fucked — then let her take all the drugs , booze and money I had .
I don ’ t always know better .