DISGRACELAND - Lou Reed (An Origin Story) Pt. 2

Episode Date: March 28, 2023

Lou Reed blurred the lines between fact and fiction when it came to his past. To him, it was all a walk on the wild side anyway. After exploring his life in Part 1 through his lyrics for the Velvet Underground songs “The Gift”, “Waiting For My Man”, “Heroin” and “The Murder Mystery”, Part 2 continues through the songs “Rock And Roll”, “Sweet Jane”, “Run, Run, Run”, “Venus In Furs”, and “I’ll Be Your Mirror,” because tall tales and music led Lou all the way home. This episode was originally published on March 28, 2023. For a full list of contributors, see the show notes at ⁠disgracelandpod.com.⁠ To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at ⁠disgracelandpod.com⁠. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - ⁠GET THE NEWSLETTER⁠ Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: ⁠Instagram⁠ ⁠YouTube⁠ ⁠X⁠ (formerly Twitter)  ⁠Facebook Fan Group⁠ ⁠TikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. Speed, his band, The Velvet Underground. The wide cast of larger than life-slash-low-life New York City characters that he wrote about are so compelling that two episodes were needed to properly tell this tall tale. If you're just getting hip to this now, I suggest you hit pause and go back to the previous episode of Disgraceland, part one of the Lou Reed origin story,

where we discussed the criminality depicted in the Velvet Underground songs, The Gift, Waiting for My Man, Heroin, and the Murder Mystery. Lou's story continues in this episode, through the VU songs, Rock and Roll, Sweet Jane, Run, Run, Run, Venus and Furs, and I'll Be Your Mirror. All great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music.

That was a preset loop for my Melotron called Sweet and Sour Dreams MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to make it with you by bread. And why would I play you that specific slice of limp-risted stalker cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on August 23, 1970. And that was the day Lou Reed played his last show with the first show with the first. Velvet Underground, bringing to an end the origin story of one of the most compelling and coolest figures in rock and roll history. On this episode, amphetamine addiction, lone shark assassins, switchblade types,

chains, whips, mirrored lips, and Lou Reed goes home. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. The $26 in my hand made no sense. neither did Stephanie's murder, made about as much sense as stuffing Waldo Jeffers in a box and mailing him halfway across the country to his death. Maybe Lou wasn't as innocent as I thought. That whole thing made less sense with every passing minute. My headache, though, that made sense.

It screamed for speed. I had an idea. The little blonde down the hall from my apartment. She kept herself high all the time. She'd have something to help me get my head right. I booked it down St. Marks toward Ludlow, and the morning sun was already mid-afternoon hot. It pierced my skull. I stopped at a spraying fire hydrant and rinsed Stephanie's blood off my face and hands.

I must have made a sight because I scared off every last little neighborhood runt cooling under the spray of the hydrant. I moved with quickness to my apartment building. I turned on to Ludlow, and there he was, exiting a luncheonette, opening a fresh pack of luckies. I always liked seeing Big Bill. even if it meant confronting the reality of my unpayable debt to him, but not this morning. Big Bill held a certain type of power over me, but again, not this morning. I came up on him fast on the sidewalk. He was surprised to see me up and about so early, I could tell.

And before he could put his version of the squeeze on me, before he could lean into the fact that his daughter was about to be sent up the river for a horrific crime, before he could check in on my progress and I could put him off with vague generalizations about the state of my investigation, you know, Give him enough to feel confident, but not so much that he could jeopardize my progress. Before I could do any of that, I simply threw up my hands as I raced by him and gave him a quick, not this morning, Bill, not this fucking morning. Big Bill just stood there, dumbfounded.

I'm not sure what he made of his morning after that, because I never got a chance to ask him. 58 Ludlow, one block away. There on the stoop, another friendo, beardless Harry. All debts were apparently coming due, this morning. But just like Big Bill Bronson, beardless Harry would have to wait. My headache had other plans. Harry leaned tough against the iron railing on the steps of my apartment stute. And before he could stutter out another threat, before he ever laid eyes on me, I walled him with a right, packed with the entirety of the morning's momentum I'd been carrying since St. Marks. Harry never

saw it coming, and he went down in a heap. Sorry, Harry. I bounded up the front steps, keyed the lock on the front door, took to the walk-up. I could hear the rock and roll music coming from her apartment grow louder and louder with every step. What was her name? Janie? Jenny? Or whatever it was, she'd be holding, and she'd set me straight. I followed the blare of the music up the steps to her apartment door, ran down the corridor to my apartment, stripped off my bloodstained clothes,

replaced them with new slacks, a new wrinkled shirt from the bottom of a dirty clothes pile, and a black blazer identical to the bloodstained one I'd just discarded. I took a two-second tenement shower and got the blood off. my face and my hands. Then I marched out of my apartment with a purpose, toward the apartment door with the blaring music behind it at the end of my hall. I banged on it loudly. She swung the door open instantly like she was expecting me. She stood there in nothing but a t-shirt and panties. Her hair was more sandy brown than the blonde, I remembered. Her countless freckles made her more West Coast than New York, New York. She was petite, fit, and for a hot second,

My one-track mind was distracted by her beauty. Then she opened her mouth. She screamed non-sequitur nonsense over the blaring radio's rock and roll station. When I was just five years old, there was nothing happening at all. I screamed back. My name is Ace. I live down the hall. May I come in?

She turned and danced her way back into her apartment, leaving the door open with me in the doorway behind her. I followed. shut the door. The music was at ear drum-shattering volume. More hypno-junky jungle rhythm. With her moving in time, though, I began to think that a guy could get used to this. I know you, she yelled at me while she danced.

You're my neighbor who reminds me of my daddy. I'm sure he's very proud. I meant it as a compliment, but it sounded smart-ass. She couldn't hear me over the radio but pretended to and smiled and nodded, and then she yelled, He's got two Cadillac cars. I volleyed back with... You must be very proud.

That was intentionally cute. I was getting bored and amusing myself as a defense mechanism against my Jones. Again, she pretended to hear me and smiled. She danced toward me and offered me the lit reefer in her hand. I made a habit of never touching this stuff, but something told me to take it. I did. I inhaled. And then I exhaled and the smoke mixed with the music in the air and...

And it was all right. I passed the reefer back. She hit it in step. She passed it back. I did the same. She took it again. Then she took my hands and pulled me into motion on her dirty linoleum floor. I dropped my head, closed my eyes, and moved with her to the beat.

It was as if there was an invisible wire connecting us. We danced fast. We danced hard. I could feel her heat. I began to sweat. I opened my eyes and kept them pitch to the floor. Her bare feet moved effortlessly, and they were black with filth. It charged me, and we moved some more, dancing, and the reefer evened me out, but that Jones brought a twitch to my cheek.

I moved some more, and we both did, shaking to the fine, fine music. That New York radio station went from doper boogie to torch song. She couldn't believe what she heard at all. She pulled me close, and we two steps slow as one. her cheek on my chest. Jenny, she said. I know, I said. Ace, she misheard me.

I, what? Why are you here? I need something, I said. She took her head off my chest and looked up at me. What's that? she asked. You, I said. She kissed me full on the lips and took me to bed. It must have been days later when I woke up, truly woke up.

Jenny took me to bed that morning. A woman like that happens to you once in a lifetime if you're lucky. At first it was sex, then speed. We finished the little she had. It was enough to kill the Jones, but not enough to keep us high. We rode out the withdrawals together on more sex and black coffee for days on end. Without the two, I wouldn't have had the strength their patience to overcome the need for more speed. Now, lying in her apartment with a clear head,

That seemed to be all I had. Strength, patience, and luck, I guess. I know what you're saying. How does a lump like me go from being broke and busted one moment between the sheets for the tot giving sexy 20-something the next? I don't have an answer for you, Pluto. All I know is it happened, and it happened just in time. With a clear head came a drive for answers

and an itch to get back out on the street and get things sorted. Stephanie was dead. Why? What was with the 26th? and who would have killed her? Where the fuck was Lou, and what, if anything, did he have to do with her death? Or with Waldo Jefferson's stupid stunt. Yeah, I was beginning to believe my own bullshit.

I knew now that Lou had the means, but I still had no connection. And even though I didn't, I didn't care. Lou was dirtier than I thought. He was into some dark shit, rough trade. I needed him because Big Bill needed a pincushion for Marcia's murder rap, and I didn't feel one bit bad about it. It wasn't about the favor I owed. bill. It wasn't about the money I needed to earn back to pay nunziah, which I couldn't begin to do

until I sorted Big Bill out. In clarity, I was beginning to see the light. It was about what was right. Lou was wrong, all wrong. He was on a one-way bus to Rikers, either for this or for some other low-down subterranean activity he clearly took pleasure in. Our paths happened to cross, and that was his problem. What did I care? I have my own. Like where to find the little Long Island and Pissant. That night would be my last with Jenny. We both knew it. Maybe that's why we came clean.

I told her the safe version of my Sinchon experience. I had to fire my M-1 in Korea. Boo fucking who. I couldn't go deeper. It wouldn't do any of us any good. She knew I was lying by omission, but that I was also sharing more than I had with anyone in years. It was my version of honesty, the best I could do.

She knew it, and so she pushed her chips into the middle of the table, too, and told me her real name wasn't Jenny. It was Jane, and that she was married to a man named Jack. And Jane, she is a clerk. They separated six months ago, but now Jane was ready to go back out on the island. This Manhattan regression was her last chance at a life she could call her own. She thought she'd find it with the protest kids, perhaps with the poets who studied rules of verse,

some kind of bohemian blush. She didn't. The evil mothers told her life was just to die, The children were the only ones who blushed, and that it was time to go home, to sit by the fire. Oh, yeah, to grow up. So that's what Jane was going to do. Poor sweet Jane. I needed one last favor.

The record in the stack. The one with the profane banana on the cover. The one with the photo of Lou and his bandmates on the back drowning in psychotic light. I needed to know everything she knew about those protest kids. She knew a lot. First of all, they weren't protest kid, she said. They were deviance, near Nihilus. They were depraved and being tricked out by an art world charlatan named Andy.

The shore leave boy toy I'd seen Sven Galiing the performance I was juiced at. Wasn't it obvious, she asked me? Obvious. How in the hell was any of this obvious to anyone, let alone me? Downtown was at my side of the street. I worked out to borrow insurance scams and divorce settlements. Bobbo speed freaks with murderous tendencies weren't my bag or anyone's I imagined. Jane smiled.

He hangs out in two places, she said, the factory at night and the diner after hours. I knew one of the places, and it was no longer night. I grabbed my coat and banged the pavement. The diner door dinged and all three patrons at that early hour threw tired glances at me but one. Lou. Back on his stool, sludge in his cup, cigarette in his hair. This time, I abandoned the subterfuge, walked straight up to him from behind, braced him. I put one hand under his armpit and quickly hoisted him off his stool and into motion with me,

dragging him across the diner floor and into a booth opposite me. He quickly protested with that, hey man, beat Nick Wine. I smacked him open palm across the mouth. Another fucking word before I say so, and the next one comes with a brass kiss. Lou shifted uncomfortably, but stayed seated. I shot a glance to the nighthawks that said, I'll word out of any you, motherfuckers, and you'll have trouble you've never known. Everyone went back to their coffee, choosing the troubles they did know.

Smart choice. Why'd you do it? Lou just stared at me. He looked confused. My friend, the pregnant girl, I brought to the loft. Lou registered recognition, but not guilt. Understandable. News of her death was out on the street and in all the papers.

You think I killed her? Lou laughed. He was cool, but not in the play in the park kind of way. I asked him, well, who then? How would I know? What is this anyway? What kind of cop are you, anyhow? I settled into my seat, lit a smoke.

What's with you, Reed? He just looked at me. I told him that I'm going to bust your ass. You have giggled at me. Oh, I bet you are, cowboy. You thought he was cute. I could relate. I had that same attitude once.

minus the Mary jive. I just stared at him across the table. He smiled and leaned in as if to tell me a secret. Hey, I know this bar down on the west side, Ernie's. They keep a jar of Vaseline on the bar, and there's a back room that's dark where we could play. But if I'm not your type, those other Vaseline boys. I hauled off across the table and walled him again.

Close fists this time. He stood quick. Hey, man! I stood too and grabbed him by the throat before he could get fully out of the booth. With one arm, I lifted him and slammed him back first onto the table. I leaned in on top of him and spit my words out an inch from his face in a furied whisper. Listen to me, you little fuck. You and me, we're going for a little trip.

Out on the island, his eyes widened. Long Island was the last place Lou Reed wanted to be. We're going to sit down with a friend of mine, a friend whose daughter you know, a friend whose daughter's boyfriend you knew even better. Oh, we're going to get to the bottom of some things in my face. I slammed his head back into the table. He smiled. I pressed the weight of my body down on his on top of the table.

I felt him get hard down there, the depraved little fuck. You're enjoying this as much as I am, he taunted. I felt my head swell with anger. I lifted his head again by his throat and slammed it once more into the table. Loo's eyes rolled, but he kept his smile. So I slammed his head harder, and then he grew harder. My head pulsed with rage. I slammed him down once more.

I was going to kill the little bastard. And then... From the sound, I knew in an instant what was happening. Then I felt it. The cold steel of the switch blade pressed across the front of my neck. The owner of the switch pulled my head back by my hair and was ready to slice my head clean off. He growled something in Spanish that I didn't understand,

but I was fluent enough in the universal language of a shiv to the throat. So I backed off and let Lou go. The man yanked my head back, spun me around, and threw me into a table in a set of chairs which exploded across the dining room floor upon impact. I looked up from the floor. It was Jesus, the switchblade-type bus boy. He picked Lou up off the table and dusted him off. I lay on my back, staring up at them both. I started to pick myself up, and Jesus gave me his PR boot right in the ribs.

It knocked me back, but not out. The two split quickly out of the diner door. I crawled to my feet and gave chase. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. I split through the diner door, down the short three steps to the sidewalk, began my sprint up to Lou and Jesus, and somehow, without seeing him, ran straight into beardless Harry's meat and fist. When I woke up, I was tied to a chair in a crowded, dingy basement

with a low ceiling with exposed pipes and a dirt floor. There were stacks and stacks of boxed and canned Italian specialty foods and a heavy aroma of garlic, onions, and sweet peppers. My stomach roiled. I hadn't eaten in days, but I had bigger problems. I was reminded of those problems, too sweet, with a quick open-handed smack across the mouth from one of beardless Harry's goons. My eyes stung, my body ached.

I shook my head and gave Harry an unintentionally vacant look. His goon geared up to crack me again, and this time, with a closed fist. Harry stopped him short in what I mistook for mercy. Ace, you stupid schmuck! And then Harry cracked me across the grill. The taste of blood quickly filled my mouth. He gave me the drill and stuttered sentences. No, no Vig, no call, no nothing.

Nunzio wants his money. You ain't got any. You are beyond late. You are a fucking walking, talking insult to human faith. I tried to speak. Harry gave me a quick fist to the face. It did not stutter. It said, shut the fuck up.

He went on. I know he ain't got no money because we searched you and tossed that shithole fourth floor walk off. you call it home. I just stared at him. So what's it going to be, Ace? He said cleanly.

I'm working on something. I just need a little more time. Harry Stutter came back strong with his next sentence. Does it have to do with the two Marys? You will run, run, run, chasing after through Union Square? Damned if it don't, I said. Does it have to do with this? Harry then pulled a crumpled handbill from his pocket

and shoved it in my face so close I could hardly read it. In big block letters, it said, Venus and furs, and under it, the exploding plastic inevitable, whatever the fuck any of that meant. I did recognize the next two words, though. Velvet Underground. Today's date and the hell's kitchen address were printed at the bottom of the page. It might, I told Harry. Where'd you get this? I asked.

Fell out of one of the Marys he was run, run, run to chasten after, the teenage Mary. He ain't teenaged. He's dirty. And yeah, he's the thing between me. and your bread. It ain't my bread, Ace. It's Nunzios. If it were mine, you'd be buried under that dirt floor already. We might have had some times you and me watching the ponies run, run, race, but I ain't the sentimental type. Nunzio, on the other hand, tends to get sentimental about his money, though. To a point, he gets all sad when it don't come back to him, and then he

gets anxious, and then he gets angry, and pretty soon he's wanting to bury a deadbeat under a dirt floor. So you got one more chance, Ace. 24 hours, or the next time you see me, well, you won't see me. You'll feel quick, cold steel against the back of your skull, and a second later, you'll feel nothing, nothing at all. I hit the front door of the hell's kitchen address listed on Harry's handbill and entered a dark compartmentalized space. Red light pulsed on and off slowly and intermittently blanketed the dingy smoke-filled space.

Street lights snuck through the window in tiny spurts, fancying itself boss. It wasn't. The red pulse and the darkness blew it out. Out of nowhere, what can only be described as a servant appeared with a drink and an array of pills on a tray. I refused all of it, blew them off, lit a smoke, and slowly made my way into the space. There were bottles upon bottles of alcohol, empty and full, beer, wine, liquor, along with overfilled ashtrays covering every flat surface. The sight of it all made me tired, weary. I could sleep a thousand years. I could sleep a thousand years. years, I thought. A record player spun endlessly and aimlessly with its needle bumping up against the record center label, and the sound of the vinyl crackling on repeat added a weird ambiance to the viola player droning on in the corner. He looked like lurch, and the whole thing seemed intentional,

even though I knew clearly that it wasn't. And there were bodies intertwined with one another on the furniture post-coitus, half-naked-in-stone dragging casually on cigarettes. Two ringleaders patrolled the small space with giant bullwhips. Both were masked in leather, shiny, shiny leather. One, a man was long, greasy 50s-style pompadour and fit thighs like a varsity wrestler who wore tight jeans, high heels, and nothing else aside from his leather mask. The other, a woman, a mistress, I guess you would call her, wore a shiny leather MC jacket with nothing on under it, panties, heels, and nothing else. They mock-inspected the goings-on on on the couches and floor cushions and cracked their whips for added effect. Mr. Pomp circled away from me and

toward the big platform bed at the end of the space. The mister has followed him cracking her whip with more consistency. Lurch on the viola settled into something repetitive. The drone moved into a melody, and the bodies lining the wall began a slow clap in unison and a hypnotic rhythm took shape around us. And Mr. Pomp climbed onto the bed slowly on all fours, waving that big ass of his at all of us for effect. The mistress gave it a crack with her whip. The bodies took up a chant in time with viola in their claps. At first it was a murmur. I couldn't quite understand, but then the words emerged clearly in unison. Taste the whip. Taste the whip. Taste the whip, they repeated in Eastern mantra style over and over again. The mistress set about to humiliate Mr.

Pomp. He lay on the bed on his back. She straddled him and strapped the ball gag around his head, under his mask and into his mouth. She got off, stood, and cracked a whip repeatedly across his hairy chest. The ball gag absorbed his screams. The servants stood next to me, still holding his platter of goodies out in front of him even though he was fully attending to the show happening in front of him. Everyone stared, most shifted in their seats,

adjusting themselves just a little too forcefully. Trousers tightened, panties loosened, heads swelled and hearts quickened. Mine included, what the fuck was happening? to me. What did I get myself into? The mistress stood on the platform bed now, above Mr. Pomp. She took one of her heels and dug it into his chest. More ball-gagged screams. Off to the side of the bed, behind it really, in the darkness, I could see him. There he was. Lou. Standing in front of what must have been the emergency exit as his back was up against the door which faced the back of the

building where the fire escape would most naturally be. He was mesmerized. Of course he was, the braved little fuck. I quickly braced the servant next to me with a firm grip under his arm and quietly pulled him back a few steps to make sure any slight scene would go unnoticed. It broke his spell. He seemed shocked. And before he could speak, I stuck a snub nose 38 into his ribs and whispered sharply. One fucking word and you bleed out on this pistine floor. Got me Pluto? He nodded. Ironically, he started to piss his trousers. Which of these pills knocks you out? Not speed, downers. He timidly pointed to a pile of grayish green pills. What are they? I asked. Mandis, he said. Mandrix. Basically horse tranquilizers. I grabbed as many as I could in one handful

off of his tray and made my way toward Lou. No one noticed me, especially not my guy. The depraved fuck show kept captivating the room. I walked past the bed, into the darkness, straight up to Lou, palmed his face and knee his groin, all in one continuous motion, pushed his body with mine backward and straight out the emergency exit and onto the fire escape. He was slouched onto my chest in agony. I snapped him back upright, looked into his weasily eyes and had a mind to do a society of favor and toss him over the railing and onto the street head first. I didn't.

Instead, I unloaded with a right to his gut. The pain caused him to buckle over again. I grabbed a touch of his curly black hair above his forehead and yanked his head back. Then I opened his lips and shoved the mandies into his mouth. I swung him around and up against the building in one fluid motion, pressed my body against his, securing him to the wall and pinched his nose with one hand and helped bolt his eyes open with my other. Chew and swallow, motherfucker, or you've already drawn your last breaths.

He did as he was told, quickly. I let go of him, and he gasped for air. I let loose with another merciless wallop to his gut. He fell to his knees in front of me. Without thinking, I raised my knee sharply into his face. He toppled over under the grated an iron fire escape. I picked him up, tossed him over my shoulder, and descended onto the street in search of a cabby who could keep a secret.

Big Bill paid the hacks fair. I caught him outside his Long Island home on his way out the door to start his workday. Two stints in Korea for the weekend shift at Rikers. Bill had it worse than I did, I thought, to myself. He was shocked when he saw my drugged and beaten package. He told me what he didn't want to know. Anything. All I told him was that the package was crucial to getting his daughter off.

He told me Marsha and his wife were away at his mother-in-laws for a couple days. The house was mine. Put the package on ice and we'd seren it out when he got home after his shift. Big Bill never came home, or I left too soon. I can't remember much these days. The Electoral Shock Therapy scrambled my memories. My parents had me committed after the Waldo Jeffers thing. Said I was crazy, said I had a violent homosexual streak.

At least that's what I told people. The homosexual part of it, not the violent part. It made for better press, and Lord knows those rock journalists needed all the help they could get. The violent part wasn't true either. I'm just telling you now, because it sounds good. I can't help myself. Out at Bill Bronson's house on Long Island where I grew up, well, Marsha Bronson's house. my old friend Waldo's girlfriend.

The kitchen was recognizable to me. I'd been in it once or twice before as a kid a couple years back, visiting with Waldo. I liked Marcia. And I like Waldo, but I didn't help Waldo do what he did. Not like Ace said. Ace was a phony, a fraud.

He laid into me pretty bad in that kitchen. I gave him the silent treatment. He put his hands on me. I stayed dummied up. No way I did what he said I did. Could have happened this way, he said. You and Waldo were hanging out at his place. He's lovesick.

He's had one lay his whole life. Now she lives in Wisconsin. Waldo knows in his bones that he can't keep Marsha faithful. Not while she's at school. Hard enough for a guy like Waldo to keep a girl like Marcia here on Long Island with the homefield advantage. How's he going to do it while she's off at school being chased by varsity lettermen with actual shoulder frames? It's a real bad break for old Waldo, a real heartbreaker. You being the bleeding heart beatnik poet you aspire to be, you feel for Waldo.

He's broke, you're broke, you're dope sick, he's dumb, you get an idea. Yeah, that's right, you get an idea. If you got no money and you can't buy a bus ticket out to Wisconsin for Waldo to visit Marcia, why not put your parents' tax dollars to work and catch Waldo a ride with the U.S. Postal Service. So you box up old Waldo all secure with reams of packet tape, A couple perforated holes and off-ego is certified no class to Wisconsin to give his girl the surprise of her life. Except your dim-witted plan goes wrong. You didn't count on a young girl's hangover and her impatience, and Waldo winds up dead because of it.

And a guy I owe a favor to you for saving my life. His daughter's life now needs saving because of it, you little shit heel. And your life ain't worth the penny pulp you'll be lucky enough to have your obituary written on when you're gone. My life ain't what the penny PI thinks he's lucky enough to have figured out. in the now. You don't know shit, Ace. Slick. Real slick, baby. I ain't your fall guy, Pluto. You got it all figured out real good, I told him. And then I clammed up again. My silence charged him. He tried playing it cool, but he could see I was burning inside. I pressed my luck and stood from the kitchen table. Water? Ace just sat there at the table staring at me.

I got myself a glass from the sink. Sweat broke free from the top of Ace's forehead. I had him. I walked around the house, opened the shades, let the Sunday morning sun in. I went to Marsh's room. There, just what I wanted. On her vanity next to her hairbrush.

A handheld mirror. I grabbed it, walked back to the kitchen, sat down opposite Ace at the kitchen table. His sweating was now more intense. His anger and frustration were palpable. He seemed frozen in time, completely calcified into the kitchen chair. His speed Jones was back and it had complete control over him. I put the mirror down between us and from out of my gene pocket I dug out a bag of pills and threw them on the table.

I had no works. Shooting the speed wasn't possible. So I crushed the pills into fine powder with Mrs. Bronson's rolling pin from her kitchen drawer. Ace just watched, intently, said nothing. I could feel his addiction. I divided the powder into thick lines on the mirror between us. Ace salivated. I held up my hand on the table, palm up.

Give it to me, I said. He looked at me and his whole face looked like a question mark. That's how intent he suddenly was on satisfying me. I had what he wanted and there was no longer any reason to pin Waldo Jeffers' death on anyone else but Marcia. Least of all me, since I had the speeds dash. My bread, I said, give it to me. Ace dug into his pocket, pulled out a wad of cash and put $26 in my hand.

I peeled off the 20 and rolled it into a tight cylinder. I did the first line to even out, to steady my nerves. Then I handed the rolled 20 to Ace. He quickly snorted up a line. and stayed hovered over the mirror, perched to do another as soon as the first made its way fully into his bloodstream. I spoke quietly. You know it wasn't me. I said it again to be sure he heard me. You know it wasn't me. He did another line and I said it again. You know it wasn't me. I know it wasn't you. I heard Lou speak while I attended to my Jones. I was surprised by what

over me. That dormant craving took over. It owned me. It was more important than anything. More important than Marsha, Waldo, Big Bill, Uncle Dave, beardless Harry, no-nose-nunzio, Jesus, Stephanie, the Vaseline Boys, Mess Hall, Mary, Jenny, Sweet Jane, Jack, Andy, Teenaged Mary. They didn't matter. Who was I kidding? They never mattered. They were all a justification, a means to an end if they were even real at all. Not just figments of my war-torn imagination and What was the war anyway? How real was that? How many actual memories did I have?

How many of them did I make up to explain away my behavior? How many electroshock sessions did I need to undercoat before all of it was gone? Lou spoke in a soothing voice. I continued to snor it up as much speed as I could off of that mirror. Lou's voice felt good in my ears. He was reciting something pleasant. When you think the night has seen your mind that inside you're twisted and unkind, Let me stand to show that you are blind.

His words rang true with a clarity I hadn't felt in years. I snorted the last of the speed and looked up to face Lou across the table. He was gone. And then I looked down at the mirror. And there he was, right there, staring back at me. He was me. I was him. No Redmond Alan Lewis, aka Ace.

Just Louis Allen Reed, aka. Lou Reed. I closed my eyes and heard his voice, my voice. I'll be your mirror, reflect who you are, the light on your door to show that you're home. I stood up from the table, finished my glass of water, walked out of Marsha Bronson's kitchen, down that suburban Long Island Street two blocks to my parents' home for some peace and quiet. It was a tiny walk to end the tall tail. And that's the Short and long of it anyhow. This is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with double Elvis.

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