The Walkmen - "Stranded"

The sun was coming up. Time to head home, I suppose. These goddamn signing Irishmen make it seem like eleven-thirty all night long. They seem to sing louder when they see the sun, like they want to raise it up with their voices, stand it up like one of their drunken mates. My mouth tasted like an ashtray and my shoes were still wet from last night's rain. My coat smelled like a toilet. I had morning sweats, the kind that sit cold on your face and your neck like caked-on stage make-up. I headed to the bodega to get some hair of the dog and a carton of Veruca Slims, and I reached for my wallet. My goddamned wallet. It was slowly coming back to me. Something about a trade, a bargain, a deal. For some unfathomable reason I'd handed over my every piece of valuable identification, bona fide and otherwise, in exchange for a ripped piece of paper with half a name on it.

"Three dollars, mac."

I left the butts and the booze on the counter, and started out into the white bright sun of the morning. The kind of sun real people see when they go to work. The kind of sun that makes regular neighbours say "gee, today is gonna be a scorcher". The kind of sun that makes me want to be sick. My head was pounding, my feet were aching and wet, and only then did my chest choose to remind me that I must have been manhandled by some lousy goons the night before. I started up 49th Ave past the Castlemain Hotel and the Martian Club, taking the shoelace express to the one person in the world who would care about this piece of paper in my pocket.

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