Last evening of mishaps, adventure, and parties was marked by a midnight tragedy. Bill Yusk, a Dixie gambler, Doctor Bertoni, a lead anesthesiologist at NYU, and I were speaking to Haoui Montauk, who was working at the door of Rock Lounge located at where Jane Street ran into the Hudson. The three of us were lit on LSD. Bill’s irises were blown open to the max. The chubby Kentuckian shuddered when a blanketed boy hit the street’s cobblestones with a groan..

I thought it was a bag of garbage, until a hand flopped onto the street.

“”Fuck, I hate suicides,” said Haoui. SRO hotels were the last stop for too many strangers. Doctor Bertoni shook off the acid and knelt by the naked man. He pulled a stethoscope from HIs jacket and listened for a heartbeat.

“Is he dead?” Haoui asked and Doctor Bertoni answered, “Not yet. Call 911.”

As Haoui went inside, man’s naked foot and leg slithered from underneath the blanket. Dr. Bertoni wasn’t wrong. The man was still alive, but blood was pooling on the street stones. We waited for EMS. The two-man crew trundled the suicide onto a stretcher and slid him into the ambulance.

“Do you think he will make it,” asked Haoui from the steps.

“He will if he had more life in him,” said Doctor Bertoni, as Bill Yusk hailed a taxi. The three of us piled into the rear of the Checker and I said, “Tier Three.”

It was a downtown club featuring absurdly-named No Wave bands and dancing in a three-floor pit.

The doctor and I were grooving on the DJ’s playing a cut fro TEENAGE JESUS AND THE JERKS, When screams broke through the noice. Someone was puled on the crowd fro the third tier.

Not someone.

Bill.

We hurried him into the night air. He was no longer within this dimension and I grabbed a plastic bag for the taxi ride to his apartment building. Luckily he had a doorman and we left him into the old uniformed Puerto Rican’s care.

I don’t remember the rest of the night.