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.