the infamous novelist scored his drugs. He didn't know my name. In fact he knew nothing about me other than we shared the same affliction, mine a mere shadow of his colossal addiction. Still he had acknowledged our affiliation with a finger to his head and for a second I expected the same from the approaching man, except he was not William Burroughs, who had been dead for years.
The phantasm was familiar for another reason.
It was my old friend, Davy, who was younger than me by a decade, but looked twice my age, although just as likely to survive every person in the terminal with a junkie's determination. I almost let him walk by, then called out his name.

Davy's yellow teeth gleamed in the half-light of the sunsetcopy."

"I'd like that." My friend bid me farewell.

I wanted to say that I wouldn't tell anyone about seeing him, for the mention of his name sets everyone's heads to shaking. He's a bad boy, but he's still alive and I am glad for that, for there are too few bad boys around these days and one day I might need to ask him for help, because my days of being a bad boy aren't over, simply delayed to a time near death. My wife thinks that date is years away. For my son's sake I hope she's right. I wanted to live to 78.

In May 1984 I ran into Johnny Thunders in Paris. He was playing at the Gibus club outside Republique. His manager was a German drug