The things I’ve done, I should’ve died young. But somehow I didn’t. I wrote for Rolling Stone from 1968 to 1984 (Ben Rivers, contributing editor), lived at The Chelsea, did plenty of drugs, drank too much, drove too fast, and took up any dare that might give my friends a laugh. Yet all the while I tried to formulate a serious school of thought on the subject of Rock Criticism. I also had the far-flung notion to see the late Sixties Revolution through to completion. But that window shut in 1980 when Reagan got elected. All of the heroes of Woodstock looked in the mirror and said screw it, let’s just make money. That was hard to take. I think they were relieved not to have gone the route of Jimi and Janis, happy to have survived. They got ridiculously rich, spent half of it on cocaine, and the other half they invested in David Stockman’s smarmily-presented trickle-down economy. In 1984, I got fed up writing about their materialistic ascent and moral decline and left Rolling Stone. I had modest royalties from my book that I could squeak by on (The Revolution is Not Over, Doubleday, 1981) but no damned direction. Luckily, coke never agreed with me, so I wasn’t snorting my money away. But what should I do with myself? I felt pretty empty. All my friends were in the music biz, and once you leave it, you are ostracized, baby. Nobody gives a shit about you. My life took quite a sedate turn. I guess that’s where this story starts.

The first thing I did was leave Manhattan and come back home to D.C. It was spring and the cherry blossoms had all the streets jammed. Washington wreaked of old, hoary-headed Republicans and their ambitious young flunkies modeling the new trend of skinny ties, narrow lapels and greasy pompadours. But it was the home I knew, so I moved in with a buddy from school. Barry (University of Maryland, graduating class of 1968) had a rent-controlled apartment in Adams Morgan. He thought I was crazy to have left Rolling Stone; he was struggling as a freelance writer and was happy to have someone who would split the rent with him. I took him out to dinner a few times a week, the guy couldn’t afford to eat. He walked around the apartment with no shirt on and I swear, his rib cage was a xylophone. I had to feed him. Adams Morgan was Latino Central, so usually we’d do Mexican. They’d bring you all the chips and salsa you could eat, before and after your main course. I fattened Barry up good over the months I spent with him.

“Is this our third basket of chips? Truthfully, Ben, I don’t see you surviving the ranks of unemployment for long. I think you’ll go running back to Rolling Stone after you’ve suffered the ignominy of insignificance for a few months. But I’m glad to have you. It’s hard to find roommates in DC who aren’t gratingly neurotic.”

“Well, everyone expects me to write another book. I don’t really feel like it, but I guess I have to do something.”

“Feel free to use my Kaypro. You’re probably wondering how I could afford it. A woman moved in with me for three months, but we fought a lot and she just split one day. Left the Kaypro behind. A parting gift, I guess. You know, I’m not crazy about restaurant chips. I prefer Doritos.”

“Just keep eating, dude, you need every calorie. Have you ever had guacamole?”

“No, it’s too expensive.”

“I’ll order you some. Great with chips. The stuff is like a drug for your taste buds. Seriously.”

“Okay. Weed used to make food taste so good. But I had to stop smoking it and get serious about my writing career. Actually, if it weren’t for ghostwriting The Hardy Boys mysteries, I’d have almost nothing. I’d just be teaching the occasional class at The Writer’s Center.”

“For a long time, I couldn’t focus unless I smoked some grass. Funny, somehow I just stopped toking sometime in the late Seventies. I didn’t plan it, it just happened. Little by little, drugs dropped out of my life. I’m pretty much a clean Gene now. It’s amazing how much I’ve mellowed out.”

“And you don’t like cocaine. You’re lucky. Anyone I know with money does coke every damned day.”

“It makes me grit my teeth. If I do half a line, I’m okay. Any more than that, I’m a wreck. It’s the only drug I couldn’t handle. I’ve done ludes, windowpane, obetrol, poppers - no problems. You’re right, I’m lucky. Coke will eat a hole in your wallet.”

“We haven’t discussed topic numero uno. Women.”

“Ah, women. Well, I’m afraid I haven’t been a very good boy in that department. You see, in the music business, sex is readily available. I found it impossible to resist the zipless fuck, ubiquitous as it was. So having a relationship under those conditions was bad policy – uninteresting, even. If that makes me shallow, well, so be it.”

“But you’re out of the business now. The playing field is leveled with lonely saps like myself.”

“Yes, that is one wrinkle I have to iron out. I didn’t think about that when I made my exit plans. I’m not sure how to approach it.”

“Your book might impress some women.”

“Maybe. But it’s not the same as being able to get backstage with The Ramones. Or just walking into an after party for The Dead Boys.”

“You might have to rely on your sparkling personality.”

“Then I’m in real trouble.”

“That baby face might work for you. You sure don’t look thirty-eight.”

“Ouch, thirty-eight. Don’t remind me.”

“Let’s change the subject. Who made you the most starstruck?”

“That’s easy. My idol, William Burroughs. I met him at an RCA party for David Bowie. I walked up to him, very sure of myself, shook his hand, and said, ‘I think you underrate Junkie. It’s a fantastic book.’ He let go of my hand and replied, ‘It’s really not. I only wrote it to make money.’ Then he took a real long drag of his cigarette, as if to indicate that he was through talking with me. When he saw how crestfallen I was, he added, ‘But I’m glad you enjoyed it.’ I was pretty bummed out. I don’t know what I expected, I guess I absurdly thought we’d become famous friends.”

“He accidentally shot and killed his wife, did you know that?”

“Yeah, everybody knows that. It destroyed him. He was never the same. But he kept writing, brilliantly.”

Barry and I left the restaurant and started to walk back home. But first, I stopped to buy bagels. They were to pass out to the homeless people we’d encounter. Trickle-down hadn’t reached them yet, and never would. They’d rather have money, of course, to help buy a ten dollar rock. I had a friend in NY who told me the rush of crack was better than an orgasm. But I had another friend who said that I should never try it, that one time is all it took to change how your brain is wired. The look on that friend’s face stayed with me, and I swore I’d never do the stuff. When we were close to home, Barry stopped suddenly and put his arm out to halt me as well.

“What’s the matter?”

“You see that woman sitting on our steps? It’s Natalie. She owns the Kaypro. Ben, I can’t give that machine up.”

“Wow, Barry, she looks pretty hot from here. How’d you swing that?”

“Give me some credit, dude. But let’s turn around before she sees us.”

“Too late, she’s waving. Seems friendly enough.”

“She can be a viper, trust me. Well, it’s too late to run. Let’s see what she wants. I’m sure it’s the Kaypro. I’m not giving it up. It’s been almost a year since she split.” We walked slowly toward Natalie and I tried to size her up. She didn’t look poisonous. Actually, her body language was very composed. She wore cutoff jeans and a peasant top, very seventies, and while she wasn’t smiling, there was a calm in her expression that confirmed itself the closer we got.

“I know you’re shocked to see me, Barry. Who’s your friend? I didn’t know you had friends.” She got up and extended her hand to me.

“I’m Ben Rivers.” I shook her hand. It was soft and quite nice to the touch. All of her skin, in fact (and there was a lot of it showing), was quite nice. Already, she had a bit of a tan. She didn’t seem geared for battle; quite the opposite, really. But Barry got off on the wrong foot.

“Natalie, if you’re here for the Kaypro, you can’t have it. It’s been a year.”

“Cool your jets, Jehosaphat. I come in peace. Actually, I come in need. I need a place to stay. I promise to forget all our former squabbles. You can have the Kaypro. If you put me up for a while.”

“What’s a while?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Could be a month, could be until fall, could be a year. How many months of squatting is my Kaypro worth?”

“I don’t know. A lot, I suppose. There won’t be a psychotic boyfriend on your trail, will there?”

“Nope.”

“Well, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but okay. If anything goes awry, however, you have to leave. Sans Kaypro.”

“Deal.”

“I can sleep on the couch,” I offered.

“Oh, it’ll be the three of us?” said Natalie.

“Yep. Ben’s an old friend from school. We got our Master’s together.”

“Want a bagel, Natalie?” I pulled one out of the bag and she grabbed it from me.

“Yes, I’m starving.” We all went upstairs into the apartment and had a pleasant chat. I learned she was an art history major, which I always assumed means the person has no actual artistic ability. She went to junior college her first two years and then finished up at George Washington. She was living in a communal house in Takoma Park that had voted to go vegetarian. Natalie didn’t want to eat tofu, which put her out the door. She found a job at Kramerbooks in Dupont Circle, so between that and her new digs with us, everything was falling into place for her. Of course, I was wondering if I could fuck her. I was used to getting sex quite easily. This would be a new world for me, playing all kinds of intricate games in the quest for intercourse. I had no idea how it would go. We all went to sleep that night, and I was already thinking about leaving the couch and surprising her. But I knew I had to stifle myself. Normal women weren’t like the ones who hung around the music business. Those women didn’t think twice about oral sex if it got them backstage. It was going to be a hell of an adjustment for me, for sure.

Sex would have to take a back seat, though, because I had to think about an angle for my second book. It wouldn’t be enough to simply write another expose of the music business. I was a pretty political guy, so I tried to think of a way to incorporate that with my time at Rolling Stone. I thought maybe I could shred Reagan and blame his policies for ruining music. But was music ruined? Was trickle-down somehow responsible for bad songs? My agent liked the idea. I started typing away at the Kaypro every day. I got to use it from nine am to three pm and Barry used it from three pm to nine pm. The three of us ate late dinners together. Quite often, though, Barry would want to work past nine, and so Natalie and I would go out for food, just the two of us. We were starting to get pretty chummy. I had to admit I liked her. I didn’t know much about art and she gave me an education. She took me to the Hirshhorn on the Mall. I began to like modern art, to a certain extent, but I will never get Mark Rothko and his big, blotchy rectangles. I drew the line with him. One steamy day in August, we were standing in front of a Rothko called Blue, Orange, Red, and Natalie took my hand. Oh, boy, I was going to get to fuck her. It had been so long since I’d had any kind of sex, I was not used to the dry spells most men have to endure. Where would we go to do it? I had been keeping a fresh condom ready. From the time I was an adolescent, I realized rubbers, as we called them in high school, were a man’s best friend. They protected from gonorrhea, syphilis, pregnancy, herpes and AIDS. Those guys in Sweden should award Charles Goodyear a posthumous Nobel prize. Yeah, they’re boner killers when you put one on, but if she’s any kind of woman, she will get you back up and ready to bang in no time. I was sure Natalie would have no problem keeping me at full mast. But again, where? Hotels in the Northwest of DC were expensive. There were cheap places along New York Avenue, but they were so seedy. While I was thinking, Natalie’s hand had found its way up my arm and was starting to explore the space inside my CBGB’s T-shirt. I needed to get this woman to some place private in a hurry.

Well, in a slummy turn of things, we just did it standing up behind a dumpster in an alley off Connecticut Avenue. I knew the spot well and felt pretty sure of its privacy. As a kid we used to play sock ball there and nobody ever bothered us. It didn’t take us long, and indeed, nobody came around. We got home late and Barry was still typing on the Kaypro.

“Okay, you two, I can tell by the look on your faces that you had sex. I know exactly what Natalie looks like postcoital. I could see this coming the past few months. It was only a matter of time.”

“Are you okay with that, Barry?” said Natalie.

“Well, my biggest question, Nat, is...what’s wrong with me? Why wasn’t I the one you had sex with? What am I, chopped liver?” Oh, brother. I wasn’t used to sex being this complicated. I wanted to screw Natalie, but I didn’t want this mess. Actually, it was more than sex. I really liked Natalie. I hadn’t felt like this since college. I went to Rolling Stone immediately upon getting my Master’s, and that’s when all the gratis carnalism started. And now, after sixteen years of debauchery, I actually felt something for a woman. Natalie was easy to be with, she was reasonably smart, and I enjoyed her.

“Barry, we had our time together. I’m glad we did, but we left on pretty rough terms. I don’t want to revisit that.”

“What makes you think things will be any smoother with Big Ben there?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I know I’d like Ben to sleep in my room with me from now on. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah, I guess. I knew this might happen. Listen, Natalie, has Ben told you about all the women he’s slept with? All the rampant sex he had in New York? Because I think you should know that before you decide he’s Mr. Wonderful.”

“Ben, what is he talking about?”

“Natalie, I thought you understood. I was in the music business. There’s a lot of sex in it. I had my share, no more or no less than most men in that field.”

“How many is that? Hundreds?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Thousands?”

“No. Several hundred. Does several mean seven? I’m a writer, I should know that but I don’t.”

“Oh, dear God. You’re a sex addict.”

“I’m not an addict, Natalie. Until today, I hadn’t had sex in months.”

“You’re depraved, Ben. Seven hundred. How could you do that?”

“Before I started writing for Rolling Stone, I’d only had nine or ten partners. The music business was a sexual playground. It was difficult not to partake.”

“I’ve only had five partners, Ben. Six now, counting you. I feel so icky. I need to go for a walk.”

“It’s not safe this time of night, Nat,” said Barry.

“Then come with me. Let Big Ben sit alone and think about what he’s done with his wretched life.”

“Okay.” They left and I just sat on the couch, munching a bagel. Wow, Natalie and I had done it behind a dumpster, who would’ve thought she’d turn all fair and virtuous maiden on me? I was only her sixth partner, that made me feel kind of special. I had never really thought about how many sexual partners I had, and I was always lousy at math. I started thinking about it more seriously. That 700 number might be high. I went over to the calculator that Barry kept near the Kaypro and started punching numbers in. The truth, I decided, was that I had sex twice a month on average. That was twenty-four times a year. Times sixteen years, that was 384 partners. That wasn’t as bad as 700. Some of them might have been repeat customers. I didn’t know. Probably not. Many times, I would just do a popper and then get a blow job. Did that count as sex? Maybe the number was way less than 300. Ah, who was I kidding? I was an addict, just like Natalie said. Funny thing, though, I really wanted her in my life. When she mentioned the idea of us sharing a bed, that sounded so good. Why the hell did Barry have to screw it up? He really violated the guys code, spilling about me like that. Now what? I would just have to wait and see what Natalie decided. It was all up to her. They were gone quite a while, and I ended up falling asleep on the couch.

The next morning was very strange. I woke up to see Barry and Natalie in two chairs that were placed close together. They were sitting next to each other, waiting for me to wake up. And they were holding hands.  

“Okay, what’s this all about?” I said. Barry spoke up.

“Ben, we were up pretty late and we did a lot of talking. We worked out a lot of our past issues. We decided we want to get back together. Nat is pretty shook up about you and she needs some stability. I don’t have your sexual history. I just want to be with one woman. Natalie. We love each other. That’s probably not something you’d understand, but it’s what we want. I hate to say it, but you’re going to have to find someplace else to live, and in a hurry. Your presence here really upsets Nat.”

“I can’t even speak to you, Ben. You really shocked me,” said Natalie.

“Wow, I’m being made into a monster.”

“I’m sorry, Ben,” said Barry. “I still consider you a friend. Your sex life is your own business, and I’m not judging you. But like I said, you really upset Nat.”

“I spent an hour in the shower last night, scrubbing your smell off of me.”

“I know it doesn’t matter, guys, but I did some careful math on the calculator, and that 700 number was way high. It was closer to 300. Maybe even less than that.”

“Like I said, Ben, I’m not judging you.”

“Weren’t you afraid you might get AIDS?” asked Natalie.

“You might not believe me, but I always used a condom for intercourse. Always. I knew so many guys in school that got their partners pregnant. I never wanted to go through that. And I’ve read that no one has ever gotten AIDS through oral sex. Hopefully, for me, that’s correct. Well, I guess I’d better get out in the world and find someplace new to live. At least one good thing came out of all this. I brought you two back together. I’m glad for that. I wanted my chance with you, Natalie, I really did. I suppose I don’t deserve you. Maybe someday a woman will forgive me for my past, and accept me as I am. I can only hope for that.”

I went up to the corner, bought some more bagels to pass out, and got a copy of City Paper. There were plenty of ads for roommates, but it wasn’t easy to make calls, connect with people, and make it all happen in a short space of time. I pictured myself sleeping that night on a bench at Kalorama Park. Barry and Natalie wanted me out quickly, but I’m sure they realized it wouldn’t be easy. I wanted nothing to do with them. I was actually pretty pissed. I said all the right things, but I was just putting on. The hell with her, I couldn’t care less what she thought of me. They’ll be back to fighting in two months, and she’ll leave that nerdball quicker than the first time. Oh, wait. I had 20,000 words on floppies I’d typed into the Kaypro, the start of my second book. Gotta retrieve those. I went back at six pm and Barry was there alone. Natalie was still working at Kramerbooks.

“Find a place?”

“No. I might need another day. I’ll probably sleep in Kalorama Park.”

“Don’t do that. We realize you need time. Stay here.”

“I can’t. She had to wash my smell off of her? That was hard to hear.”

“Nat is a leftover flower child, but she’s a bit of a contradiction. She’s quick to sleep with a guy if she digs him. But she expects monogamy.”

“Is she religious?”

“No, she’s agnostic, actually.”

“Mainly, I came back to get my floppies.”

“Oh, yeah. They’re over there in the case. How far have you gotten?”

“20,000 words. I think it’s pretty good, what I have so far.”

“I’m sure it’s far better than my adventures with Frank and Joe.”

“Is that their names? I never read Hardy Boys when I was young.”

“My latest book has them going on a D&D adventure. I pitched it to the publishers and they begrudgingly gave me a green light. Look, I know I did something to you that guys aren’t supposed to do. I ratted you out. I had my reasons. Everything in your life is better than mine. You have a great writing career. You’re better looking than me. You made better grades in school. You’ve certainly had way more sex than I’ve had. I had one chance to take something away from you, so I went for it. You had Natalie, briefly, but now she’s mine again.”

“Think you can stay together?”

“Who knows? I hope so.”

“Well, I’m going to scram before she gets here.”

“You got a key still. Come back after ten and she’ll be asleep. The other bedroom is yours until you find a place.”

“Thanks, Barry.”

It was a pleasant night, so I found a spot behind some bushes in Kalorama Park to sleep. A cop woke me up the next morning, but he didn’t write me up. He let me get up, collect myself, and go on my way. I made some more calls and finally found a room near the Ontario Theater. I remembered seeing Romeo and Juliet there in 1968 (a gorgeous film by Zeffirelli), just before I left for New York City. The room had a shared bathroom down the hall, which was kind of creepy. And there was only a hot plate for cooking. It felt like the kind of sleazy room Burroughs would’ve spent time in. A single, naked lightbulb overhead, searing his drug-laden brain as he typed up yet another masterpiece. Naked Lunch is the only novel most people know him for, but he has other great books. Cities of the Red Night is probably his best. All I ever wanted, really, was to be like him. No one is ever satisfied. Barry wants to be like me, I want to be like Burroughs. Burroughs wants to be a guy that didn’t accidentally shoot his wife dead.

It was a creepy place to live, that room on Ontario Place, but I finished my book there. I got an advance, bought a Kaypro, and ended up with 120,000 words trashing Reagan, eighties music and MTV (The Revolution is Still Not Over, Doubleday, 1985). It didn’t sell well, despite good reviews. Few wanted to read such a book – most were too busy chasing the illusion of trickle-down economics. But my body of work, if you could call it that, led to a teaching position at the University of Maryland. All those adoring young coeds, they will be too much for an old sybarite like me to resist. I know I’m headed for trouble. Big trouble. And I will probably deserve it.