came over and put some
gloves on me. We were called into the center of the ring for instructions.
"Now when you clinch," said the referee, "I'll. ..
"I don't clinch," I told the referee.
Other instructions followed.
"O.k., go back to your corners. And at the bell, come out fighting. May
the better man win. And," he said to me, "you better take that cigar out of
your mouth."
When the bell rang I came out with the cigar still in my mouth. Sucking
in a mouthful of smoke, I blew it into Ernest Hemingway's face. The crowd
laughed.
Hem moved in, jabbed and hooked, and missed both punches. I was fast on
my feet. I danced a little jig, moved in, tap tap tap tap tap, five swift
left jabs to Papa's nose. I glanced down at a girl in the front row, a very
pretty thing, and just then Hem landed a right, smashing that cigar in my
mouth. I felt it burn my mouth and cheek, and I brushed the hot ash off. I
spit out the cigar stub and hooked one to Ernie's belly. He uppercut with a
right and caught me on the ear with a left. He ducked under my right and
caught me with a volley up against the ropes. Just at the bell he dropped me
with a solid right to the chin. I got up and walked back to my corner.
A guy came over with a bucket.
"Mr. Hemingway wants to know if you'd care for another round?" the guy
asked me.
"You tell Mr. Hemingway that he was lucky. Smoke got in my eyes. One
more round is all I need to do the job."
The guy with the bucket went over and I could see Hemingway laughing.
The bell rang and I came right out. I began landing, not too hard but
with good combinations. Ernie retreated, missing his punches. For the first
time I saw doubt in his eyes.
Who is this kid?, he was thinking. I shortened my punches, hit him
harder. I landed with every blow. Head and body. A mixed variety. I boxed
like Sugar Ray and hit like Dempsey.
I had Hemingway up against the ropes. He couldn't fall. Each time he
started to fall forward I straightened him with another punch. It was
murder. Death in the Afternoon.
I stepped back and Mr. Ernest Hemingway fell forward, out cold.
I unlaced my gloves with my teeth, pulled them off, and leaped from the
ring. I walked to my dressing room, I mean Hemingway's dressing room, and
took a shower. I drank a bottle of beer, lit a cigar, and sat on the edge of
the rubbing table. They carried Ernie in and put him on another table. He
was still out. I sat there naked, watching them worry over Ernie. There were
women in the room but I didn't pay any attention. Then a guy came over.
"Who are you?" he asked. "What's your name?"
"Henry Chinaski."
"Haven't heard of you," he said.
"You will," I said.
All the people came over. Ernie was left alone. Poor Ernie. Everybody
crowded around me. The women too. I was pretty starved-down, except for one
place. A real class broad was really looking me up and down. She looked like
a society broad, rich, educated, and everything -- nice body, nice face,
nice clothes, all that.
"What do you do?" somebody asked me.
"Fuck and drink."
"No, no, I mean what's your occupation?"
"Dishwasher."
"Dishwasher?"
"Yeah."
"Do you have a hobby?"
"Well, I don't know if you could call it a hobby. I write."
"You write?"
"Yeh."
"What?"
"Short stories. They're pretty good."
"Have you been published?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I haven't submitted."
"Where are your stories?"
"Over there," I pointed to a torn paper suitcase.
"Listen, I'm a critic for The New York Times. Do you mind if I
take your stories home and read them? I'll return them."
"It's o.k. with me, punk, only I don't know where I'll be."
The class society broad stepped forward. "He'll be with me."
Then she said, "Come on, Henry, get into your togs. It's a long drive
in and we have things to -- talk about."
I got dressed and then Ernie regained consciousness.
"What the hell happened?" he asked.
"You met a pretty good man, Mr. Hemingway," somebody told him.
I finished dressing and went over to his table.
"You're a good man. Papa. Nobody wins them all." I shook his hand.
"Don't blow your brains out."
I left with the society broad and we got into an open-topped yellow car
half a block long. She drove with the throttle to the floor and took the
curves sliding and screeching and without expression. That was class. If she
loved like she drove it was going to be a hell of a night.
The place was up in the hills, off by itself. A butler opened the door.
"George," she told him, "take the night oft. On second thought, take
the week off."
We walked in and there was a big guy sitting in a chair with a drink in
his hand.
Tommy," she said, "get lost."
We moved on through the house.
"Who was the big guy?" I asked her.
"Thomas Wolfe," she said, "a bore."
She stopped in the kitchen for a fifth of bourbon and two glasses. Then
she said, "Come on."
I followed her into the bedroom.
The next morning the phone awakened us. It was for me. She handed me
the phone and I sat up in bed next to her.
"Mr. Chinaski?"
"Yeh?"
"I read your stories. I was so excited that I couldn't sleep all night.
You're surely the greatest genius of the decade!"
"Only of the decade?"
"Well, perhaps of the century."
That's better."
The editors of Harper's and Atlantic are here with me
now. You may not believe this but each of them has accepted five stories for
future publication."
"I believe it," I said.
The critic hung up. I lay down. The society broad and I made love one
more time.
STOP STARING AT MY TITS, MISTER
Big Bart was the meanest man in the West. He had the fastest gun in the
West and he'd fucked a larger variety of women in the West than anybody
else. He wasn't fond of bathing or bullshit or coming out second best. He
was also boss of a wagon train going West, and there wasn't a man his age
who had killed more Indians or fucked more women or killed more white men.
Big Bart was great and he knew it and everybody knew it. Even his farts
were exceptional, louder than the dinner gong, and he was well-hung. Big
Bart's gig was to get the wagons through safely, score on the ladies, kill a
few men and then head back for another wagon load. He had a black beard, a
dirty bunghole, and radiant yellow teeth.
He had just hammered hell out of Billy Joe's young wife while he made
Billy Joe watch. He made Billy Joe's wife talk to Billy Joe while he was at
it. He made her say, "Ah, Billy Joe, all this turkeyneck stuck into me from
snatch to throat, I can hardly breathe! Billy Joe, save me! No, Billy Joe,
don't save me!"
After Big Bart climaxed he made Billy Joe wash his parts and then they
all went out to a big dinner of hamhocks and limas with biscuits.
The next day they came across this lone wagon running all by itself
through the prairie. Some skinny kid of about sixteen with a bad case of
acne was at the reins. Big Bart rode over.
"Say, kid," he said.
The kid didn't answer.
"I'm talkin' to ya, kid . . ."
"Kiss my ass," said the kid.
"I'm Big Bart," said Big Bart.
"Kiss my ass, Big Bart," said the kid.
"What's your name, son?"
"They call me 'The Kid.' "
"Look, Kid, there's no way a man can make it through this here Indian
territory with a lone wagon."
"I intend to," said the Kid.
"O.k., it's your balls. Kid," said Big Bart, and he made to ride off
when the flaps of the wagon opened and out came this little filly with 40-
inch breasts and a fine big ass and eyes like the sky after a good rain. She
put her eyes upon Big Bart and his turkeyneck quivered against the saddle
horn.
"For your own good. Kid, you're a comin' with us."
"Fuck on", old man," said The Kid, "I don't take no mother-fuckin'
advice from an old man in dirty underwear."
"I've killed men for blinkin their eyes," said Big Bart.
The Kid just spit on the ground. Then reached up and scratched his
crotch.
"Old man, you bore me. Now lose yourself from my sight or I'll assist
you in resembling a hunk of swiss cheese."
"Kid," said the girl, leaning over him, one of her breasts flopping out
and giving the sunlight a hard-on, "Kid, I think the man's right. We got no
chance against those motherfucking Indians alone. Now don't be an asshole.
Tell the man we'll join up."
"We'll join up," said The Kid.
"What's your girl's name?" asked Big Bart.
"Honeydew," said The Kid.
"And stop staring at my tits, mister," said Honeydew, "or I'll belt the
shit out of you."
Things went well for a while. There was a skirmish with the Indians at
Blueball Canyon. 37 Indians killed, one captured. No American casualties.
Big Bart bungholed the captured Indian and then hired him on as cook. There
was another skirmish at Clap Canyon, 37 Indians killed, one captured. No
American casualties. Big Bart bungholed . . .
It was obvious that Big Bart had hotrocks for Honeydew. He couldn't
keep his eyes off her. That ass, mostly it was that ass. He fell off his
horse watching one time and one of the two Indian cooks laughed. That left
only one Indian cook.
One day Big Bart sent The Kid out with a hunting party to score on some
buffalo. Big Bart waited until they rode off and then he made for The Kid's
wagon. He leaped up onto the seat and pushed the flaps back and walked in.
Honeydew was crouched in the center of the wagon masturbating.
"Jesus, baby," said Big Bart, "don't waste it!"
"Get the hell out of here," said Honeydew, withdrawing her finger and
pointing it at Big Bart, "get the hell out of here and let me do my thing!"
"Your man ain't takin' care of you, Honeydew!"
"He's takin' care of me, asshole, it's just that I don't get enough.
It's just that after my period I get hot."
"Listen, baby . . ."
"Fuck off!"
"Listen, baby, lookee . . ."
And he pulled out the jackhammer. It was purple and flipped back and
forth like the weight in a grandfather's clock. Driblets of spittle fell to
the floor.
Honeydew couldn't keep her eyes off that instrument. At last she said,
"You're not going to stick that god damned thing into me!"
"Say it like you mean it, Honydew."
"YOU'RE NOT GOING TO STICK THAT GOD DAMNED THING INTO ME!"
"But why? Why? Look at it!"
"I am looking at it!"
"But why don't you want it?"
"Because I'm in love with The Kid."
"Love?" said Big Bart laughing. "Love? That's a fairytale for idiots!
Look at this god damned scythe! That can beat love anytime!"
"I love The Kid, Big Bart."
"And there's my tongue," said Big Bart, "the best tongue in the West!"
He stuck it out and made it do gymnastics.
"I love The Kid," said Honeydew.
"Well, fuck you," said Big Bart, and he ran forward and threw himself
upon Honeydew. It was dog's work getting that thing in and when he did,
Honeydew screamed. He gave it about seven slices and then he felt himself
being roughly pulled off.
IT WAS THE KID. BACK FROM THE HUNTING PARTY.
"We got your buffalo, motherfucker. Now if you'll pull up your pants
and step outside we'll settle the rest."
"I've got the fastest gun in the West," said Big Bart.
"I'll blow a hole in you so big your asshole will look like a pore in
your skin," said The Kid. "Come on, let's get it done. I'm hungry for
dinner. This hunting buffalo works up the appetite . . ."
The men sat around the campfire watching. There was a definite
vibration in the air. The women stayed in the wagons, praying, masturbating,
and drinking gin. Big Bart had 34 notches in his gun, and a bad memory. The
Kid didn't have any notches in his gun. But he had confidence such as the
others had seldom seen before. Big Bart seemed the more nervous of the two.
He took a sip of whiskey, draining half the flask, then walked up to The
Kid.
"Look, Kid . . ."
"Yeah, motherfucka . . .?"
"I mean, why you lost your cool?"
"I'm gonna blow your balls off, old man!"
"What for?"
"You were messin' with my woman, old man!"
"Listen Kid, don't you see? The female plays one man against the other.
We're just falling for her game."
"I don't want to hear your shit, dad! Now back off and draw! You've had
it!"
"Kid . . ."
"Back off and draw!"
The men at the campfire stiffened. A slight wind blew from the West
smelling of horseshit. Somebody coughed. The women crouched in the wagons,
drinking gin, praying, and masturbating. Twilight was moving in.
Big Bart and The Kid were 30 paces apart.
"Draw, you chickenshit," said The Kid, "draw, you chickenshit woman
molester!"
Quietly through the flaps of a wagon a woman appeared with a rifle. It
was Honeydew. She put the rifle to her shoulder and squinted down the
barrel.
"Come on, you tinhorn rapist," said The Kid, "DRAW!"
Big Bart's hand flicked toward his holster. A shot rang through the
twilight. Honeydew lowered her smoking rifle and went back into the covered
wagon. The Kid was dead on the ground, a hole in his forehead. Big Bart put
his unused gun back in his holster and strode toward the wagon. The moon was
up.
SOMETHING ABOUT A VIET CONG FLAG
The desert baked under the summer sun. Red jumped off the freight as it
slowed just outside the railroad yard. He took a shit behind some tall rocks
to the north, wiped his ass with some leaves. Then he walked fifty yards,
sat behind another rock out of the sun and rolled a cigarette. He saw the
hippies walking toward him. Two guys and a girl. They had jumped off the
train in the yard and were walking back.
One of the guys carried a Viet Cong flag. The guys looked soft and
harmless. The girl had a nice wide ass -- it almost split her bluejeans. She
was blond and had a bad case of acne. Red waited until they almost reached
him.
"Heil Hitler!" he said.
The hippies laughed.
"Where you going?" Red asked.
"We're trying to get to Denver. I guess we'll make it."
"Well," said Red, "you're going to have to wait a while. I'm going to
have to use your girl."
"What do you mean?"
"You heard me."
Red grabbed the girl. With one hand grabbing her hair and the other her
ass, he kissed her. The taller of the guys reached for Red's shoulder. "Now
wait a minute . . ."
Red turned and put the guy on the ground with a short left. A stomach
punch. They guy stayed down, breathing heavily. Red looked at the guy with
the Viet Cong flag. "If you don't want to get hurt, leave me alone."
"Come on," he said to the girl, "get over behind those rocks."
"No, I won't do it," said the girl, "I won't do it."
Red pulled his switchblade and hit the button. The blade was flat
across her nose, pressed it down.
"How do you think you'd look without a nose?"
She didn't answer.
"I'll slice it off." He grinned.
"Listen," said the guy with the flag, "you can't get away with this."
"Come on, girly," said Red, pushing her toward the rocks.
Red and the girl disappeared behind the rocks. The guy with the flag
helped his friend up. They stood there. They stood there some minutes.
"He's fucking Sally. What can we do? He's fucking her right now."
"What can we do? He's a madman."
"We should do something."
"Sally must think we're real shits."
"We are. There are two of us. We could have handled him."
"He has a knife."
"It doesn't matter. We could have taken him."
"I feel god damned miserable."
"How do you think Sally feels? He's fucking her."
They stood and waited. The tall one who had taken the punch was called
Leo. The other was Dale. It was hot in the sun as they waited. "We've got
two cigarettes left," said Dale, "should we smoke?"
"How the hell can we smoke when that's going on behind the rocks?"
"You're right. My god, what's taking so long."
"God, I don't know. You think he's killed her?"
"I'm getting worried."
"Maybe I'd better have a look."
"O.k. but be careful."
Leo walked toward the rocks. There was a small hill with some brush. He
crawled up the hill behind the brush and looked down. Red was fucking Sally.
Leo watched. It seemed endless. Red went on and on. Leo crawled down the
hill and walked over and stood next to Dale.
"I guess she's all right," he said.
They waited.
Finally Red and Sally came out from behind the rocks. They walked
toward them.
"Thank you brothers," said Red, "she was a very fine piece."
"May you rot in hell!" said Leo.
Red laughed. "Peace! Peace! ... He flashed the sign with his fingers.
"Well, I think I'll be going . . ."
Red rolled a quick cigarette, smiling as he wet it. Then he lit up,
inhaled, and walked off toward the north, keeping in the shade.
"Let's hitchhike the rest of the way," said Dale. "Freights aren't any
good."
"The highway's to the west," said Leo, "let's go."
They began moving toward the west.
"Christ,' said Sally, "I can hardly walk! He's an animal!"
Leo and Dale didn't say anything.
"I hope I don't get pregnant," said Sally.
"Sally," said Leo, "I'm sorry . . ."
"Oh, shut up!"
They walked. It was getting along toward evening and the desert heat
was dropping off.
"I hate men!" said Sally.
A jackrabbit leaped out from behind a bush and Leo and Dale jumped as
it ran off.
"A rabbit," said Leo, "a rabbit."
"That rabbit scared you guys, didn't it?"
"Well, after what happened, we're jumpy."
"You're jumpy? What about me? Listen let's sit down a minute.
I'm tired."
There was a patch of shade and Sally sat between them.
"You know, though ..." she said.
"What?"
"It wasn't so bad. On a strictly sexual basis, I mean. He really put it
to me. On a strictly sexual basis it was quite something."
"What?" said Dale.
"I mean, morally, I hate him. The son of a bitch should be shot. He's a
dog. A pig. But on a strictly sexual basis it was something . . ."
They sat there a while not saying anything. Then they got out the two
cigarettes and smoked them, passing them around.
"I wish we had some dope," said Leo.
"God, I knew it was coming, said Sally. "You guys almost don't exist."
"Maybe you'd feel better if we raped you?" asked Leo. "Don't be stupid."
"You think I can't rape you?" "I should have gone with him. You guys are
nothing." "So now you like him?" asked Dale. "Forget it!" said Sally. "Let's
get down to the highway and stick our thumbs out."
"I can slam it to you," said Leo, "I can make you cry."
"Can I watch?" asked Dale, laughing.
"There won't be anything to watch," said Sally. "Come on. Let's go."
They stood up and walked toward the highway. It was a ten minute walk.
When they got there Sally stood in the highway with her thumb out. Leo and
Dale stood back out of view. They had forgotten the Viet Cong flag. They had
left it back at the freight yard. It was in the dirt near the railroad
tracks. The war went on. Seven red ants, the big kind, crawled across the
flag.
YOU CAN'T WRITE A LOVE STORY
Margie was going to go out with this guy but on the way over this guy
met another guy in a leather coat and the guy in the leather coat opened the
leather coat and showed the other guy his tits and the other guy went over
to Margie's and said he couldn't keep his date because this guy in the
leather coat had showed him his tits and he was going to fuck this guy. So
Margie went to see Carl. Carl was in, and she sat down and said to Carl,
"This guy was going to take me to a cafe with tables outside and we were
going to drink wine and talk, just drink wine and talk, that's all, nothing
else, but on the way over this guy met another guy in a leather coat and the
guy in the leather coat showed the other guy his tits and now this guy is
going to fuck the guy in the leather coat, so I don't get my table and my
wine and my talk."
"I can't write," said Carl. "It's gone."
Then he got up and went to the bathroom, closed the door, and took a
shit. Carl took four or five shits a day. There was nothing else to do. He
took five or six baths a day. There was nothing else to do. He got drunk for
the same reason.
Margie heard the toilet flush. Then Carl came out.
"A man simply can't write eight hours a day. He can't even write every
day or every week. It's a wicked fix. There's nothing to do but wait."
Carl went to the refrigerator and came out with a six-pack of Michelob.
He opened a bottle.
"I'm the world's greatest writer," he said. "Do you know how difficult
that is?"
Margie didn't answer.
"I can feel pain crawling all over me. It's like a second skin. I wish
I could shed that skin like a snake."
"Well, why don't you get down on the rug and give it a try?"
"Listen," he asked, "where did I meet you?"
"Barney's Beanery."
"Well, that explains some of it. Have a beer."
Carl opened a bottle and passed it over.
"Yeah," said Margie, "I know. You need your solitude. You need to be
alone. Except when you want some, or except when we split, then you're on
the phone. You say you need me. You say you're dying of a hangover. You get
weak fast."
"I get weak fast."
"And you're so dull around me, you never turn on. You writers
are so ... precious ... you can't stand people. Humanity stinks,
right?"
"Right."
"But every time we split you start throwing giant four-day parties. And
suddenly you get witty, you start to TALK! Suddenly you're full of
life, talking, dancing, singing. You dance on the coffeetable, you throw
bottles through the window, you act parts from Shakespeare. Suddenly you're
alive -- when I'm gone. Oh, I hear about it!"
"I don't like parties. I especially dislike people at parties."
"For a guy who doesn't like parties you certainly throw enough of
them."
"Listen, Margie, you don't understand. I can't write anymore. I'm
finished. Somewhere I made a wrong turn. Somewhere I died in the night."
"The only way you're going to die is from one of your giant hangovers."
"Jeffers said that even the strongest men get trapped."
"Who was Jeffers?"
"He was the guy who turned Big Sur into a tourist trap."
"What were you going to do tonight?"
"I was going to listen to the songs of Rachmaninoff."
"Who's that?"
"A dead Russian."
"Look at you. You just sit there."
"I'm waiting. Some guys wait for two years. Sometimes it never comes
back."
"Suppose it never comes back?"
"I'll just put on my shoes and walk down to Main Street."
"Why don't you get a decent job?"
"There aren't any decent jobs. If a writer doesn't make it through
creation, he's dead."
"Oh, come on, Carl! There are billions of people in the world who don't
make it through creation. Do you mean to tell me they're dead?"
"Yes."
"And you have soul? You are one of the few with a soul?"
"It would appear so."
"It would appear so! You and your little typewriter! You and
your tiny checks! My grandmother makes more money than you do!"
Carl opened another bottle of beer.
"Beer! Beer! You and your god damned beer! It's in your stories too.
'Marty lifted his beer. As he looked up, this big blonde walked into the bar
and sat down beside him . . .' You're right. You're finished. Your material
is limited, very limited. You can't write a love story, you can't write a
decent love story."
"You're right, Margie."
"If a man can't write a love story, he's useless."
"How many have you written?"
"I don't claim to be a writer."
"But," said Carl, "you appear to pose as one hell of a literary
critic."
Margie left soon after that. Carl sat and drank the remaining beers. It
was true, the writing had left him. It would make his few underground
enemies happy. They could step one notch up. Death pleased them, underground
or overground. He remembered Endicott, Endicott sitting there saying, "Well,
Hemingway's gone, DOS Passes is gone, Patchen is gone. Pound is gone,
Berryman jumped off the bridge . . . things are looking better and better
and better."
The phone rang. Carl picked it up. "Mr. Gantling?"
"Yes?" he answered.
"We wondered if you'd like to read at Fairmount College?"
"Well, yes, what date?"
"The 30th of next month."
"I don't think I'm doing anything then."
"Our usual payment is one hundred dollars."
"I usually get a hundred and a half. Ginsberg gets a thousand."
"But that's Ginsberg. We can only offer a hundred."
"All right."
"Fine, Mr. Gantling. We'll send you the details."
"How about travel? That's a hell of a drive."
"O.k., twenty-five dollars for travel."
"O.k."
"Would you like to talk to some of the students in their classes?"
"No."
"There's a free lunch."
"I'll take that."
"Fine, Mr. Gantling, we'll be looking forward to seeing you on campus."
"Goodbye."
Carl walked about the room. He looked at the typewriter. He put a sheet
of paper in there, then watched a girl in an amazingly short mini skirt walk
past the window. Then he started to type:
"Margie was going to go out with this guy but on the way over this guy
met another guy in a leather coat and the guy in the leather coat opened the
leather coat and showed the other guy his tits and the other guy went over
to Margie's and said he couldn't keep his date because this guy in the
leather coat had showed him his tits . . ."
Carl lifted his beer. It felt good to be writing again.
REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR?
We got to go to the exercise yard twice a day, in the middle of the
morning and in mid-afternoon. There wasn't much to do. The men were friends
mostly on the basis of what had gotten them into jail. Like my cell-mate
Taylor had said, the child molestors and indecent exposure cases were at the
bottom of the social order while the big-time swindlers and the racket heads
were at the top.
Taylor wouldn't speak to me in the exercise yard. He paced up and down
with a big-time swindler. I sat alone. Some of the guys rolled a shirt into
a ball and played catch. They appeared to enjoy it. The facilities for the
entertainment of the inmates didn't amount to much.
I sat there. Soon I noticed a huddle of men. It was a crap game. I got
up and went over. I had a little less than a dollar in change. I watched a
few rolls. The man with the dice picked up three pots in a row. I sensed
that his run was finished and got in against him. He crapped out. I made a
quarter.
Each time a man got hot I laid off until I figured his string was
ended. Then I got in against him. I noticed that the other men bet every
pot. I made six bets and won five of them. Then we were marched back up to
our cells. I was a dollar ahead.
The next morning I got in earlier. I made $2.50 in the morning and
$1.75 in the afternoon. As the game ended this kid walked up to me. "You
seem to be going all right, mister."
I gave the kid 15 cents. He walked off ahead. Another guy got in step
with me. "You give that son of a bitch anything?"
"Yeah. 15 cents."
"He cuts the pot each time. Don't give him nothing."
"I hadn't noticed."
"Yeah. He cuts the pot. He takes his cut each roll." "I'll watch him
tomorrow."
"Besides, he's a fucking indecent exposure case. He shows his pecker to
little girls."
"Yeah," I said, "I hate those cocksuckers."
The food was very bad. After dinner one night I mentioned to Taylor
that I was winning at craps.
"You know," he said, "you can buy food here, good food."
"How?"
"The cook comes down after lights out. You get the warden's food, the
best. Dessert, the works. The cook's good. The warden's got him here on
account of that."
"How much would a couple of dinners cost us?"
"Give him a dime. No more than 15 cents."
"Is that all?"
"If you give him more he'll think you're a fool."
"All right. 15 cents."
Taylor made the arrangements. The next night after lights out we waited
and killed bedbugs, one by one.
"That cook's killed two men. He's a great big son of a bitch, and mean.
He killed one guy, did ten years, got out of there and was out two or three
days and he killed another guy. This is only a holding prison but the warden
keeps him here permanent because he's such a good cook."
We heard somebody walking up. It was the cook. I got up and he passed
the food in. I walked to the table then walked back to the cell door. He was
a big son of a bitch, killer of two men. I gave him 15 cents.
"Thanks, buddy, you want me to come back tomorrow night?"
"Every night."
Taylor and I sat down to the food. Everything was on plates. The coffee
was good and hot, the meat -- the roast beef -- was tender. Mashed potatoes,
sweet peas, biscuits, gravy, butter, and apple pie. I hadn't eaten that good
in five years.
"That cook raped a sailor the other day. He got him so bad the sailor
couldn't walk. They had to hospitalize that sailor."
I took in a big mouthful of mashed potatoes and gravy.
"You don't have to worry," said Taylor. "You're so damned ugly, nobody
would want to rape you."
"I was worrying more about getting myself a little."
"Well, I'll point out the punks to you. Some of them are owned and some
of them aren't owned."
"This is good food."
"Sure as shit. Now there are two kinds of punks in here. The kind that
come in punks and the prison-made punks. There are never enough punks to go
around so the boys have to make a few extra to fulfill their needs."
"That's sensible."
"The prison-manufactured punks are usually a little punchy from the
head-beatings they take. They resist at first."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Then they decide it's better to be a live punk than a dead
virgin."
We finished our dinner, went to our bunks, fought the bedbugs and
attempted to sleep.
I continued to win at craps each day. I bet more heavily and still won.
Life in prison was getting better and better. One day I was told not to go
to the exercise yard. Two agents from the F.B.I, came to visit me. They
asked a few questions, then one of them said:
"We've investigated you. You don't have to go to court. You'll be taken
to the induction center. If the army accepts you, you'll go in. If they
reject you, you're a civilian again."
"I almost like it here in jail," I said.
"Yes, you're looking good."
"No tension," I said, "no rent, no utility bills, no arguments with
girlfriends, no taxes, no license plates, no food bills, no hangovers . . ."
"Keep talking smart, we'll fix you good."
"Oh shit," I said, "I'm just joking. Pretend I'm Bob Hope."
"Bob Hope's a good American."
"I'd be too if I had his dough."
"Keep mouthing. We can make it rough on you."
I didn't answer. One guy had a briefcase. He got up first. The other
guy followed him out.
They gave us all a bag lunch and put us in a truck. There were twenty
or twenty-five of us. The guys had just had breakfast an hour and a half
earlier but they were all into their bag lunches. Not bad: a bologna
sandwich, a peanut butter sandwich and a rotten banana. I passed my lunch
down to the guys. They were very quiet. None of them joked. They looked
straight ahead. Most of them were black or brown. And all of them were big.
I passed the physical, then I went in to see the psychiatrist.
"Henry Chinaski?"
"Yes."
"Sit down."
I sat down.
"Do you believe in the war?"
"No."
"Are you willing to go to war?"
"Yes."
He looked at me. I stared down at my feet. He seemed to be reading a
sheaf of papers in front of him. It took several minutes. Four, five, six,
seven minutes. Then he spoke.
"Listen, I am having a party next Wednesday night at my place. There
are going to be doctors, lawyers, artists, writers, actors, all that sort. I
can see that you're an intelligent man. I want you to come to my party. Will
you come?"
"No."
He started writing. He wrote and he wrote and he wrote. I wondered how
he knew so much about me. I didn't know that much about myself.
I let him write on. I was indifferent. Now that I couldn't be in the
war I almost wanted the war. Yet, at the same time, I was glad to be out of
it. The Doctor finished writing. I felt I had fooled them. My objection to
war was not that I had to kill somebody or be killed senselessly, that
hardly mattered. What I objected to was to be denied the right to sit in a
small room and starve and drink cheap wine and go crazy in my own way and at
my own leisure.
I didn't want to be awakened by some man with a bugle. I didn't want to
sleep in a barracks with a bunch of healthy sex-mad football-loving overfed
wise-cracking masturbating lovable frightened pink farting mother-struck
modest basketball-playing American boys that I would have to be friendly
with, that I would have to get drunk with on leave, that I would have to lay
on my back with and listen to dozens of unfunny, obvious, dirty jokes. I
didn't want their itchy blankets or their itchy uniforms or their itchy
humanity. I didn't want to shit in the same place or piss in the same place
or share the same whore. I didn't want to see their toenails or read their
letters from home. I didn't want to watch their assholes bobbing in front of
me in close formation, I didn't want to make friends, I didn't want to make
enemies, I just didn't want them or it or the thing. To kill or be killed
hardly mattered.
After a two-hour wait on a hard bench in a cesspool-brown tunnel with a
cold wind blowing they let me go and I walked out, north. I stopped for a
pack of cigarettes. I stopped in at the first bar, sat down, ordered a
scotch and water, peeled the cellophane from the package, took out a smoke,
lit up, got that drink in my hand, drank down half, dragged at the smoke,
looked at my handsome face in the mirror. It seemed strange to be out. It
seemed strange to be able to walk in any direction I pleased.
Just for fun I got up and walked to the crapper. I pissed. It was
another horrible bar crapper; I almost vomited at the stench. I came out,
put a coin in the juke box, sat down and listened to the latest. The latest
wasn't any better. They had the beat but not the soul. Mozart, Bach and the
Bee still made them look bad. I was going to miss those crap games and the
good food. I ordered another drink. I looked around the bar. There were five
men in the bar and no women. I was back in the American streets.
PITTSBURGH PHIL & CO.
This guy Summerfield was on relief and hitting the wine bottle. He was
rather a dull sort, I tried to avoid him, but he was always hanging out the
window half-drunk. He'd see me leaving my place and he always said the same
thing, "Hey, Hank, how about taking me to the races?" and I always said,
"One of these times, Joe, not today." Well, he kept at it, hanging out the
window half-drunk, so one day I said, "All right, for Christ's sake, come on
. . ." and away we went.
It was January at Santa Anita and if you know that track, it can get
real cold out there when you're losing. The wind blows in from the snow on
the mountains and your pockets are empty and you shiver and think of death
and hard times and no rent and all the rest. It's hardly a pleasant place to
lose. At least at Hollywood Park you can come back with a sunburn.
So we went. He talked all the way out. He'd never been to a racetrack.
I had to tell him the difference between win, place and show betting. He
didn't even know what a starting gate was, or a Racing Form. When we
got out there he used my Form. I had to show him how to read it. I
paid his way in and bought him a program. All he had was two dollars. Enough
for one bet.
We stood around before the first race looking at the women. Joe told me
he hadn't had a woman in five years. He was a shabby-looking guy, a real
loser. We passed the Form back and forth and looked at the women and
then Joe said, "How come the 6 horse is 14 to one? He looks best to me." I
tried to explain to Joe why the horse was reading 14 to one in relation to
the other horses but he wouldn't listen. "He sure as hell looks best to me.
I don't understand. I just gotta bet him." "It's your two dollars, Joe," I
said, "and I'm not lending you any money when you lose this one."
The horse's name was Red Charley and he was a sad-looking beast indeed.
He came out for the post parade in four bandages. His price leaped to 18 to
one when they got a look at him. I put ten win on the logical horse. Bold
Latrine, a slight class drop with good earnings and with a live jock and the
2nd leading trainer. I thought that 7 to 2 was a good price on that one.
It was a mile and one sixteenth. Red Charley was reading 20 to one when
they came out of the gate and he came out first, you couldn't miss him in
all those bandages, and the boy opened up four lengths on the first turn, he
must have thought he was in a quarter horse race. The jock only had two wins
out of 40 mounts and you could see why. He had six lengths on the
backstretch. The lather was running down Red Charley's neck; it damn near
looked like shaving cream.
At the top of the turn six lengths had faded to three and the whole
pack was gaining on him. At the top of the stretch Red Charley only had a
length and a half and my horse Bold Latrine was moving up outside. It looked
like I was in. Half way down the stretch I was a neck off. Another lunge and
I was in. But they went all the way down to the wire that way. Red Charley
still had the neck at the finish. He paid $42.80.
"I thought he looked best," said Joe and he went off to collect his
money.
When he came back he asked for the Form again. He looked them
over. "How come Big H is 6 to one?" he asked me. "He looks best."
"He may look best to you" I said, "but off the knowledge
of experienced horseplayers and handicappers, real pros, he rates about 6 to
one."
"Don't get pissed. Hank. I know I don't know anything about this game.
I only mean that to me he looks like he should be the favorite. I gotta bet
him anyhow. I might as well go ten win."
"It's your money, Joe. You just lucked it in the first race, the game
isn't that easy."
Well Big H won and paid $14.40. Joe started to strut around. We read
the Form at the bar and he bought us each a drink and tipped the
barkeep a buck. As we left the bar he winked at the bar-keep and said,
"Bamey's Mole is all alone in this one." Barney's Mole was the 6/5 favorite
so I didn't think that was such a fancy announcement. By the time the race
went off Barney's Mole was even money. He paid $4.20 and Joe had $20 win on
him.
"That time," he told me, "they made the proper horse the favorite."
Out of the nine races Joe had eight winners. On the ride back he kept
wondering how he had missed in the 7th race. "Blue Truck looked far the
best. I don't understand how he only got 3rd."
"Joe you had 8 for 9. That's beginner's luck. You don't know how hard
this game is."
"It looks easy to me. You just pick the winner and collect your money."
I didn't talk to him the rest of the way in. That night he knocked on
my door and he had a fifth of Grandad and the Racing Form. I helped
him with the bottle while he read the Form and told me all nine
winners the next day, and why. We had ourselves a real expert here. I know
how it can go to a man's head. I had 17 straight winners once and I was
going to buy homes along the coast and start a white slavery business to
protect my winnings from the income tax man. That's how crazy you can get.
I could hardly wait to take Joe to the track the next day. I wanted to
see his face when all his predictions ran out. Horses were only animals made
out of flesh. They were fallible. It was like the old horse players said,
"There are a dozen ways you can lose a race and only one way to win one."
All right, it didn't happen that way. Joe had 7 for 9 -- favorites,
longshots, medium prices. And he hitched all the way in about his two
losers. He couldn't understand it. I didn't talk to him. The son of a bitch
could do no wrong. But the percentages would get him. He started telling me
how I was betting wrong, and the proper way to bet. Two days at the track
and he was an expert. I'd been playing them 20 years and he was telling me I
didn't know my ass.
We went all week and Joe kept winning. He got so unbearable I couldn't
stand him anymore. He bought a new suit and hat, new shirt and shoes, and
started smoking 50 cent cigars. He told the relief people that he was self-
employed and didn't need their money anymore. Joe had gone mad. He grew a
mustache and purchased a wrist watch and an expensive ring. The next Tuesday
I saw him drive to the track in his own car, a '69 black Caddy. He waved to
me from his car and flicked out his cigar ash. I didn't talk to him at the
track that day. He was in the clubhouse. When he knocked on my door that
night he had the usual fifth of Grandad and a tall blonde. A young blonde,
well-dressed, well-groomed, she had a shape and a face. They walked in
together.
"Who's this old bum?" she asked Joe.
"That's my old buddy. Hank," he told her, "I used to know him when I
was poor. He took me to the racetrack one day."
"Don't he have an old lady?"
"Old Hank ain't had a woman since 1965. Listen, how about fixing him up
with Big Gertie?"
"Oh hell, Joe, Big Gertie wouldn't go him! Look, he's dressed
like a rag man."
"Have some mercy, baby, he's my buddy. I know he don't look like much
but we both started out together. I'm sentimental."
"Well, Big Gertie ain't sentimental, she likes class."
"Look, Joe," I said, "forget the women. Just sit down with the
Form and let's have a few drinks and give me some winners for
tomorrow."
Joe did that. We drank and he worked them out. He wrote nine horses
down for me on a piece of paper. His woman. Big Thelma -- well. Big Thelma
just looked at me like I was dog shit on somebody's lawn.
Those nine horses were good for eight wins the next day. One horse paid
$62.60. I couldn't understand it. That night Joe came by with a new woman.
She looked even finer. He sat down with the bottle and the Form and
wrote me down nine more horses.
Then he told me, "Listen, Hank, I gotta be moving out of my place. I
found me a nice deluxe apartment right outside the track. The travel time to
and from the track is a nuisance. Let's go, baby. I'll see you around, kid."
I knew that was it. My buddy was giving me the brush-off. The next day
I laid it heavy on those nine horses. They were good for seven winners. I
went over the Form again when I got home trying to figure why he
selected the horses he did, but there seemed to be no understandable reason.
Some of his selections were truly puzzling to me.
I didn't see Joe again for the remainder of the meet, except once. I
saw him walk into the clubhouse with two women. Joe was fat and laughing. He
wore a two-hundred-dollar suit and he had a diamond ring on his finger. I
lost all nine races that day.
It was two years later. I was at Hollywood Park and it was a
particularly hot day, a Thursday, and in the 6th race I happened to land a
$26.80 winner. As I was walking away from the payoff window I heard his
voice behind me:
"Hey, Hank! Hank!"
It was Joe.
"Jesus Christ, man," he said, "it's sure great to see you!"
"Hello Joe ..."
He still had on his two-hundred-dollar suit in all that heat. The rest
of us were in shirt sleeves. He needed a shave and his shoes were scuffed
and the suit was wrinkled and dirty. His diamond was gone, his wrist watch
was gone.
"Lemme have a smoke. Hank."
I gave him a cigarette and when he lit it I noticed his hands were
trembling.
"I need a drink, man," he told me.
I took him over to the bar and we had a couple of whiskeys. Joe studied
the Form.
"Listen, man, I've put you on plenty of winners, haven't I?"
"Sure, Joe."
We stood there looking at the Form. "Now check this race," said
Joe. "Look at Black Monkey. He's going to romp. Hank. He's a lock. And at 8
to one."
"You like his chances, Joe?"
"He's in, man. He'll win by daylight."
We placed our bets on Black Monkey and went out to watch the race. He
finished a deep 7th.
"I don't understand it," said Joe. "Look, let me have two more bucks,
Hank. Siren Call is in the next, she can't lose. There's no way."
Siren Call did get up for 5th but that's not much help when you're
betting on the nose. Joe got me for another $2 for the 9th race and his
horse ran out there too. Joe told me he didn't have a car and would I mind
driving him home?
"You're not going to believe this," he told me, "but I'm back on the
dole."
"I believe you, Joe."
"I'll bounce back, though. You know, Pittsburgh Phil went broke half a
dozen times. He always sprung back. His friends had faith in him. They lent
him money."
When I let him off I found he lived in an old rooming house about four
blocks from where I lived. I had never moved. When I let Joe out he said,
"There's a hell of a good card tomorrow. You going?"
"I'm not sure, Joe."
"Lemme know if you're going."
"Sure, Joe."
That night I heard the knock on my door. I knew Joe's knock. I didn't
answer. I had the T.V. playing but I didn't answer. I just laid real still
on the bed. He kept knocking.
"Hank! Hank! You in there? HEY, HANK!"
Then he really beat on the door, the son of a bitch. He seemed frantic.
He knocked and he knocked. At last he stopped. I heard him walking down the
hall. Then I heard the front door of the apartment house close. I got up,
turned off the T.V., went to the refrigerator, made a ham and cheese
sandwich, opened a beer. Then I sat down with that, split tomorrow's
Form open and began looking at the first race, a five-thousand-dollar
claimer for colts and geldings three years old and up. I liked the 8 horse.
The Form had him listed at 5 to one. I'd take that anytime.
DR. NAZI
Now, I'm a man of many problems and I suppose that most of them are
self-created. I mean with the female, and gambling, and feeling hostile
toward groups of people, and the larger the group, the greater the
hostility. I'm called negative and gloomy, sullen.
I keep remembering the female who screamed at me: "You're so god damned
negative! Life can be beautiful!"
I suppose it can, and especially with a little less screaming. But I
want to tell you about my doctor. I don't go to shrinks. Shrinks are
worthless and too contented. But a good doctor is often disgusted and/or
mad, and therefore far more entertaining.
I went to Dr. Kiepenheuer's office because it was closest. My hands
were breaking out with little white blisters -- a sign, I felt, either of my
actual anxiety or possible cancer. I wore working-man's gloves so people
wouldn't stare. And I burned through the gloves while smoking two packs of
cigarettes a day.
I walked into the doctor's place. I had the first appointment. Being a
man of anxiety I was thirty minutes early, musing about cancer. I walked
across the sitting room and looked into the office. Here was the nurse-
receptionist squatted on the floor in her tight white uniform, her dress
pulled almost up to her hips, gross and thunderous thighs showing through
tightly-pulled nylon. I forgot all about the cancer. She hadn't heard me and
I stared at her unveiled legs and thighs, measured the delicious rump with
my eyes. She was wiping water from the floor, the toilet had overrun and she
was cursing, she was passionate, she was pink and brown and living and
unveiled and I stared.
She looked up. "Yes?"
"Go ahead," I said, "don't let me disturb you."
"It's the toilet," she said, "it keeps running over."
She kept wiping and I kept looking over the top of Life
magazine. She finally stood up. I walked to the couch and sat down. She went
through her appointment book.
"Are you Mr. Chinaski?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you take your gloves off? It's warm in here."
"I'd rather not, if you don't mind."
"Dr. Kiepenheuer will be in soon."
"It's all right. I can wait."
"What's your problem?"
"Cancer."
"Cancer?"
"Yes."
The nurse vanished and I read Life and then I read another copy
of Life and then I read Sports Illustrated and then I sat
staring at paintings of seascapes and landscapes and piped-in music came
from somewhere. Then, suddenly, all the lights blinked off, then on again,
and I wondered if there would be any way to rape the nurse and get away with
it when the doctor walked in. I ignored him and he ignored me, so that went
off even.
He called me into his office. He was sitting on a stool and he looked
at me. He had a yellow face and yellow hair and his eyes were lusterless. He
was dying. He was about 42. I eyed him and gave him six months.
"What's with the gloves?" he asked.
"I'm a sensitive man. Doctor."
"You are?"
"Yes."
"Then I should tell you that I was once a Nazi."
"That's all right."
"You don't mind that I was once a Nazi?"
"No, I don't mind."
"I was captured. They rode us through France in a boxcar with the doors
open and the people stood along the way and threw stink bombs and rocks and
all sorts of rubbish at us -- fishbones, dead plants, excreta, everything
imaginable."
Then the doctor sat and told me about his wife. She was trying to skin
him. A real bitch. Trying to get all his money. The house. The garden. The
garden house. The gardener too, probably, if she hadn't already. And the
car. And alimony. Plus a large chunk of cash. Horrible woman. He'd worked so
hard. Fifty patients a day at ten dollars a head. Almost impossible to
survive. And that woman. Women. Yes, women. He broke down the word for me. I
forget if it was woman or female or what it was, but he broke it down into
Latin and he broke it down from there to show what the root was -- in Latin:
women were basically insane.
As he talked about the insanity of women I began to feel pleased with
the doctor. My head nodded in agreement.
Suddenly he ordered me to the scales, weighed me, then he listened to
my heart and to my chest. He roughly removed my gloves, washed my hands in
some kind of shit and opened the blisters with a razor, still talking about
the rancor and vengeance that all women carried in their hearts. It was
glandular. Women were directed by their glands, men by their hearts. That's
why only the men suffered.
He told me to bathe my hands regularly and to throw the god damned
gloves away. He talked a little more about women and his wife and then I
left.
My next problem was dizzy spells. But I only got them when I was
standing in line. I began to get very terrified of standing in line. It was
unbearable.
I realized that in America and probably everyplace else it came down to
standing in line. We did it everywhere. Driver's license:
three or four lines. The racetrack: lines. The movies: lines. The
market: lines. I hated lines. I felt there should be a way to avoid them.
Then the answer came to me. Have more clerks. Yes, that was the
answer. Two clerks for every person. Three clerks. Let the clerks
stand in line.
I knew that lines were killing me. I couldn't accept them, but
everybody else did. Everybody else was normal. Life was beautiful for them.
They could stand in line without feeling pain. They could stand in line
forever. They even liked to stand in line. They chatted and grinned
and smiled and flirted with each other. They had nothing else to do. They
could think of nothing else to do. And I had to look at their ears and
mouths and necks and legs and asses and nostrils, all that. I could feel
death-rays oozing from their bodies like smog, and listening to their
conversations I felt like screaming "Jesus Christ, somebody help me! Do I
have to suffer like this just to buy a pound of hamburger and a loaf
of rye bread?"
The dizziness would come, and I'd spread my legs to keep from falling
down; the supermarket would whirl, and the faces of the supermarket clerks
with their gold and brown mustaches and their clever happy eyes, all of them
going to be supermarket managers someday, with their white scrubbed
contented faces, buying homes in Arcadia and nightly mounting their pale
blond grateful wives.
I made an appointment with the doctor again. I was given the first
appointment. I arrived half an hour early and the toilet was fixed. The
nurse was dusting in the office. She bent and straightened and bent halfway
and then bent right and then bent left, and she turned her ass toward me and
bent over. That white uniform twitched and hiked, climbed, lifted; here was
dimpled knee, there was thigh, here was haunch, there was the whole body. I
sat down and opened a copy of Life.
She stopped dusting and stuck her head out at me, smiling. "You got rid
of your gloves, Mr. Chinaski."
"Yes."
The doctor came in looking a bit closer to death and he nodded and I
got up and followed him in.
He sat down on his stool.
"Chinaski: how goes it?"
"Well, doctor . . ."
"Trouble with women?"
"Well, of course, but . . ."
He wouldn't let me finish. He had lost more hair. His fingers twitched.
He seemed short of breath. Thinner. He was a desperate man.
His wife was skinning him. They'd gone to court. She slapped him in
court. He'd liked that. It helped the case. They saw through that bitch.
Anyhow, it hadn't come off too badly. She'd left him something. Of course,
you know lawyer's fees. Bastards. You ever noticed a lawyer? Almost always
fat. Especially around the face. "Anyhow, shit, she nailed me. But I got a
little left. You wanna know what a scissors like this costs? Look at it. Tin
with a screw. $18.50. My God, and they hated the Nazis. What is a Nazi
compared to this?"
"I don't know Doctor. I've told you that I'm a confused man."
"You ever tried a shrink?"
"It's no use. They're dull, no imagination. I don't need the shrinks. I
hear they end up sexually molesting their female patients. I'd like to be a
shrink if I could fuck all the women; outside of that, their trade is
useless."
My doctor hunched up on his stool. He yellowed and greyed a bit more. A
giant twitch ran through his body. He was almost through. A nice fellow
though.
"Well, I got rid of my wife," he said, "that's over."
"Fine," I said, "tell me about when you were a Nazi."
"Well, we didn't have much choice. They just took us in. I was young. I
mean, hell, what are you going to do? You can only live in one country at a
time. You go to war, and if you don't end up dead you end up in an open
boxcar with people throwing shit at you . . ."
I asked him if he'd fucked his nice nurse. He smiled gently. The smile
said yes. Then he told me that since the divorce, well, he'd dated one of
his patients, and he knew it wasn't ethical to get that way with patients .
. .
"No, I think it's all right. Doctor."
"She's a very intelligent woman. I married her."
"All right."
"Now I'm happy ... but .. ."
Then he spread his hands apart and opened his palms upward . . .
I told him about my fear of lines. He gave me a standing prescription
for Librium.
Then I got a nest of boils on my ass. I was in agony. They tied me with
leather straps, these fellows can do anything they want with you, they gave
me a local and strapped my ass. I turned my head and looked at my Doctor and
said, "Is there any chance of me changing my mind?"
There were three faces looking down at me. His and two others. Him to
cut. Her to supply cloths. The third to stick needles.
"You can't change your mind," said the doctor, and he rubbed his hands
and grinned and began . . .
The last time I saw him it had something to do with wax in my ears. I
could see his lips moving, I tried to understand, but I couldn't hear. I
could tell by his eyes and his face that it was hard times for him all over
again, and I nodded.
It was warm. I was a bit dizzy and I thought, well, yes, he's a fine
fellow but why doesn't he let me tell him about my problems, this isn't
fair, I have problems too, and I have to pay him.
Eventually my doctor realized I was deaf. He got something that looked
like a fire extinguisher and jammed it into my ears. Later he showed me huge
pieces of wax ... it was the wax, he said. And he pointed down into a
bucket. It looked, really, like retried beans.
I got up from the table and paid him and I left. I still couldn't hear
anything. I didn't feel particularly bad or good and I wondered what ailment
I would bring him next, what he would do about it, what he would do about
his 17 year old daughter who was in love with another woman and who was
going to marry the woman, and it occurred to me that everybody
suffered continually, including those who pretended they didn't. It seemed
to me that this was quite a discovery. I looked at the newsboy and I
thought, hmmmm, hmmmm, and I looked at the next person to pass and I thought
hmmmm, hmmmm, hmmmmmm, and at the traffic signal by the hospital a new black
car turned the corner and knocked down a pretty young girl in a blue mini
dress, and she was blond and had blue ribbons in her hair, and she sat up in
the street in the sun and the scarlet ran from her nose.
CHRIST ON ROLLERSKATES
It was a small office on the third floor of an old building not too far
from skid row. Joe Mason, president of Rollerworld, Inc., sat behind the
worn desk which he rented along with the office. Graffiti were carved on the
top and sides: "Born to die." "Some men buy what other men are hanged for."
"Shit soup." "I hate love more than I love hate."
The vice president, Clifford Underwood, sat in the only other chair.
There was one telephone. The office smelled of urine, but the restroom was
45 feet down the hall. There was a window facing the alley, a thick yellow
window that let in a dim light. Both men were smoking cigarettes and
waiting.
"When'd you tell 'im?" asked Underwood.
"9:30," said Mason.
"It doesn't matter."
They waited. Eight more minutes. They each lit another cigarette. There
was a knock.
"Come in," said Mason. It was Monster Chonjacki, bearded, six foot six
and 392 pounds. Chonjacki smelled. It started to rain. You could hear a
freightcar going by under the window. It was really 24 freightcars going
north filled with commerce. Chonjacki still smelled. He was the star of the
Yellowjackets, one of the best roller skaters on either side of the
Mississippi, 25 yards to either side.
"Sit down," said Mason.
"No chair," said Chonjacki.
"Make him a chair. Cliff."
The vice president slowly got up, gave every indication of a man about
to fart, didn't and walked over and leaned against the rain which beat
against the thick yellow window. Chonjacki put both cheeks down, reached and
lit up a Pall Mall. No filter. Mason leaned across his desk:
"You are an ignorant son of a bitch."
"Wait a minute, man!"
"You wanna be a hero, don't you sonny? You get excited when little
girls without any hair on their pussies scream your name? You like the dear
old red, white and blue? Ya like vanilla ice cream? You still beat your tiny
little pud, asshole?"
"Listen here, Mason . . ."
"Shut up! Three hundred a week! Three hundred a week I been giving you!
When I found you in that bar you didn't have enough for your next drink . .
. you had the d.t.'s and were livin' on hogshead soup and cabbage! You
couldn't lace on a skate! I made you, asshole, from nothing, and I can make
you right back into nothing! As far as you're concerned, I'm God. And I'm a
God who doesn't forgive your mother-floppin' sins either!"
Mason closed both eyes and leaned back in the swivel. He inhaled his
cigarette; a bit of hot ash dropped on his lower lip but he was too mad to
give a damn. He just let the ash burn him. When the ash stopped burning he
kept his eyes closed and listened to the rain. Ordinarily he liked to listen
to the rain. Especially when he was inside somewhere and the rent was paid
and some woman wasn't driving him crazy. But today the rain didn't help. He
not only smelled Chonjacki but he felt him there. Chonjacki was worse than
diarrhea. Chonjacki was worse than the crabs. Mason opened his eyes, sat up
and looked at him. Christ, what a man had to go through just to stay alive.
"Baby," he said softly, "you broke two of Sonny Welborn's ribs last
night. You hear me?"
"Listen . . ." Chonjacki started to say.
"Not one rib. No, not just one rib. Two. Two ribs. Hear me?"
"But . . ."
"Listen, asshole! Two ribs! You hear me? Do you hear me?"
"I hear you."
Mason put out his cigarette, got up from the swivel and walked around
to Chonjacki's chair. You might say Chonjacki looked nice. You might say he
was a handsome kid. You'd never say that about Mason. Mason was old. Forty-
nine. Almost bald. Round shouldered. Divorced. Four boys. Two of them in
jail. It was still raining. It would rain for almost two days and three
nights. The Los Angeles River would get excited and pretend to be a river.
"Stand up!" said Mason.
Chonjacki stood up. When he did. Mason sunk his left into his gut and
when Chonjacki's head came down he put it right back up there with a right
chop. Then he felt a little better. It was like a cup of Ovaltine on a
coldass morning in January. He walked around and sat down again. This time
he didn't light a cigarette. He lit his 15 cent cigar. He lit his after-
lunch cigar before lunch. That's how much better he felt. Tension. You
couldn't let that shit build. His former brother-in-law had died of a
bleeding ulcer. Just because he hadn't known how to let it out.
Chonjacki sat back down. Mason looked at him.
"This, baby, is a business, not a sport. We don't believe in
hurting people, do I get my point across?"
Chonjacki just sat there listening to the rain. He wondered if his car
would start. He always had trouble getting his car started when it rained.
Otherwise it was a good car.
"I asked you, baby, did I get my point across?"
"Oh, yeah, yeah . . ."
"Two busted ribs. Two of Sonny Welborn's ribs busted. He's our best
player."
"Wait! He plays for the Vultures. Welborn plays for the Vultures. How
can he be your best player?"
"Asshole! We own the Vultures!"
"You own the Vultures?"
"Yeah, asshole. And the Angels and the Coyotes and the Cannibals and
every other damn team in the league, they're all our property, all those
boys . . ."
"Jesus . . ."
"No, not Jesus. Jesus doesn't have anything to do with it! But, wait,
you give me an idea, asshole."
Mason swiveled toward Underwood who was still leaning against the rain.
"It's something to think about," he said.
"Uh," said Underwood.
"Take your head off your pud, Cliff. Think about it."
"About what?"
"Christ on rollerskates. Countless possibilities."
"Yeah. Yeah. We could work in the devil."
"That's good. Yes, the devil."
"We might even work in the cross."
"The cross? No, that's too corny."
Mason swiveled back toward Chonjacki. Chonjacki was still there. He
wasn't surprised. If a monkey had been sitting there he wouldn't have been
surprised either. Mason had been around too long. But it wasn't a monkey, it
was Chonjacki. He had to talk to Chonjacki. Duty, duty ... all for the rent,
an occasional piece of ass and a burial in the country. Dogs had fleas, men
had troubles.
"Chonjacki," he said, "please let me explain something to you. Are you
listening? Are you capable of listening?"
"I'm listening."
"We're a business. We work five night a week. We're on television. We
support families. We pay taxes. We vote. We get tickets from the fucking
cops like anybody else. We get toothaches, insomnia, v.d. We've got to live
through Christmas and New Year's just like anybody else, you understand?"
"Yes."
"We even, some of us, get depressed sometimes. We're human. I even get
depressed. I sometimes feel like crying at night. I sure as hell felt like
crying last night when you broke two of Welborn's ribs . . ."
"He was ganging me, Mr. Mason!"
"Chonjacki, Welborn wouldn't pull a hair from your grandmother's left
armpit. He reads Socrates, Robert Duncan, and W. H. Auden. He's been in the
league five years and he hasn't done enough physical damage to bruise a
church-going moth . . ."
"He was coming at me, he was swinging, he was screaming . . ."
"Oh, Christ," said Mason softly. He put his cigar in the ashtray. "Son,
I told you. We're a family, a big family. We don't hurt each other. We've
got ourselves the finest subnormal audience in sports. We've drawn the
biggest breed of idiots alive and they put that money right into our
pockets, get it? We've drawn the top-brand idiot right away from
professional wrestling, / Love Lucy, and George Putnam. We're in, and
we don't believe in either malice or violence. Right, Cliff?"
"Right," said Underwood.
"Let's do him a spot," said Mason.
"O.k.," said Underwood.
Mason got up from his desk and moved toward Underwood. "You son of a
bitch," he said. "I'll kill you. Your mother swallows her own farts and has
a syphilitic urinary tract."
"Your mother eats marinated catshit," said Underwood.
He moved away from the window and toward Mason. Mason swung first.
Underwood rocked back against the desk.
Mason got a stranglehold around his neck with his left arm and beat
Underwood over the head with his right fist and forearm.
"Your sister's tits hang from the bottom of her butt and dangle in the
water when she shits," Mason told Underwood. Underwood reached back with one
arm and nipped Mason over his head. Mason rolled up against the wall with a
crash. Then he got up, walked over to his desk, sat down in the swivel,
picked up his cigar and inhaled. It continued to rain. Underwood went back
and leaned against the window.
"When a man works five nights a week he can't afford to get injured,
understand, Chonjacki?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now look, kid, we got a general rule here -- which is ... Are you
listening?"
"Yes."
". . . which is -- when anybody in the league injures another player,
he's out of a job, he's out of the league, in fact, the word goes out --
he's blacklisted at every roller derby in America. Maybe Russia and China
and Poland, too. You got that in your head?"
"Yes."
"Now we're letting you get by with this one because we've spent a lot
of time and money giving you this buildup. You're the Mark Spitz of our
league, but we can bust you just like they can bust him, if you don't do
exactly what we tell you."
"Yes, sir."
"But that doesn't mean lay back. You gotta act violent without being
violent, get it? The mirror trick, the rabbit out of the hat, the full ton
of bologna. They love to be fooled. They don't know the truth, hell they
don't even want the truth, it makes them unhappy. We make them happy. We
drive new cars and send our kids to college, right?"
"Right."
"O.k., get the hell out of here."
Chonjacki rose to leave.
"And kid . . ."
"Yes?"
"Take a bath once in awhile."
"What?"
"Well, maybe that isn't it. Do you use enough toilet paper when you
wipe your ass?"
"I don't know. How much is enough?"
"Didn't your mother tell you?"
"What?"
"You keep wiping until you can't see it anymore."
Chonjacki just stood there looking at him.
"All right, you can go now. And please remember everything I've told
you."
Chonjacki left. Underwood walked over and sat down in the vacant chair.
He took out his after-lunch 15 cent cigar and lit it. The two men sat there
for five minutes without saying anything. Then the phone rang. Mason picked
it up. He listened, then said, "Oh, Boy Scout Troop 763? How many? Sure,
sure, we'll let 'em in for half price. Sunday night. We'll rope off a
section. Sure, sure. Oh, it's all right . . ." He hung up.
"Assholes," he said.
Underwood didn't answer. They sat listening to the rain. The smoke from
their cigars made interesting designs in the air. They sat and smoked and
listened to the rain and watched the designs in the air. The phone rang
again and Mason made a face. Underwood got up from his chair, walked over
and answered it. It was his turn.
A SHIPPING CLERK WITH A RED NOSE
When I first met Randall Harris he was 42 and lived with a grey haired
woman, one Margie Thompson. Margie was 45 and not too handsome. I was
editing the little magazine Mad Fly at the time and I had come over
in an attempt to get some material from Randall.
Randall was known as an isolationist, a drunk, a crude and bitter man
but his poems were raw, raw and honest, simple and savage. He was writing
unlike anybody else at the time. He worked as a shipping clerk in an auto
parts warehouse.
I sat across from both Randall and Margie. It was 7:15 p.m. and Harris
was already drunk on beer. He set a bottle in front of me. I'd heard of
Margie Thompson. She was an old-time communist, a world-saver, a do-gooder.
One wondered what she was doing with Randall who cared for nothing and
admitted it. "I like to photograph shit," he told me, "that's my art."
Randall had begun writing at the age of 38. At 42, after three small
chapbooks (Death Is a Dirtier Dog Than My Country, My Mother Fucked an
Angel, and The Piss-Wild Horses of Madness), he was getting what
might be called critical acclaim. But he made nothing on his writing and he
said, "I'm nothing but a shipping clerk with the deep blue blues." He lived
in an old front court in Hollywood with Margie, and he was weird, truly. "I
just don't like people," he said. "You know, Will Rogers once said, 'I never
met a man I didn't like.' Me, I never met a man I liked."
But Randall had humor, an ability to laugh at pain and at himself. You
liked him. He was an ugly man with a large head and a smashed-up face --
only the nose seemed to have escaped the general smashup. "I don't have
enough bone in my nose, it's like rub- her," he explained. His nose was long
and very red.
I had heard stories about Randall. He was given to smashing windows and
breaking bottles against the wall. He was one nasty drunk. He also had
periods where he wouldn't answer the door or the telephone. He didn't own a
T.V., only a small radio and he only listened to symphony music -- strange
for a guy as crude as he was.
Randall also had periods when he took the bottom off the telephone and
stuffed toilet paper around the bell so it wouldn't ring. It stayed that way
for months. One wondered why he had a phone. His education was sparse but
he'd evidently read most of the best writers.
"Well, fucker," he said to me, "I guess you wonder what I'm doing with
her?" he pointed to Margie. I didn't answer.
"She's a good lay," he said, "and she gives me some of the best sex
west of St. Louis."
This was the same guy who had written four or five great love poems to
a woman called Annie. You wondered how it worked.
Margie just sat there and grinned. She wrote poetry too but it wasn't
very good. She attended two workshops a week which hardly helped.
"So you want some poems?" he asked me. "Yes, I'd like to look some
over."
Harris walked over to the closet, opened the door and picked some torn
and crushed papers off the floor. He handed them to me. "I wrote these last
night." Then he walked into the kitchen and came out with two more beers.
Margie didn't drink.
I began to read the poems. They were all powerful. He typed with a very
heavy hand and the words seemed chiseled in the paper. The force of his
writing always astounded me. He seemed to be saying all the things we should
have said but had never thought of saying.
"I'll take these poems," I said. "O.k.," he said. "Drink up."
When you came to see Harris, drinking was a must. He smoked one
cigarette after another. He dressed in loose brown chino pants two sizes too
large and old shirts that were always ripped. He was around six feet and 220
pounds, much of it beerfat. He was round-shouldered, and peered out at you
from behind slitted eyelids. We drank a good two hours and a half, the room
heavy with smoke.
Suddenly Harris stood up and said, "Get the hell out of here, fucker,
you disgust me!"
"Easy now, Harris . . ."
"I said NOW!, fucker!"
I got up and left with the poems.
I returned to that front court two months later to deliver a couple of
copies of Mad. Fly to Harris. I had run all ten of his poems. Margie
let me in. Randall wasn't there.
"He's in New Orleans," said Margie, "I think he's getting a break. Jack
Teller wants to publish his next book but he wants to meet Randall first.
Teller says he can't print anybody he doesn't like. He's paid the air fare
both ways."
"Randall isn't exactly endearing," I said.
"We'll see," said Margie. "Teller's a drunk and an ex-con. They might
make a lovely pair."
Teller put out the magazine Rifraff and had his own press. He
did very fine work. The last issue of Rifraff had had Harris' ugly
face on the cover sucking at a beer-bottle and had featured a number of his
poems.
Rifraff was generally recognized as the number one lit mag of
the time. Harris was beginning to get more and more notice. This would be a
good chance for him if he didn't botch it with his mean tongue and his
drunken manners. Before I left Margie told me she was pregnant -- by Harris.
As I said, she was 45.
"What'd he say when you told him?"
"He seemed indifferent."
I left.
The book did come out in an edition of 2,000, finely printed. The cover
was made of cork imported from Ireland. The pages were vari-colored, of
extremely good paper, set in rare type and interspersed with some of Harris'
India ink sketches. The book received acclaim, both for itself and its
contents. But Teller couldn't pay royalties. He and his wife lived on a very
narrow margin. In ten years the book would go for $75 on the rare book
market. Meanwhile Harris went back to his shipping clerk job at the auto
parts warehouse.
When I called again four or five months later Margie was gone. "She's
been gone a long time," said Harris. "Have a beer."
"What happened?"
"Well, after I got back from New Orleans, I wrote a few short stories.
While I was at work she got to poking around in my drawers. She read a
couple of my stories and took exception to them."
"What were they about?"
"Oh, she read something about my climbing in and out of bed with some
women in New Orleans."
"Were the stories true?" I asked.
"How's Mad Fly doing?" he asked.
The baby was born, a girl, Naomi Louise Harris. She and her mother
lived in Santa Monica and Harris drove out once a week to see them. He paid
child support and continued to drink his beer. Next I knew he had a weekly
column in the underground newspaper L.A. Lifeline. He called his
colums Sketches of a First Class Maniac. His prose was like his
poetry -- undisciplined, antisocial, and lazy.
Harris grew a goatee and grew his hair longer. The next time I saw him
he was living with a 35-year-old girl, a pretty redhead called Susan. Susan
worked in an art supply store, painted, and played fair guitar. She also
drank an occasional beer with Randall which was more than Margie had done.
The court seemed cleaner. When Harris finished a bottle he threw it into a
paper bag instead of throwing it on the floor. He was still a nasty drunk,
though.
"I'm writing a novel," he told me, "and I'm getting a poetry reading
now and then at nearby universities. I also have one coming up in Michigan
and one in New Mexico. The offers are pretty good. I don't like to read, but
I'm a good reader. I give them a show and I give them some good poetry."
Harris was also beginning to paint. He didn't paint very well. He
painted like a five-year-old drunk on vodka but he managed to sell one or
two for $40 or $50. He told me that he was considering quitting his job.
Three weeks later he did quit in order to make the Michigan reading. He'd
already used his vacation for the New Orleans trip.
I remember once he had vowed to me, "I'll never read in front of those
bloodsuckers, Chinaski. I'll go to my grave without ever giving a poetry
reading. It's vanity, it's a sell-out." I didn't remind him of his
statement.
His novel Death in the Life of All the Eyes On Earth was brought
out by a small but prestige press which paid standard royalties. The reviews
were good, including one in The New York Review of Books. But he was
still a nasty drunk and had many fights with Susan over his drinking.
Finally, after one horrible drunk, when he had raved and cursed and
screamed all night, Susan left him. I saw Randall several days after her
departure. Harris was strangely quiet, hardly nasty at all.
"I loved her, Chinaski," he told me. "I'm not going to make it,
baby."
"You'll make it, Randall. You'll see. You'll make it. The human being
is much more durable than you think."
"Shit," he said. "I hope you're right. I've got this damned hole in my
gut. Women have put many a good man under the bridge. They don't feel it
like we do."
"They feel it. She just couldn't handle your drinking."
"Fuck, man, I write most of my stuff when I'm drunk."
"Is that the secret?"
"Shit, yes. Sober, I'm just a shipping clerk and not a very good one at
that . . ."
I left him there hanging over his beer.
I made the rounds again three months later. Harris was still in his
front court. He introduced me to Sandra, a nice-looking blonde of 27. Her
father was a superior court judge and she was a graduate of U.S.C. Besides
being well-shaped she had a cool sophistication that had been lacking in
Randall's other women. They were drinking a bottle of good Italian wine.
Randall's goatee had turned into a beard and his hair was much longer.
His clothes were new and in the latest style. He had on $40 shoes, a new
wristwatch and his face seemed thinner, his fingernails clean . . . but his
nose still reddened as he drank the wine.
"Randall and I are moving to West L.A. this weekend," she told me.
"This place is filthy."
"I've done a lot of good writing here," he said.
"Randall, dear," she said, "it isn't the place that does the
writing, it's you. I think we might get Randall a job teaching three
days a week."
"I can't teach."
"Darling, you can teach them everything."
"Shit," he said.
"They're thinking of doing a movie of Randall's book. We've seen the
script. It's a very fine script."
"A movie?" I asked.
"There's not much chance," said Harris.
"Darling, it's in the works. Have a little faith."
I had another glass of wine with them, then left. Sandra was a
beautiful girl.
I wasn't given Randall's West L.A. address and didn't make any attempt
to find him. It was over a year later when I read the review of the movie
Flower Up the Tail of Hell. It had been taken from his novel. It was
a fine review and Harris even had an acting bit in the film.
I went to see it. They'd done a good job on the book. Harris looked a
little more austere than when I had last seen him. I decided to find him.
After a bit of detective work I knocked on the door of his cabin in Malibu
one night about 9:00 p.m. Randall answered the door.
"Chinaski, you old dog," he said. "Come on in."
A beautiful girl sat on the couch. She appeared to be about 19, she
simply radiated natural beauty. "This is Karilla," he said. They were
drinking a bottle of expensive French wine. I sat down with them and had a
glass. I had several glasses. Another bottle came out and we talked quietly.
Harris didn't get drunk and nasty and didn't appear to smoke as much.
"I'm working on a play for Broadway," he told me. "They say the theatre
is dying but I have something for them. One of the leading producers is
interested. I'm getting the last act in shape now. It's a good medium. I was
always splendid on conversation, you know."
"Yes," I said.
I left about 11:30 that night. The conversation had been pleasant ...
Harris had begun to show a distinguished grey about the temples and he
didn't say "shit" more than four or five times.
The play Shoot Your Father, Shoot Your God, Shoot Away the
Disentanglement was a success. It had one of the longest runs in
Broadway history. It had everything: something for the revolutionaries,
something for the reactionaries, something for lovers of comedy, something
for lovers of drama, even something for the in- tellectuals, and it still
made sense. Randall Harris moved from Malibu to a large place high in the
Hollywood Hills. You read about him now in the syndicated gossip columns.
I went to work and found the location of his Hollywood Hills place, a
three-story mansion which overlooked the lights of Los Angeles and
Hollywood.
I parked, got out of the car, and walked up the path to the front door.
It was around 8:30 p.m., cool, almost cold; there was a full moon and the
air was fresh and clear.
I rang the bell. It seemed a very long wait. Finally the door opened.
It was the butler. "Yes, sir?" he asked me.
"Henry Chinaski to see Randall Harris," I said.
"Just a moment, sir." He closed the door quietly and I waited. Again a
long time. Then the butler was back. "I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Harris can't
be disturbed at this time."
"Oh, all right."
"Would you care to leave a message, sir?"
"A message?"
"Yes, a message."
"Yes, tell him 'congratulations.' "
" 'Congratulations?' Is that all?"
"Yes, that's all."
"Goodnight, sir."
"Goodnight."
I went back to my car, got in. It started and I began the long drive
down out of the hills. I had that early copy of Mad Fly with me that
I had wanted him to sign. It was the copy with ten of Randall Harris' poems
in it. He probably was busy. Maybe, I thought, if I mail the magazine to him
with a stamped return envelope, he'll sign.
It was only about 9:00 p.m. There was time for me to go somewhere else.
THE DEVIL WAS HOT
Well, it was after an argument with Flo and I didn't feel like getting
drunk or going to a massage parlor. So I got in my car and drove west toward
the beach. It was along toward evening and I drove slowly. I got to the
pier, parked, and walked on up the pier. I stopped in the penny arcade,
played a few games, but the place stank of piss so I walked out. I was too
old to ride the merry-go-round so I passed that. The usual types walked the
pier -- a sleepy indifferent crowd.
It was then I noticed a roaring sound coming from a nearby building. A
tape or record, no doubt. There was a barker out front: "Yes, ladies and
gentlemen, Inside, Inside here . . . we actually have captured the devil! He
is on display to see with your own eyes! Think, just for a quarter, twenty-
five cents, you can actually see the devil . . . the biggest loser of all
time! The loser of the only revolution ever attempted in Heaven!"
Well, I was ready for a little comedy to offset what Flo was putting me
through. I paid my quarter and stepped inside with six or seven other
assorted suckers. They had this guy in a cage. They'd sprayed him red and he
had something in his mouth that made him puff out little rolls of smoke and
spurts of flame. He wasn't putting on a very good show. He was just walking
around in circles, saying over and over again, "God damn it, I've got to get
out of here! How'd I ever get in this friggin' fix?" Well, I'll tell you he
did look dangerous. Suddenly he did six rapid back flips. On his last flip
he landed on his feet, looked around and said, "Oh shit, I feel awful!"
Then he saw me. He walked right over to where I was standing next to
the wire. He was warm like a heater. I don't know how they worked that.
"My son," he said, "you've come at last! I've been waiting. Thirty-two
days I've been in this fucking cage!"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"My son," he said, "don't joke with me. Come back late tonight with the
wire-cutters and free me."
"Don't lay any shit on me, man," I said
"Thirty-two days I've been in here, my son! At last I have my freedom!"
"You mean you claim you're really the devil?"
"I'll screw a cat's ass if I'm not," he answered.
"If you're the devil then you can use your supernatural powers to get
out of here."
"My powers have temporarily vanished. This guy, the barker, he was in
the drunk tank with me. I told him I was the devil and he bailed me out. I'd
lost my powers in that jail or I wouldn't have needed him. He got me drunk
again and when I woke up I was in this cage. The cheap bastard, he feeds me
dogfood and peanut butter sandwiches. My son, help me, I beg you!"
"You're crazy," I said, "you're some kind of nut."
"Just come back tonight, my son, with the wire-clippers."
The barker walked in an announced that the session with the devil was
over and if we wanted to see him anymore it'd be another twenty-five cents.
I'd seen enough. I walked out with the six or seven other assorted suckers.
"Hey, he talked to you," said a little old guy walking next to me,
"I've seen him every night and you're the first person he has ever talked
to."
"Balls," I said.
The barker stopped me. "What'd he tell you? I saw him talking to you.
What'd he tell you?"
"He told me everything," I said.
"Well, hands off, buddy, he's mine! I ain't made so much money since I
had the bearded three-legged lady."
"What happened to her?"
"She ran away with the octopus man. They're running a farm in Kansas."
"I think you people are all crazy."
"I'm just telling you, I found this guy. Keep off!"
I walked to my car, got in and drove back to Flo. When I got there she
was sitting in the kitchen drinking whiskey. She sat there and told me a few
hundred times what a useless hunk of man I was. I drank with her a while not
saying much myself. Then I got up, went to the garage, got the wire-cutters,
put them in my pocket, got in the car and drove back to the pier.
I broke in the back way, the latch was rusty and snapped right off. He
was asleep on the floor of the cage. I began trying to cut the wire but I
couldn't cut through it. The wire was very thick. Then he woke up.
"My son," he said, "you came back! I knew you would!"
"Look, man, I can't cut the wire with these clippers. The wire's too
thick."
He stood up. "Hand 'em here."
"God," I said, "your hands are hot! You must have some kind of fever."
"Don't call me God," he said.
He snipped the wire with the clippers like it was thread and stepped
out. "And now, my son, to your place. I've got to get my strength back. A
few porterhouse steaks and I'll be straight. I've eaten so much dogfood I'm
afraid I'm going to bark any minute."
We walked back to my car and I drove him to my place. When we walked in
Flo was still sitting in the kitchen drinking whiskey. I fried him a bacon
and egg sandwich for starters and we sat down with Flo.
"Your friend is a handsome looking devil," she told me.
"He claims to be the devil," I said.
"Been a long time," he said, "since I had me a hunk of good woman."
He leaned over and gave Flo a long kiss. When he let go she seemed to
be in a state of shock. "That was the hottest kiss I ever had," she said,
"and I've had plenty."
"Really?" he asked.
"If you make love anything like the way you kiss it, it would simply be
too much, just simply too much!"
"Where's your bedroom?" he asked me.
"Just follow the lady," I said.
He followed Flo to the bedroom and I poured a deep whiskey.
I never heard such screams and moans and it went on for a good fourty-
five minutes. Then he walked out alone and sat down and poured himself a
drink.
"My son," he said, "you got yourself a good woman there."
He walked to the couch in the front room, stretched out and fell
asleep. I walked into the bedroom, undressed, and climbed in with Flo.
"My god," she said, "my god, I don't believe it. He put me through
heaven and hell."
"I just hope he doesn't set the couch on fire," I said.
"You mean he smokes cigarettes and falls asleep?"
"Forget it," I said.
Well, he began taking over. I had to sleep on the couch. I had to
listen to Flo screaming and moaning in there every night. One day while Flo
was at the market and we were having a beer in the breakfast nook I had a
talk with him. "Listen," I said, "I don't mind helping somebody out, but now
I've lost my bed and my wife. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"I believe I'll stay a while, my son, your old lady is one of the best
pieces I've ever had."
"Listen, man," I said, "I might have to take extreme means to remove
you."
"Tough boy, eh? Well look tough boy, I got a little news for you. My
supernatural powers have returned. If you try to fuck with me you might get
burned. Watch!"
We've got a dog. Old Bones; he's not worth much but he barks at night,
he's a fair watchdog. Well, he pointed his finger at Old Bones, the finger
kind of made a sneezing sound, then it sizzled and a thin line of flame ran
up and touched Old Bones. Old Bones frizzled-up and vanished. He just wasn't
there anymore. No bone, no fur, not even any stink. Just space.
"O.k., man," I told him. "You can stay a couple of days but after that
you gotta leave."
"Fry me up a porterhouse," he said, "I'm hungry, and I'm afraid my
sperm-count is dropping off."
I got up and threw a steak in the pan.
"Cook me up some french fries to go with that," he said, "and some
sliced tomato. I don't need any coffee. Been having insomnia. I'll just have
a couple more beers."
By the time I got the food in front of him, Flo was back.
"Hello, my love," she said, "how you doing?"
"Just fine," he said, "don't you have any catsup?"
I walked out, got in my car and drove to the beach.
Well, the barker had another devil in there. I paid my quarter and went
in. This devil really wasn't much. The red paint sprayed on him was killing
him and he was drinking to keep from going crazy. He was a big guy but he
didn't have any qualities at all. I was one of the few customers in there.
There were more flies in there than there were people.
The barker walked up to me. "I'm starving to death since you stole the
real thing from me. I suppose you got a show of your own going?"
"Listen," I said, "I'd give anything to give him back to you. I was
just trying to be a good guy."
"You know what happens to good guys in this world, don't you?"
"Yeah, they end up standing down at 7th and Broadway selling copies of
the Watchtower."
"My name's Ernie Jamestown," he said, "tell me all about it. We got a
room in the back."
I walked to the room in the back with Ernie. His wife was sitting at
the table drinking whiskey. She looked up.
"Listen, Ernie, if this bastard is gonna be our new devil, forget it.
We might just as well stage a triple suicide."
"Take it easy," said Ernie, "and pass the bottle."
I told Ernie everything that had happened. He listened carefully and
then said, "I can take him off your hands. He has two weaknesses -- drink
and women. And there's one other thing. I don't know why it happens but when
he's confined, like he was in the drunk tank or in that cage out there, he
loses his supernatural powers. All right, we take it from there."
Ernie went to the closet and dragged out a mass of chains and padlocks.
Then he went to the phone and asked for an Edna Hemlock. Edna Hemlock was to
meet us in twenty minutes at the corner outside Woody's Bar. Ernie and I got
in my car, stopped for two fifths at the liquor store, met Edna, picked her
up, and drove to me place.
They were still in the kitchen. They were necking like mad. But as soon
as he saw Edna the devil forgot all about my old lady. He dropped her like a
pair of stained panties. Edna had it all. They'd made no mistakes when they
put her together.
"Why don't you two drink up and get acquainted?" said Ernie. Ernie put
a large glass of whiskey in front of each of them.
The devil looked at Ernie. "Hey, mother, you're the guy who put me in
that cage, ain't ya?"
"Forget it," said Ernie, "let's let bygones be bygones."
"Like hell!" He pointed a finger and the line of flame ran up to Ernie
and he was no longer there.
Edna smiled and lifted her whiskey. The devil grinned, lifted his and
gulped it down.
"Fine stuff!" he said. "Who bought it?"
"That man who just left the room a moment ago," I said.
"Oh."
He and Edna had another drink and began eyeballing each other. Then my
old lady spoke to him:
"Take your eyes off that tramp!"
"What tramp?"
"Her!"
"Just drink your drink and shut up!"
He pointed his finger at my old lady, there was a small crackling sound
and she was gone. Then he looked at me:
"And what have you got to say?"
"Oh, I'm the guy who brought the wire-cutters, remember? I'm here to
run little errands, bring in towels, so forth . . ."
"It sure feels good to have my supernatural powers again."
"They do come in handy," I said, "we got an overpopulation problem
anyhow."
He was eyeballing Edna. Their eyes were so locked that I was able to
lift one of the fifths of whiskey. I took the fifth and got in my car with
it and drove back to the beach again.
Ernie's wife was still sitting in the back room. She was glad to see
the new fifth and I poured two drinks.
"Who's the kid you got locked in the cage?" I asked.
"Oh, he's a third-string quarterback from one of the local colleges.
He's trying to pick up a little spare change."
"You sure have nice breasts," I said.
"You think so? Ernie never says anything about my breasts."
"Drink up. This is good stuff."
I slid over next to her. She had nice fat thighs. When I kissed her,
she didn't resist.
"I get so tired of this life," she said, "Ernie's always been a cheap
hustler. You got a good job?"
"Oh yeah. I'm head shipping clerk at Drombo-Western."
"Kiss me again," she said.
I rolled off and wiped myself with the sheet.
"If Ernie finds out he'll kill us both," she said.
"Ernie isn't going to find out. Don't worry about it."
"You make great love," she said, "but why me?"
"I don't understand."
"I mean, really, what made you do it?"
"Oh, I said, "the devil made me do it."
Then I lit a cigarette, laid back, inhaled, and blew a perfect smoke
ring. She got up and went to the bathroom. In a minute I heard the toilet
flush.
Break-In
It was one of the outer rooms of the first floor. I stumbled on
something - I think it was a footstool - and I almost went down. I banged
into a table to hold myself up.
"That's right," said Harry, "wake up the whole fucking household."
"Look," I said, "what are we going to get here?"
"Keep your fucking voice down!"
"Harry, do you have to keep saying fucking?"
"What are you, a fucking linguist? We're here for cash and jewels."
I didn't like it. It seemed like total insanity. Harry was crazy; he'd
been in and out of madhouses. Between that and doing time he'd spent three-
quarters of his adult life in lockup. He'd talked me into the thing. I
didn't have much resistance.
"This damn country," he said. "there are too many rich pricks having
it too easy." Then Harry banged into something. "Shit!" he said.
"Hello? What is it?" We heard a man's voice coming from upstairs.
"We're in trouble," I said. I could feel the sweat dripping down from
my armpits.
"No," said Harry, "he's in trouble."
"Hello," said the man upstairs.
"Who's down there?"
"Come on," Harry told me.
He began walking up the stairway. I followed him. There was a hallway,
and there was a light coming from one of the rooms. Harry moved quickly and
silently. Then he ran into the room. I was behind him. It was a bedroom. A
man and a woman were in separate beds.
Harry pointed his .38 Magnum at the man. "All right, buddy, if you
don't want your balls blown off, you'll keep it quiet. I don't play."
The man was about 45, with a strong and imperial face. You could see
he had had it his own way for a long time. His wife was about 25, blond,
long hair, truly beautiful. She looked like an ad for something or other.
"Get the hell out of my house!" the man said.
"Hey," Harry said to me, "you know who this is?"
"No."
"It's Tom Maxson, the famous news broadcaster, Channel 7. Hello Tom."
"Get out of here! NOW!" Maxson barked.
He reached out and picked up the phone. "Operator-"
Harry ran up and slammed him across the temple with the butt of his
.38. Maxson fell across the bed. Harry put the phone back on the hook.
"You bastards, you hurt him!" cried the blond. "You cheap, cowardly
bastards!"
She was dressed in a light-green negligee. Harry walked around and
broke one of the shoulder straps. He grabbed one of the woman's breasts and
pulled it out. "Nice, ain't it?" he said to me. Then he slapped her across
the face, hard.
"You address me with respect, whore!" Harry said. Then he walked
around and sat Tom Maxson back up. "And you: I told you I don't play."
Maxson revived. "You've got the gun; that's all you've got."
"You fool. That's all I need. Now I'm gonna get some cooperation from
you and your whore or it's going to get worse."
"You cheap punk!" Maxson said.
"Just keep it up, keep it up. You'll see," said Harry.
"You think I'm afraid of it couple of cheap hoods?"
"If you're not, you ought to be."
"Who's your friend? What does he do?"
"He does what I tell him."
"Like what?"
"Like, Eddie, go kiss that blond!"
"Listen, you leave my wife out of this!"
"And if she screams, I put a bullet in your gut. I don't play. Go on,
Eddie, kiss the blond-"
The blond was trying to hold up the broken shoulder strap with one
hand.
"No," she said, "please-"
"I'm sorry, lady, I gotta do what Harry tells me."
I grabbed her by the hair and got my lips on hers. She pushed against
me, but she wasn't very strong. I'd never kissed a woman that beautiful
before.
"All right, Eddie, that's enough."
I pulled away. I walked around and stood next to Harry. "Why, Eddie,"
he sai