March Man! March!

There was only one rule: D0n’t open the door. Screw that!

Stumbling from the doorway, I managed to not trip. My head spun counterclockwise, I think. Regardless, it didn’t seem correct. I had several choices of direction: Toward glowing neon which made my head spin more: Toward the flop house which, even in my current state, had a stench of old piss and fresh shit. My abused stomach clenched.

Going? Where am I? I dug in pockets. Lint, a quarter, a condom wrapper - empty- huh? And… Yes!… a $20 bill.

Flag down a taxi. Stepping forward, my heel caught curb. Pinwheeling my arms to the worsening vortex in my skull. Brain sloshed, banging. I managed, barely, to fall onto the sidewalk. The guy in the pick up that splashed cold fetid water on me gave me two fingers, you know which ones. Screaming, “Get off the street Asshole!”

Speaking of which, my tailbone was now competing with my spinning head. Shit! Gripping a light pole, I managed to pull myself upright. Or at least to a semblance thereof.

A taxi pulled over. Opening the door, I fell against the frame. The driver, Hispanic, maybe, hard to tell through whirling chaos, helped me in.

“Where to?” He asked me.

‘Uhm … Hol… hold on…” I dug into my wallet and found an I.D. Card. “Three … uh… two… uh ….” The numbers spun in time with my gut …Three… two.. four… Nine West 19th. We pulled out.

I collapsed across the seat. Fake leather smelled nice. Closing my eyes, I willed the spinning to stop. When I woke up there was a nurse leaning over me.

“Frank Chapman?”

“Uhhh… yeah… That’s me.”

Welcome back. Don’t worry about the handcuff

The nice policeman is just there to make sure

You abide by the Marchman Act.