Page 162 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Don't make plans Sunday night.

Three dots blink.

Vanish.

Then come back.

Proud of you, Sonny

43 / BECAUSE THE NIGHT

PATTI SMITH

// DEC 8, 7:21 PM - JACK & JAGGER - HOBOKEN, NJ //

If whiskey had a church, this pool hall would be the cathedral.

Lights pour down from stained glass shades, scarred wood for pews, shadows where the confessionals should be.

And over the bar,

neon burns red for an altar.

PLAY DIRTY. STAY RECKLESS.

Along the walls, guitars stand in glass tombs, strings drawn tight, mouths frozen mid-hymn.

Each table’s a saint⁠—

Hendrix, Mercury, Cobain.

This is where whiskey does the talking

and cue sticks do the fighting.

But not for me.

I’m about to walk down the center aisle,

straight to an empty casket,

classic rock strumming under my skin,

the jukebox choir for my funeral,

where Andrew awaits to say his goodbye and bury us for good.

I dressed to leave a mark:

Red nails. Red lipstick.

Black denim mini skirt,

ripped to threads around my thighs.

A white crop top painted across my chest.

Dad’s leather jacket—patches, scars, stories stitched into the hide. Eight years later, still smells like Newports and his cologne.