Alien Broadcasts from Interzone

A short excerpt from The Bunker Diaries.

The following is a short excerpt from Stewart Meyer’s forthcoming book, The Bunker Diaries, which will be released on November 1, 2025. It can be pre-ordered here.

On the day after Christmas 1980 I found myself at the big table in the Bunker with William, Allen Ginsberg, and Peter Orlovsky. I’d given Bill a large stereo cassette radio the day before and Billie Holiday was oozing softly through the smoke-filled hollows.

“See my new radio, Allen. It pulls in alien broadcasts.”

“From where, Bill?”

Bill shrugged. “Interzone. There are still Nova criminals out there waiting for their time to come. The right moment! Puff! It’s the same pestilence I have been monitoring throughout my career as an agent. They are getting stronger, more complex, and determined. Oh, it also plays cassettes.”

“Sounds like the International Jewish Conspiracy.”

“No... not entirely.”

“Got any Ajax, Bill?” Peter inserted.

Allen smiled indulgently. “It’s probably under the sink, Peter. That’s where most people keep that sort of—”

“It’s in that drawer, Peter.” Bill pointed. “Feel free to engage the rags as well.”

I’d heard the rumors, so was only mildly shocked as Peter entered into a systematic campaign of buffing and polishing. He soon had the entire dining and kitchen area glowing, and only paused to rest because the fridge had to defrost before he could caress it to purity with his trusty rag.

“Hey Bill, can I go lie down in the archive room?” Peter asked. The second he stopped moving Peter began to decompose.

“Of course, Peter, of course.”

As soon as he left the room Allen shrugged. “I know, Bill. What can I do? He has always loved amphetamines. Well, at least you have a sparkling kitchen.”

“True... true.”

“What’s happening with your methadone treatment?”

Bill lifted a shoulder and chuckled. “Nothing’s happening. I’m being treated for my addiction and it’s working out well. I am, you see, ‘a recovering heroin addict being maintained on methadone until my treatment is completed.’ I can now operate heavy machinery and play the violin, which I could not do before my first tank of petrol.”

“And how about your sex life? Doesn’t methadone slow one down?”

“Nonsense, the juice adds octane. Methadone makes you randy as a billygoat! A gelatinous billygoat.”

Allen looked at me. “Bill’s putting me on. He’s been doing that for my entire adult life.”

“Well, if you want to know about the combination of sex and methadone, Allen, you could dig up somebody who has more to say on the subject.”

“Bill has a very shy side,” Allen said softly, almost to himself. “It’s been a while since I hit the baths. How about you, Bill ol’ boy? You getting around a bit?”

“No Al, ol’ boy. I have not been to the baths in quite a while. I can do my scrubbings right here in the Bunker.”

“Sure Bill. Your scrubbings.”

I developed the distinct feeling that Allen was pushing a little too hard. No one ever asked Bill about his current sex life. The man had his dignity, his privacy. I felt as close to William Burroughs as I’d ever felt to any trusted friend, but we were not on farting terms.

I attempted a change of subject. “Allen, tell me about Jacques Stern. I keep hearing these astonishing tales from William.”

“Jacques Stern is a man among men,” Bill issued flatly. “A veritable warrior of the Dark Regions.”

Allen laughed. “A warrior in a wheelchair. Interesting image and oddly correct.” He turned to me. “You have met him?”

“No... I await the honor.”

“And it is an honor, although a month into his acquaintance you might start wishing you were never born.”

William and Allen laughed privately for a moment or two.

“He seems to be one of those reclusive figures, like Harry Smith, who feeds the imaginations of important artists,” I ventured.

“Certainly is a factor.”

“More than that, Allen,” Bill corrected. “More than a mere factor.”

“You should meet him, Stew. He’s an experience,” Allen enthused.

“A man of deep learning and transcendence. Jacques is precisely the type of person a writer should have around him. If, that is, one has a flexible sense of humor and endurance.”

“Certainly endurance,” Allen added. “But there is a generosity of spirit. A piercing lunatic intelligence.”

Peter emerged from the archive room and sat down at the table. Allen poured him a glass of Coke.

“Did you get to rest, Peter?”

“I’m still tired. We should go home now, Allen.”

“Yes, it’s getting late,” Bill agreed. “I have to be at the doctor’s office in the morning.”

“Where’s your doctor, Bill?”

“Why he’s in his office, Peter,” Bill sang sarcastically. His appointment was with Doc Karkus. Bill did not want people to know every move he made.

Peter looked hurt for a second, then shrugged it off. He’d known Bill Burroughs long enough to sidestep a little crabbing from the man. “Don’t forget to wipe off your fridge, Bill. I’m too tired or I’d—”

“Thanks Peter. Don’t give it another thought.”

I prepared to leave with them. I watched them saying goodbye. Life-long friends hugging each other self-consciously. Intensity and depth marked every gesture and produced a formality tailored to their unique bond. There was a submerged vibe between Allen and William that bordered on impatience. But this shared humor was so refined a part of their relationship it only touched the surface as a faded ghost.

Learn more about The Bunker Diaries and two other forthcoming publications from Beatdom here: