Scene 4: Christmas 1979 -- New York

"Oh God! Oh fuck!" moaned Marisol, and she squealed through clenched teeth as the third orgasm rocked her body. Below her thrusting up and pulling her down with his hands on her hips, Phil roared his climax, a powerful one he'd held until she came with him.

In their rapture they had ignored the persistent ringing of the phone. Staying at his father's Manhattan apartment made the call even less likely for Phil.

Amidst the roar and the squeal, the answering machine clicked on. "I hope you're there," said a high voice. "It's Edie! I don't think she's breathing!"

Almost sending Marisol sailing onto the hardwood floor, she held on as he tilted his body enough to grab the bedside phone.

"Hello? Who's this?"

"Myra. You remember me?"

"Of course. What's going on?"

"She had too much I think."

"Too much what?"

"Heroin," whispered Edie's cute Japanese lesbian lover.

"Oh shit. Where are you?"

"I don't know," she bawled. After a sniffle she said, "Just a second." Indirectly Phil heard Myra yell, "What's the fucking address! Tell me!" She returned to the phone. "212 East Tenth Street."

"Apartment?"

"Just a second." The phone again banged down. A second later, Myra told him, "5. It's on the second floor."

"Good. Anybody there that can help you?"

"They're all fucking lying there completely ignoring the situation stoned out of their gourd!"

"I know it's hard, but you have to ... Is there a shower?"

"Unh-hunh."

"You need to drag her in there and pour cold water on her."

"I'm so little."

"You have to Myra. She told me she did it for a friend who OD'd."

"I'll try."

With a pop, Marisol released his penis from its wet sheath. Gathering her clothes and his, she tossed his onto him and pulled her dark maroon winter dress over her head.

"Myra, I'm calling the ambulance. But try to get her to wake. Tell your fucked up friends they'd better stash their shit and fucking help you."

"They're not my friends."

"Good for you, honey. We'll be there as soon as possible."

Marisol's nakedness covered, she turned her back to Phil and he zipped her up. While Phil finished dressing she called 911.

Not wanting the frustration of waiting for the old elevator and having it take forever to reach the ground floor, they descended the stairs with echoing, rapid staccato thuds of rubber soles. Running to Fifth Avenue, they caught a cab. Phil promised a big tip for swiftness.

At the apartment building, they witnessed Edie's body being carried out, fortunately her head uncovered. Though a pallid face, a mix of pale yellow and pale blue like a fading bruise, her eyes glazed, she smiled softly at Phil and quietly told him, "I'll be alright." Her gurney disappeared into the ambulance, Bellevue written on its side.

Room 5 had its door open. Phil and Marisol entered. No one seemed home. The kitchen had a shallow layer of water surrounding a tub with a shower hose attached to the faucet, the tub sitting incongruously in the small space. They heard a flush and went out to the hallway.

Tapping on the water closet door, Phil said, "Myra? It's Phil."

"It's open," she said.

Entering, they found Myra leaning over the toilet on her knees. A leather jacket covered her torso, at least the back. Black panties covered her small butt. Phil looked around for a towel. Seeing none, he pulled off some toilet paper. Myra leaned back, showing her matching bra covering her small breasts. Phil wiped the remnants of vomit from around her lips. Most made it into the toilet.

"I feel better," said Myra.

Marisol and Phil helped her to her feet and walked with her into the apartment. Once seated on a bed, Marisol ripped off the blanket from another bed and covered her shivering body. The open door had let the chill of winter enter the small shotgun apartment. Phil closed it. The clanking radiator hopefully would restore heat.

"I think we saved her," smiled Myra.

"Whose apartment is this?" Phil asked.

Myra shrugged. "A couple of punk rockers Edie knows. We met them at Max's and she helped them score. She even scored some works, you know a syringe. She fixed me with half a bag and did the other half and another and I guess it was some good shit, you know. She figured I'm too little to handle more. Turns out ... she couldn't either." Her eyes looked sad, but no tears emerged.

"You're still stoned," said Phil.

Myra nodded. "It made me nauseous, but when Edie went out, I sort of forgot it. I tossed Edie's purse, found your number. She planned on calling you in the morning and surprising you I guess. Once ... everything got taken care of ... I could finally puke." She giggled hoarsely and coughed. "I understand the charm, Phil. Despite everything, I feel amazingly good."

"Where's the residents?" asked Marisol.

Myra studied her. "Who are you?"

"I'm sorry. I'm Marisol. I'm a friend."

"Of Phil's?"

"Eddie's too."

Myra's lovely almond shaped eyes, half shut, opened wide. "You're Sol! I peaked at one of your letters. You fucked her too."

"Just once. We're just friends. I'm not going to take her from you. She loves you."

"But you're beautiful."

"You too, Myra."

Myra chuckled. "Not especially."

"You're kidding, right? You're lovely and cute and beautiful. Not many women have all three. I'm no threat. I have my love. The big lug sitting next to you."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Never mind."

"About fucking Phil?"

"You know and don't hate me?"

Marisol sighed. "It's ... complicated, my relationship. Let's just say I don't get jealous. I want my big bear happy, and unfortunately I can't provide that much."

"Complicated."

"Yeah," Marisol nodded sadly. Phil reached for her and she sat on his lap. "So ... the residents?"

"They split. Got worried about the police. At least Tim helped me with Edie. He's a huge man, but sweet. The ambulance guy said they try not to bring the police in for these ... emergencies. They'd rather be called and save some ... junkie ... then the person getting abandoned for fear of arrest. Of course no one knew that ahead of time. We were having such fun. I loved seeing Edie in her element. Her friends seem to brighten in her presence. I almost convinced myself I'd stolen her life from her, keeping her in the small town where nothing much happens except education and sophomoric conversations and an occasional drunk night at a local tavern, away from the myriad adventures here in Manhattan, but she gleefully introduced me to her fawning friends and they welcomed me and made me feel like one of them and it made me smile and her smile lightened even more and then she introduces me to heroin and injection and it nearly kills her."

The rapid fire monologue emerged from the petite woman like she had injected speed instead of the supposed soporific. Despite their concerns for their friend and Myra's lover, both Phil and Marisol chuckled. "You need to breathe, Little One," Phil suggested.

"I have this surge of energy," Myra responded, though her half open eyes and her head hanging listlessly from her long curved neck appeared to belie that. "I feel I could walk for miles, except my clothes got wet showering Edie." She nodded towards hangars holding her flannel shirt and jeans died a soft purple placed over the noisy radiator. "And anyway, I should go to the hospital and..."

Phil shook his head. "Maybe you should wait until you're not so stoned."

"How would they know?"

Phil asked Marisol, "Do you have your compac?"

Marisol found it and opened it and gave it to Myra.

"Notice your pupils, Myra. They're like pin pricks."

"We call it getting pinned," said Tim, startling Phil and Marisol. "It's what we crave to see."

"Where'd you come from?" asked Marisol. The large man with a boyish face had a body like a basketball three quarters inflated, yet he crept into their presence catlike.

"Sorry," Tim smiled, leaning on the wall separating the front room from the kitchen. "I hid in the bedroom." Gesturing behind him, a doorway with no door framed blackness. Rubbing his nose, his pale blue eyes showed their pinned pupils. "If you want, you could wear one of my shirts. It'd be a tent for you."

After introductions, Myra thanked Tim for helping save her girlfriend. He waved it off. "I was being an asshole like my so called friends until you slapped me ... hard."

"Sorry."

"Why? I deserved it. So ... Tent?"

"If you don't mind."

Tim padded into the back bedroom, a light soon illuminating the rectangle, and reemerged with a khaki long sleeved shirt. On the back, which he proudly displayed, an epigram done in black paint with a narrow brush read, "What Really Matters Is Immaterial—SAMO."

"Cool, hunh?" said Tim.

"Who's SAMO?" asked Marisol.

"You haven't seen his graffiti?" Every one shook their heads. "He's a graffiti artist and ... an artist artist. He's like the coolest guy I know and that's saying a lot here in the land of cool. You see, when you write statements like this on walls around the city, you become a well known enigma. Many people, more people than would see your work on some fancy museum wall, experience your work. He's quite famous and completely unknown. That'll change."

"I couldn't take..."

Interrupting, his eyes sad, he explained, "I just get fatter. I can't even button the damn thing. Besides, it would be an honor for Edie's lover to have it. Maybe it would spread the word of SAMO to the New England high brow intelligentsia."

With a heartstoppingly cute half smile, Myra stood; leaving blanket and jacket behind, and walked into the fat man's arms and hugged him. "Thanks Tim."

"Call me Rockets, my friends. Rockets Redglare. It's my nom de Punk."

"Thanks, Rockets." Putting on the shirt, it proved to be a tent.

"Just a second," said Rockets. Returning to his room, he came back with a red vinyl tie. He sat on the bed where Myra had sat and tied it around her waist, making several knots. It almost looked fashionable. Shrugging, he said, "It'll do."

"I'll return it when I get my clothes," said Myra.

"Why? You won't want to return here. The tie is cheap and so last year. Take your clothes. Toss them in your cute Vulva. It's not quite freezing out. They'll dry."

She hugged him again. "Thanks Tim. You're really sweet."