I DIDN’T GO OUT much at all. Maybe a dinner party now and then. Maybe the odd house party.
Sometimes I’d duck in and out of a club.
But it wasn’t worth it. When I went out, it was always the same scene.
Paps here, paps there, paps everywhere. Groundhog Day.
The dubious pleasure of a night out was never worth the pain.
But then I’d think: How am I going to meet someone if I don’t go out? So I’d try it again.
And: Groundhog Day.
One night, leaving a club, I saw two men come racing around a corner.
They were headed straight for me and one had a hand on his hip.
Someone yelled: Gun!
I thought: Well, everyone, we had a good run.
Billy the Rock leaped forward, hand on his gun, and nearly shot the two men.
But it was just Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber. They didn’t have guns, and I don’t know what one of them was reaching for on his hip. But Billy held him and screamed into his face: How many times do we have to tell you? You’re going to get someone fucking killed.
They didn’t care. They did not care.
