The Junkie Romance: The Sid and Nancy Syndrome

Jon Vreeland - Poet/Author/Human

I met Zooey earlier this summer, at the best bar in downtown
HB, Gallagher’s—an Irish pub and restaurant with brown
wood and a halo of televisions, an internet jukebox that hangs
on the wall by the bathroom, and a small stage in the back
corner for music and stand-up comedy. Gallagher’s is off
Main Street and Pacific Coast Highway, a hundred yards from
the HB pier. I can still smell the beer and whiskey, and their
delicious roast beef wafting over the patio’s Plexiglas wall, and
into the lurid streets of Surf City.

One Friday night a couple of months ago, Zooey appeared
out of nowhere.

She was outside on the patio, at a roundtable with her legs
stretched out. Her black, high-top Chuck Taylors rested on
another chair, despite the place being crowded. Her hair was
still bright red, not yet faded to pink, and cut just above her

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