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dove into the backseat, and though I think I had the tires squealing before he even landed, I noticed a brick come sailing past the windshield.
    As the jeep began fishtailing up Third Avenue all three of us remained silent, and with the exception of pounding hearts and agroaning engine not a sound was heard. At 125 th Street we then made a left turn and eventually headed south on Park Avenue as I slowly came to terms with what had just happened.
    While replaying the incident in my mind I peered into the rearview mirror and noticed Matt with his head in his hands, though I think the sobbing had finally subsided. Helmer, however, seemed to be captured by the exhilaration of the moment, and as he sat there panting with an almost euphorically-relieved expression on his face, he reminded me of a man who’d just cheated death.

9
    “What sort of people live about here?”
    “In that direction,” the cat said waving its right paw around, “lives a Hatter; and in that direction,” waving the other paw, “lives a March Hare. Visit either one you want: they’re both mad.”
    “But I don’t want to go among mad people.”
    “Oh, you can’t help that,” said the cat. “We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
    “How do you know I’m mad?”
    “You must be,” said the cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”
    ###
    We were Weekend Warriors to say the least, especially during that month of September.
    Helmer’s enormous dick and apparently, balls to match, had somehow gotten us through the PCP fiasco in Harlem without getting killed. Interestingly enough, the next day Perry’s description of angel dust more or less resembled what we ended up with that night, but thinking it was bogus Helmer had thrown it out of the jeep somewhere along Park Avenue.
    On literally the following weekend, Alan Grier, a good friend of mine from as far back as junior high school, decided to take the train into Manhattan and surprise me with a visit. I hadn’t seen Alan forsome time and learned that he’d become a social worker in Nassau County. For about an hour he filled me in on the gory career details and I could sense he was less than thrilled with how his post-collegiate career was shaping up.
    “This black fucking bitch actually spit in my face,” he told me.
    “What the fuck for?!”
    “She thought I was cheating her out of money.”
    “That’s totally fucked up.”
    “I need something else,” he lamented. “I’m only 22 and I feel like life is passing me by.”
    “Well, we’re looking for a drummer,” I said with a chuckle.
    “Hey! I’ve played the drums before,” he informed me, somewhat offended by my laughter.
    “Really?” I asked as he eagerly nodded. “Cool. Then let’s get you a kit.”
    Alan was a great guy and had I known he played the drums, I would have asked him to join the band months ago. He’d never mentioned his drumming before, so I assumed he wasn’t going to blow anyone away; however, I’ve always believed that the basic skills required to play most instruments were grossly exaggerated. I’d become a passable guitarist in about a week and was of the opinion that if you could dance—or at least keep a beat—you could learn to play almost anything. So, with Helmer, Perry, and Matt in tow we headed to Sam Ash and Alan purchased a basic drum kit to get started.
    When we returned to the apartment and assembled the drums, there were problems. Apparently, Alan couldn’t dance… or keep a beat to save his life . So we wrapped things up, smoked a joint, and decided to spend what was left of the day in Central Park.
    The afternoon wore on and eventually, Perry and Matt disappeared. A few minutes later, as I helped Alan come to terms with the death of his music career, Helmer nudged my shoulder.
    “That guy said he has mescaline,” he told me while gesturing to a portly Hispanic male wearing red shorts, a white shirt, and standing by the rollerbladers.
    “Right,” I said