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the fresh air and on the way to New Jersey, let me sit down on this Tompkins Square Park bench and eat my newly-purchased container of yogurt. Take into my person tiny Transylvanian bacteria which will digest the valuable precious contents of my stomach for me. Where, man, is the spoon I should have put in my satchel?
    No spoon, man. I must find one, that is definite. However, I do not wish to travel back to my Horse Badorties two-pads as I will only get locked in a repetitive cycle and be there all day. I must find a spoon out here, in the world. Shouldering my umbrella, man, I walk on, knowing that a spoon will turn up.
    What is that music I hear, man, floating out over Fifth Street? That is fantastic saxophone playing, man. Somewhere in one of these buildings, man, I must find the source of that music and sign the saxophone player into the Love Chorus.
    Where exactly is it coming from, man. Seems to be emanating from this brick building here which is falling down. Filthy half-starved wild dog in the doorway, growling over a chicken bone.
    "Stand aside, man."
    Definitely, man, the saxophone music is coming from up there, up these stairs. The music of a finished artist, man, like myself. Finished and done for. I wonder what music school he was thrown out of. I am getting closer to the sound, man, climbing up the stairs. How beautiful the way that saxophone drowns out the music of all the Puerto Rican radio stations playing in this building.
    It seems to be coming from this floor. Yes, man, it is coming from that door at the end of the hallway. A very advanced sound, man, the river-flowing ego-gone supreme-school sound and I am beating on the door the orchestral tom-tom. Saxophone playing stops.
    Door opening, spaced-out suspicious paranoid saxophone player staring at me, man, with his ax in his hand.
    “Was that saxophone playing coming from here, man?”
    “No, man, it wasn’t.”
    “It was great playing, man.”
    “All right, man, that’s different.”
    “Exactly, man, and now that we understand each other, just tell me one thing, man, one especially important fact about your musical development, man, and that is, man, do you have somewhere in your pad, man, a spoon so I can eat this motherfucking container of Bulgarian yogurt.”
    “Yeah, man, I guess I do, come on in.”

Chapter 10
The Wonderful Yellow School Bus
    “Man, that yogurt has given me new strength and vitality, man, I’m ready to leap over a tall building in a single bound, help me to the door, man, I have terrible indigestion, man, from those motherfucking Transylvanian bacteria, man.”
    “Why don’t you smoke a little of this, man?”
    “You’re right, man. Let’s be civilized.”
    The sax player takes out a stash of Peruvian mango skins, the mild vegetable stimulant to help you see the iguanas in your eyeballs.
    “Allow me to ignite it with my Japanese match, man. ”
    Scratch… scratch
    “Here, man, try a wooden match.”
    “Right, man … man… .” Smoking Peruvian mango, man, a green high, speaking of which, man, I have to get on the highway to New Jersey and buy my school bus. “Dig, man, I’ve got to split, man. I’ll see you tonight at St. Nancy’s Church on the Bowery.”
    “OK, man, I’ll try to make it.”
    A rare find, man, a trained musician to add depth to the Love Chorus in its last week of rehearsal. My lucky day, man, and now, man, NOW? Yes, man, now, with my mind liberated by Peruvian mango skins I race down the stairs and in super-fast lightning flash astral-hero compressed time sequence, I arrive at the Port Authority Building, buy ticket, and stumble onto the bus just as it leaves the station.
    I am riding on a bus to New Jersey, man, watch the scenery flop past, guy at a gas station, gone past, kid on a front lawn, gone past, Two Guys From Brooklyn pants factory, gone past, great Jersey swamp spreading out and out.
    “
Finkfield.
”
    Finkfield, man, that’s my stop.
    “Hold everything, man, my umbrella is