Summer. 2002. 10 p.m. I’m at Mexican Radio enjoying a little tequila…Okay, fine, a lot of tequila, but I’m with some of my friends so it’s not like I’m getting warehoused alone. I hear ringing. It’s my cell.

“Get your ass up here now,” the voice says.

“Dude, I don’t know who you are or what you want, but stay out of my pocket.”

“Parker! Parker Posey is here,” my friend Russ says.

“Where are you?”

I convince my group to head uptown. It’s not easy. I gotta hear shit about getting a nosebleed above 14th Street and crap like that. My friends are still peppering me with questions as we pile into two cabs in Nolita.

“Hell’s Kitchen,” I tell the cabby. “And step on it.”

The dive bar is perfectly dark. The place smells like a fraternity basement on a Sunday morning. It’s filled with t-shirts and jeans drinking pints of the piss du jour. Mixed in are a few lonely suits looking to catch the next train—they might even be brokers of mine, but I’m not interested. What I’m interested in is sitting at the bar drinking a Bud and eating Cheez Doodles. Apparently Parker is in an off-Broadway show in the neighborhood. She’s yukking it up with a couple of pals. She makes drinking a bottle of Budweiser and eating Cheez Doodles look sexy.

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