I left school in the middle of my second year, just packed up one day
and hitched back to the city without telling a soul. Not being able
to afford anything else, I moved back in with my mother.
It was a pathetic situation. Pissed at me for not having
finished my studies, she immediately started in about
my motel lifestyle, complaining that I only came
back to her place to sleep, never to talk with
her or do anything around the house. Her
recriminations only made me stay out
all the more. I hit the bars
harder and did everything
I could to avoid
contact with
her.


I
went
out every
night-- rain,
sleet or snow--making
the rounds of the baby-doll
bars, alone, staring at girls who
looked just like the ones at the college
I'd run away from. The same tacky, jappy,
preppy, snub-nosed little wenches. They were
repulsively attractive, exciting in me equal amounts of
l u s t a n d d i s g u s t.



Sometimes I'd try my old routine, the sarcastic
scholastic, on some chicklet, but they didn't seem to
buy it. I must have lost my ability to hide contempt.
Maybe my poor hygiene habits were becoming more
noticeable. I only managed to latch onto a girl once
every two hundred drinks, once every thirty bars,
once every seventy-five bouts of depression, and
when I did get my claws into one of them, I had no
place to drag her. I couldn't bring her home to Mom,
and if she didn't live with her own Mom, she usually
lived with three of four other bimbos in a shoe box.
When I would suggest slipping behind a dumpster,
or sneaking up onto some rooftop, or even going over
to the East River Park and doing it under the bridge,
they'd stare at me in horror and disbelief, and back away
from me as if I was one large,sexually-communicable disease.