Cheap red wine and red Indiana dusk and Camel Lights lit one after the other and anxiety on the gray carpet up on the 7th floor of the residence hall, yeah, that was Cromby all right. I seen him. And then he went to play his acoustic guitar and sing on the curb in front of the bar. Drinking beer right out there on the sidewalk at midnight. Why he not do that no more? It's cooler when you’re 22. Why he not just get in a blues band back then and wear sunglasses and ape Angus Young back in them days? If he could have achieved promiscuity it would have been easier. Natural. He should have gone to the guitar, harder. Could've led to him rolling down some highway outside, say, San Diego, in a red Mustang, headed back in from the desert. Blues, blues. Hair down to his ass. None could believe his slashing guitar. He plays, you go into a trance. Beizart. Years and years later Cromby'd make it out West and realize how wrong he'd been about the whole scene just based on what he'd heard. Man you could've gotten truly fucked in a pair of deadly obsidian eyes, black glass, her cocaine blood. When he crossed the border into Kentucky though, rolling in his white '89 Nova. Woof. Down into minor key hell in Sandy Springs Georgia. Unto dreams of apocalypse. In a Georgia jail. Sweat bees attacking him early early in the morning on a high ledge along the Chattahoochee. Buckhead Fred said calm down, be cool. Cromb fell down and broke the dude's spare fishing rig. Oh well. Then Cromby was Nipwilliger sitting hangover blasted over his dollar meal at Wendy's. You know I was Nipwilliger. Legerdemain. No, Beizart. But who is he now. Yeah. Flash, he's passed out on top of his Stratocaster in the 8th Ave. subway. Wow. Wham, the aliens got him, cloned him. Took the clone to their planet. Left Cromby with a telepathic link. You can't refute this. And they wonder why he can't concentrate at work. Actually, they don't. He got them fooled. Who da fuck Cromby? Really man. Fuck