PATTI SMITH STARIGHT, NO CHASER

We are sitting in the Tropical, the darkest bar in New York. Outside on Eighth Avenue it's late afternoon. In here it's midnight on the outskirts of Mayaguez. There is a day-glo Madonna next to the cash register. Above her head is a sign: Absolutely No Credit This Means You. Patti orders tequila and I order gin. Since we are speaking English and are not drunk, we are the object of many crypto-Hispanic stares. The barmaid pulls at the hem of her brassiere through her t-shirt, then pours herself a shot.

"No importa nada mas que toma licor," she says, and the bar stirs with rheumy laughter.

Patti lifts a quarter from our change and goes to the jukebox. A moment later, Tom Jones is singing "The Young New Mexican Puppeteer." Several customers begin to sing along in phonetic approximation.

"I heard you got divorced," Patti says.

"Yeah," I say.

"The Virgin Mary's face is chartreuse," she says, gesturing with a toss of her chin toward the icon that guards the till. "They should have the Holy Ghost on the other side of the register, where that cerebral palsy can is."

"Color-coordinated, of course," I say.