cott did heroin and had a double latté. On the street it was rainy and he stood there in a trench coat and a hat with a brim. He lit a cigarette and thought about the text, and the sign, and the rest of us. What was nagging at him right then was the realization that he didn’t know what Postmodernism actually was, nor would he ever. And yet he considered himself a scholar through and through, of the highest caliber. He had to walk for a while. He walked over a bridge and down a street. There was rain and water on the ground. The cement was shiny. Each fiber of cigarette smoke was brought to color by neon. There was the smell of fresh fish and the sounds of Chinese language. Postmodernism, of all the fucking things, why did he need to worry about that now, when he almost had everything he wanted.

“Postmodernism.”

He thought.

I are media.

We is media.

There was no Yoko to blame, no war that would separate, no employment situation which could pull apart this intrepid band. But the road had taken its toll. Dirk had taken to wearing a hempen robe. William had developed a nasty habit of getting into fistfights with other writers named William. It happened at nearly every stop on the tour. And Scott couldn’t believe in po-mo no mo. Later, he found the boys crashed on top of the van. Which was locked. No words were exchanged. But the forgiveness was palpable. They got in the van and headed to San Francisco.

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