I slept and woke in fits, dreaming and thinking about JC. Around dawn, no longer able to endure my own thoughts, I left my apartment. It had occured to me that Albert Hammond Jr.'s solo career was indefinetly delaying the next The Strokes album, that maybe there wouldn't even be a next The Strokes album.
I found a diner and ordered a cup of coffee. I had heard somewhere that JC liked to frequent the diner and the rumor alone was enough to comfort me. Whenever the door swung open, I looked up, expecting to him to come in, resplendent in leather like some urban demi-gorgon.
"Have you ever seen Julian Casablancas come in here?" I asked the waitress.
"No," she replied, looking at me wearily, "But the under-secretary of his PR rep often stops by."
"Oh you must tell me the name of the under-secretary," I exclaimed. "Even the lowest under-secretary could help me."
The waitress shook her head, "Even if I were to give you the name of the under-secretary, it wouldn't do you any good. The PR firm alone employes a vast number of under-secretaries and they only handle a small portion of Julian's career. An under-secretary like the one who comes to this diner has never seen Julian and may not do much more than over see a few of the highest ranking unpaid interns. Perhaps if an assistant band manager came to this diner I could help you, but we aren't so lucky. "
"But you see I'm supposed to be following him around New York City-"
The waitress laughed, "Yes of course you are".
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