---

rich was here, of course i thought am i dreaming or is this a miracle or am i dead maybe. he knocked. ignoring the doorbell is so typical of rich. when i got the door however, he just looked at my feet and said he didn't want anything. he had to go, no he couldn't stay for coffee, meeting someone important, going somewhere doing something. i told him ''make haste then, mylord'' and smiled playfully. i don't think he heard me at all.

                                                                           ----

well screw it i said i have laundry to do anyway, so as i was pouring detergent into the washer i heard the phone. walt groaned on the other side, and with almost unintelligible guttural sounds he announced we had to meet as soon as possible. a couple of hours later there we were, me in my pajamas and walt in a Devil suit; hayfork, bifurcated tail and everything. i bit my lip not to say ''lose the beard walt, you look like Santa''. we drank milkless tasteless coffee and discussed the book he was planning to get published. the title was leaves of grass- the story of getting high. i told him it was long overdue, people wouldn't read it, he had taken too long. as he didn't believe me i mentioned several musicians who had previously made the mistake of waiting years and years to release a much promised record. ''look what it's done to them, walt.''

leaving the coffee shop it occurred to me how much i hated being in New York.