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The lights were dim, the air choked with smoke, and the room was expanding. The walls throbbed as they stretched so far beyond their bounds that Jack gave up hope of ever reaching the exit on the other side. So instead of trying to escape he stared at the vague image of a cracked colorless ceiling panel that floated over semi-conscious Ed’s curving back and shoulder blades slouched against the gray carpeted wall. Ed’s cheeks shuddered with the thump of bass and drums, and his legs, flat against the sticky floor, twitched and twisted while his limp head floated and brushed Jack’s left cheek and then dangled over his own chest, his mouth drooped open.

Over on Jack’s other side June Lee’s small sweet head bobbed up and down, on and off Jack’s numb right shoulder, her legs also flat against the floor and her black leather miniskirt stretched tightly above her knees. Strands of thick long black hair fell in front of her face, fell on Jack’s shoulder, across his chest, back across her own shoulder and chest.

Jack’s own legs were covered in torn faded blue denim. His dry pink tongue hung from a gaping mouth that earlier in the evening had been attached and then detached from a small, oval head that now bounced on a soft wall in an expansive dark loud basement somewhere on Fifteenth or Sixteenth Street, very late. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels stood erect between his thighs.

In one far-off corner of the dark room 25 dull metal kegs of beer surrounded an old heavy wooden board-room table, and behind the kegs and the table stood two smiling bar tenders, two nameless demons of decrepitude, young, blond, blue, strong confident confidants of Martin O’Connor, the 22-year-old Belfast hood who had organized so many other Thursday nights for the idle rocket scientists, poets, painters, musicians, theater flirts and other wayward learners and loafs who, if it weren’t for Martin, would have been doing the same thing elsewhere.

A long line of fifty thin, fleshy, wobbly-legged blacked-out beauties waited for more beer, damn it, more beer. They smoked dope while they waited.

Three homeless rag sculptures had somehow slipped past the bouncer with the Uzi under his coat, and this was no small deed, actually an impossible deed that Martin would never explain. And looking closer it was obvious that plenty others had slipped past Martin’s dear family friend with the gun as if somehow Martin mocked his paying guests by letting in three filthy old drunks and a small army of teenage punks who crashed heads on the dance floor and kicked each other in the shins like real Irish O’Connors, maybe other sons and nephew’s of Martin’s dad, whose boy had done just fine in the family trade, the crack and coke and heroine, the methamphetamine, the girls from where ever, the protection, the guns. And the boy was good at architecture too. Elbows knocked, liquid dripped, the endless stream of sweaty stimulated guests bopped and burped and giggled and guzzled and smoked and snorted the night away and three tired, sober stinking old men waited for a free cup of warm, cheap, watered down beer.

In the middle of the basement a large mob jerked and contorted to the raucous guitar and drum thrash that screamed from all four corners of the rectangular room. There was a disc jockey in one corner, murmuring under the music, “Come on hearts and souls, eat it. Beat it. Feel the groove, that’s right girlies, feel the groove. Feel it. Do you like it?”

Jack had seen the DJ standing tall in one of the corners, behind a barricade of amplifiers and turntables and mixing boards and mesmerizing red and purple lights and a blond-haired ruby-lipped girl attached to his arm. But the room had expanded so much that Jack could no longer find the corner. The room had been perfectly rectangular and Jack looked where each corner should have been, but he couldn’t find the sound system or the DJ or the wet red lips. The DJ’s voice still bellowed, but his body and his sound system and his babe were gone. Jack squinted, strained to see each corner of the room, but all he could see were dark shadows from another world dancing in a dull smoky haze. A strobe light flashed against a mirror ball spinning in the ceiling and white glowing freckles danced across the faces and bodies of the shadows. Jumping up, falling down, kicking, licking, reeling, feeling faces were indistinguishable in the blurred frenzy of the dance. Jack spotted Olivia Dibonelli’s twisting and shaking tightly bound ass and he noticed his right arm around June’s shoulder, two fingers on her right breast, her bra-less hard nipple and soft bosom beneath her loose white T-shirt, and Olivia that intoxicating Italian slut from Staten Island faded into the background of blurry non-persons. Jack pulled Jack Daniels from between his legs and tossed the empty man onto the dance floor where he smashed, unnoticed by anyone else but Ed and June.

The trio bobbed their heads forward and looked at each other through their glazed blood-shot eyes as dancers bounced and scraped and jumped on the broken shards of glass. Jack continued to rub June’s tit, thinking of Alice at home painting another heart-wrenching rose. He glanced to his right, tried to look into June’s eyes. He could see his hand moving in slow circles, his fingers depressed slightly into her, he could see the floor shiny with spilled beer, and he could see her small round knee and her tight calf muscle in Central Park a week earlier when she said Jack, I’m crazy about you, can’t we go out? And he hugged her and pulled her tightly into him and said “No, I don’t think so, Alice is great. But thanks.”

Had she felt the erection against her that afternoon? He could see her on Wednesday, after an English class, walking down Broadway, away from him, and Ed said, “Forget it Jack. She’s okay. We’re cool,” and June crossed Canal Street while Jack and Ed were caught at the light, and a tall black man wearing bright green Martian antennae and a maroon turtle neck asked them if they wanted to buy a telephone, and the light turned green but the street was still full of cars and trucks, honking horns, screaming street vendors, an angry police officer yelled at the Martian telephone salesman “Move your ass. Move it pal. Move that nigger ass,” and Jack looked up into Ed’s dark sun glasses and they didn’t say anything, they just looked at each other and then they looked across the street, and June was gone.

They fell forward and looked at each other again as Martin O’Connor walked across the room with cups of beer in both hands and a cigarette hanging from his mouth, he glided across the dance floor, between and around couples, and the left handed beer landed on a Venus in a skin tight black little thingy. Martin didn’t see who she was, didn’t stop, he didn’t care, it was his goddamn party and he didn’t stop until he stood proudly before Jack, the cigarette held so suavely between his thumb and pointer finger.

Martin smiled, revealed his yellow chipped teeth, and his eyes and nose glowed red against his jet black hair and his leather bomber jacket which he bragged was once an R.A.F. pilot’s.

“Lush,” Martin said to Jack.

They both wore blue jeans and white shirts, Jack’s a hand-painted mustard-stained pocket T from
Canal Jeans, Martin’s a sweat-stained Brooks Brother’s oxford with his monogram, MAO, stitched on the left cuff.

Jack feared that with the red eyes and the expansive smile, Martin O’Connor was on the verge of some sort of catastrophic explosion, like the bombs he’d cheered in Northern Ireland and London and that he claimed his cousins had helped design.

“Hey mister Martin,” Jack said. “Lose any customers today?”

“Every day, Jackky,” Martin answered in that New York-Irish boxer lilt that challenged anyone and everyone to a fight. “In this city you got accidents every day Jackky. It’s a dangerous world.”

“No shit,” Jack said.

“Hey, Jackky boy, it’s for a good cause, don’ t you fear. Trust me. It takes two to tango. So talk to me Tuesday or Wednesday after lunch. I got something you might like. Hey Jackky, you know Junie’s wearin’ pink undies?”

June drew her legs together and pulled her skirt down as far as it would go, still several inches above her knees.

“Thanks for noticing Martin,” June said. “You’re a fine observer of life.” Jack’s hand was still moving slowly over her breast.

“Couldn’t help noticing. Boys will be boys. Ain’t that right Jackky?” Martin laughed and said, “So how are my favorite guests tonight? Jackky, how’s my favorite pal?”

Martin’s idea of a pal was that if you wanted something, you bought it from Martin and then you were his pal. Martin had lots of pals at his “Charity Ball” and he was looking after his $5-a-head all-you-can-drink bring your own smoke guests. He also kept an eye on the sons of bitches that got in for free.

“Well… Martin,” Jack slurred, “I’d like to, to respond, give you some sort of…clever answer…to that question of yours…this is research and, and development, isn’t that right Martin?”

“That’s right, Jackky boy. R & D. It pays off.”

Jack tried to stand but couldn’t.

“Whatever,” he said. “My head’s spinning so fast…too fast…too fast for an answer… Brain can’t figure out… Ed, you’re moving so fast…am I spinning as fast as you? The floor, it’s like an ocean, the waves, they won’t stop…”

“Sounds good Jackky,” Martin said, chuckling, puffing on his short cigarette. “Glad to get the nod of approval.”

“Yes,” Ed said, “I feel it.”

“So do I,” June said. “I’m getting sick. Jack, you better take your hand off my tit and help me up. See you Martin. Jack, Ed, better help me up fast.”

Jack blushed because of the attention called to his lecherous right hand, or was it attention called to her lecherous breast, or to a conspiracy between the two? He had forgotten about his hand, stopped noticing the nipple and the soft flesh. His numb fingers, indistinguishable from her chest, had been acting independently, on automatic. Instinct? Could he feel her up completely, leave the party, find a bed, strip down, get on top of her, without even noticing?

He thought of Alice at home painting something beautiful, the radio on softly, hour after hour rolling by without a notice that Jack, her Jack, was still out.

Martin smiled and walked away into the pulsing mob on the dance floor. Jack rolled onto his knees and stood up slowly, riding the waves of the floor.

“Up we go,” he said. The room was still spinning but had slowed down after June announced to the world that Jack was not a gentleman.

“Ed, ” Jack said, “Why don’t you accompany us to the john, because we three might not return, and if you’re not with me and June, then we three can not possibly not return together, but it would be nice if we three could not return together. Ed, are you following me?”

“Good point man, a decent language game , ” Ed said. “Yeah, let me just jot it down and then we’ll be off to where ever it is we three will be…or won’t be… You know…I told my parents I’d be home tonight.” Ed opened the small green spiral notebook and scribbled some notes to himself.

“Don’t worry man,” Jack said. “You’re a fucking adult.”

“If your dad’s pissed,” June said, “it’s only fair because you’re pretty pissed yourself. Besides, you might still get home tonight.”

“Lousy language game J, and it’s already tomorrow,” Ed said.

“Well don’t sweat it Ed, the man can’t kill you. Man, you’ve got to get out of there. Guys, forty-five seconds to critical. We better work fast. Where’s the john?”

They stood and stumbled forward and Jack’s vision went black for a moment as a ferocious rush of blood flowed into his head, and they moved toward the center of the basement where everyone was dancing. Jack held one of June’s hands and Ed held the other and they veered to the left toward doors with lights which might well have been bathrooms or exits. Christopher Harris Millbank The God Damned Third stood in front of one door.

“Chris,” Jack blurted, “Where’s the john?”

“Other side. See the door? The green light?” Jack turned and squinted across the dark dance floor and he saw the single point of light millions of miles beyond the DJ, far across a savanna inhabited by wild, hungry animals not yet aware of his presence.

“Let’s go,” Jack said. The three turned and aimed for the faint light of relief.

They headed again to the nebulous center of the dance floor but forgot to veer left-Jack was in the lead but not leading, just stumbling ahead in front of a crowd. Ed and June followed. They ended up smack in the middle of the incoherent, violent contortionist-dancers and Jack pushed, tried to find a path through, looked for openings in the mob while June groaned and held her stomach and Ed bent in half, and the music roared fiercely, ka-thump, ka-thump, thump, ka-thump, swish, ka-thump thump.

June threw up. Then Ed threw up.

“Somewhere else,” a faceless voice growled. Two animals on the dance floor picked up the scent and noticed the little orange and yellow chunks on the floor, one animal squawked in anger and terror while the other roared in disgust, but the other beasts just jumped into the new puddles as they had jumped into the broken glass and Jack turned to the two who had complained, two large boy-beasts with soft pale skin and no facial hair, broad shoulders, solid steel chests and matching red football jackets, numbers 25 and 44.

“Fuck you, ” Jack screamed at Number 25. Then Jack vomited.

The sputum landed near Number 44 but missed.

Jack asked June and Ed how they felt. They both moaned.

“Good,” Jack said. “Then it’s time to leave.” He wasn’t looking at the two out of place athletic types but he could feel their hot breath on his skinny, fuzzy neck as they lunged for his Adams apple, ready to rip through to the esophagus. Jack pulled on June’s hand, she followed, pulled on Ed’s hand, he followed. They searched desperately for the door and Jack could see Number 25 tugging at the jugular vein, poking fingers through the throat and ripping while Number 44 stood by laughing, repeatedly kicking Ed’s shattered, brain-soaked skull.

It was the sort of picture he might paint himself, one Alice would politely admire.

Jack, June and Ed at last found themselves running through a cold narrow hallway that led to the glowing red exit sign and they stumbled out into a stairwell one flight below street level. They crawled up the stairs to a cold, quiet late November West Fifteenth Street, just east of Fifth Avenue.

Jack led the way, pulling June and Ed away from the danger they had barely escaped. He turned left at the corner and walked east and they were across the street from Union Square when four blue and white police cars sped by and screeched to a halt in front of the basement party they had just left and they turned, still holding hands, warm moist soothing soft hands, and they listened to the screams and watched their schoolmates stampede out of the basement and Jack wondered who would be arrested but he drew a blank, he could not remember who was at the party and he could not imagine who would spend the night in jail.

Jack looked at June, at her leather jacket zipped tight up to her neck, at her teeth chattering, her eyes narrower than usual, and Ed stood frozen like a tall cracked tombstone, his spiked hair that usually pointed to heaven drooping slightly to one side, and Ed groaned and held his stomach and his head fell forward while June’s eyes flickered, she was so tired she could hardly stay awake in the freezing night air after escaping death and the cops and when she sleeps she must breath softly, curled in a ball, serene, peaceful, and with his arms around her and his hands on her chest in heaven Jack could sleep with June while Ed told the world, yes, I know where they are, they are in heaven, yes, to lie next to her, barely touching, that would be heaven…

The three laughed nervously as small dark shapes scrambled in terror from the long sober arm of the law. Jack, June and Ed turned back to the Union Square subway station. It was one-thirty in the morning. Ed had to go back to Queens, and Jack and June downtown a bit. Jack’s eyes met June’s for a moment, just long enough to plead, just long enough to hint at the heavenly night that might await them, then he looked at the sidewalk, then at Ed staring at the featureless sky poking through the rooftops.

“Let’s go home,” June said.

“I can’t,” Ed said.

Walk? Cab? Subway?

They walked east around Union Square to Broadway and and then down into the subway and they waited in the cold, damp subway station for the No. 6 to Houston Street. A glimmer of light on the tracks and a slight rush of wind warned of an oncoming train and a soft, gentle rumble grew to an explosive roar as eight burgundy cars rolled into the station. The brakes screamed and the doors slid open and Jack, June and Ed stepped softly into the warm belly of the snake. The doors shut tight behind them.

Ed’s head bounced against the window and Jack watched his own blurred reflection in the window as streaks of white and yellow light shot past. It could have been any time, any space, morning, night, a tunnel through the bedrock of Broadway or through moon dust circling an unknown planet in an unknown galaxy, they could have been anywhere or nowhere. The local to where? The end? They could spend the rest of their lives on the speeding No. 6 Lexington Avenue Local and never get anywhere. Was the train the means to their end, or they the means to the train’s end? And was Alice asleep, or was she waiting up?

The brakes squealed and Jack tugged on Ed’s sleeve as the train slowed. They walked to Jack’s six story apartment building on E. 6th Street. Jack unlocked the downstairs door and they climbed three floors of stairs that seemed so different with a guest, dirtier, more run down, the usually ignored grime glowed iridescent as they climbed higher, still higher to the apartment.

“Thanks,” Ed said as they approached the brown door.

June followed quietly. The apartment she shared with two other students was in the west village, but she didn’t like going home alone eat night so she came back with Jack and Ed.

Jack unlocked the door.

“There you are,” Alice said, standing before an easel in the living room. She was in her jeans and one of her painting shirts, a spattered white T-shirt. The lights were bright, she had Jane Siberry playing on the CD player, a glass of white wine at her feet.

“Hey Ed, hey June,” Alice said. “Where you been?”

“Martin’s,” Jack answered, circling to see the painting. “Ed and June are going to crash here tonight.

“Great,” Alice said, falling gently back into Jack to touch him, turning, kissing his nose.

“You all look like shit,” Alice said, smiling, pulling away from Jack. He returned his gaze to the painting. Alice was so good.

Ed and June led themselves past the clutter of magazines and newspapers and school books and Jack’s suit jacket hanging behind a dining chair and around a vacuum cleaner sprawled like a giant dead cockroach on the floor and they pulled sheets and pillows from the linen closet near the bathroom, then dragged the spare futon from another corner and unrolled it in the living room at the foot of the couch beneath the bay window - as far from Alice as possible. Ed had slept the past two nights there and two nights before that he had similarly crawled onto the futon on the floor. June used the bathroom, then shuffled back, took off her shoes.

“You have a nightgown?” she asked Alice.

Alice lent June a white cotton gown and June returned briefly to the bathroom, changed, then returned and flopped on the futon beside Ed. He stood and used the bathroom, then stretched next to June. They curled into each other’s arms, kissed, and Jack, watching, felt great guilt for feeling Ed’s girlfriend. He was drunk. Another stupid drunk.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said to Alice.

They washed, brushed teeth, checked the locks, shut the lights, closed the bedroom door, pulled off their clothes and slipped into bed. The steam hissed softly. From the other side of the bedroom door Jack thought he could hear some shuffling.

The Venetian blind was pulled down but waved every now and then with a gust through the partly opened window, and shadows danced and Jack’s eyes adjusted as best they could to the minimal light. He could barely see Alice beside him, but he could see Ed and June off elsewhere in a dream that he was not part of because he was lying on his bed in the darkness with Alice, wide awake while Ed and June journeyed into another world with other dreamers, and Jack wanted to be a dreamer, he wanted to waken Ed, summon Ed from the dream world with June and all the other far away dreamers, he wanted to be in that dream world, take Ed’s place and lie on the floor next to June with her steady breathing cooling his hot sticky neck because it was so hot in that steamy this-world bedroom and the chance of falling asleep and slipping off somewhere with June seemed so remote, each perspiring minute another wakeful minute of lost opportunity and Jack wanted to smell her hair, feel the heat dissipating from that smooth olive Korean skin.

No, he didn’t. He wanted to watch Alice paint.

Alice, naked and sweeter than the yellow roses drying on her easel , rolled on top of Jack and kissed him.

“I missed you,” she said. “I hope you weren’t crazy.”

“I missed you too,” he said, returning the kiss with equal passion. “Not too,” he said. “But I wish you were there.”

“Did you see it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s great.”

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you,” he said.

And when they woke up late that chilly November Friday morning - no classes, no work, so no reason to get up early - Ed and June were gone.