A long trail follows curious Steven, long sheets of bad luck. He's been in many a sticky situation. He picked up a brown paper bag from the shade in the alley behind the dive.
What's in here? he inquired. A used hypo-needle that pricked his finger, that's what.
Another time he imagined, This is something special, snorting powder through a rolled-up $100 bill, until he discovered that the lender of the Ben Franklin owned deposits of Hep-C in his blood. Blown by the winds to the pitfall.
There's the edge. Curious Steven pulling it along. He buys champagne from the liquor store at 6 a.m., a bubbling breakfast. He went to A.A. one time, and fainted when he got up to speak but before he passed out he made sure he threw his styrofoam cup of coffee over a member of the alcoholic elite. Heaven knows I'm miserable now, he says. He listens to The Smiths too much.
Now, here he comes walking through the bar, the long trail behind him, the toilet paper stuck to his heel, fluttering pink. He's oblivious to embarrassment. I yell, Steven, sh** sticks to you!. But he keeps on going, his nose at a curl, his face like a plank, the whole roll accompanying him to the door. And like a drummer, he marches down the street, the pink tale of curious Steven.
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