Speed / Kentucky Ham
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Two counterculture novels in one volume.
Two shattering autobiographical novels offer a vision of alienated youth at its most raw and uncensored. "A compelling narrative that balances the methedrine horrors with the outcast’s romantic search for identity."―Rolling Stone.
let us on and down the tunnel we went. 3 The next image I can remember was the two of us, there we were in Greenwich Village, part of the great phenomenon, just arrived and celebrating on a couple of hot dogs. Things started rolling right away. We hadn’t been there six minutes before a familiar face floated free of the crowd and told me that an old friend of mine was living with her just around the corner. Gary was one of the people I used to fool around with in Palm Beach before he became
long enough to ask Noni if she could bail Chad. She said she was going back to school tomorrow and she’d try to find money. I told her I’d be around Chris’s place and left. The subway was a little less awesome on the way back. By the time I left New York, I could look bored and read the posters like anybody, but I still snapped my head towards any particularly loud splintering sound. I didn’t feel much like explaining to the fellers when I got back so I went over to Eliot’s and shot some meth
breezed his hair and I thought, “God, I bet that was beautiful.” Then I watched a tiny spider lower himself all the way from the roof of the porch and wondered how the little thing could manufacture so much web. It stopped right in front of my face as I sat there thinking how strange that such a tiny thing contained just as much life as me. I thought that the soul of the spider or of the bird that flew over Chad must be exquisite indeed to take such form. Then the sun reached into the yard. I
there through the windows and Ping-Pong tables, another and longer hall files away perpendicular. There were twelve doors on the longer hall. Each one opened on a dormitory-type room that adjoined another on the other side of a bathroom. At night the guards came to the doors every thirty minutes and would flick their lights over the beds to see was everybody home. Click, they’d go. Click, click down the hall not noticing that the me in my bed was usually a pile of clothes because the real me
once back in the secure section, the social worker directed me to the music department. It seemed at least half a mile past the Blue Room. I went there through more gray tunnels, the paint peeling in these, and past great piles of old musical instruments rusting behind heavy screens, as if they could ever sing another note if anyone let them out again. Through high colonnades of rusted steel girders with mandala dust-beam light bulbs, and finally the hall swung right. There on the corner was the