d, "what's that thing sticking out in font of you?"
I didn't answer.
"Look, Maxson," said Harry, "your wife gave my man a hard-on! How the
hell are we supposed to get any work done around here? We came for cash and
jewelry."
"You wise-ass punks make me sick. You're no better than maggots."
"And what have you got? The six o'clock news. What's so big about
that? Political pull and an asshole public. Anybody can read the news. I
make the news."
"You make the news? Like what? What can you do?"
"Any amount of numbers. Ah, let me think. How about, TV newscaster
drinks burglar's piss? How's that sound to you?"
"I'd die first."
"You won't. Eddie, go get me a glass. There's one there on the
nightstand. Bring me that."
"Look," said the blond, "please take our money. Take our jewels. just
go away. What's the need for all this?"
"It's your loudmouthed, spoiled husband, lady. He's getting on my
fucking nerves."
I brought Harry the glass, and he unzipped his pants and began to piss
into it. It was a tall glass, but he filled it to the brim. Then he zipped
up and moved toward Maxson.
"Now you're gonna drink my piss, Mr. Maxson."
"No way, bastard. I'd die first."
"You won't die. You'll drink my piss, all of it!"
"Never, punk!"
"Eddie," Harry nodded to me, "see that cigar on the dresser mantle?"
"Yeah."
"Get it. Light it. There's a lighter there."
I got the lighter and lit the cigar. It was a good one. I puffed on
it. My best cigar. Never had anything like it.
"You like the cigar, Eddie?" Harry asked me.
"It's great, Harry."
"OK. Now you walk over to the whore and get that breast out from under
the broken shoulder strap. Pull it out. I'm gonna hand this jerk-off this
glass full of my piss. You hold that cigar next to the nipple of the lady's
breast. And if this jerk-off doesn't drink all of this piss down to the very
last drop, I want you to burn that nipple off with that cigar. Understand?"
I got it. I walked around and pulled out Mrs. Maxson's breast. I felt
dizzy looking at it- never had I seen anything like that.
Harry handed Tom Maxson the glass of piss. Maxson looked over at his
wife and tilted the glass and began to drink.
The blond was trembling all over. It felt so good to hold her breast.
The yellow piss was going down the newscaster's throat. He stopped a
moment at the Halfway mark. He looked sick.
"All of it," said Harry. "Go ahead; it's good to the last drop."
Maxson put the glass to his lips and drained the remainder. The glass
fell from his hand.
"I still think you're a couple of cheap punks," gasped Maxson.
I was still standing there holding the blond's breast. She yanked it
away.
"Tom," said the blond, "will you stop antagonizing these men? You're
doing the most foolish thing possible!"
"Oh, playing the winners, eh? Is that why you married me? Because I
was a winner?"
"Of course that's why she married you, asshole," said Harry. "Look at
that fat gut on you. Did you think it was for your body?"
"I've got something," said Maxson. "That's why I'm Number One in
newscasting. You don't do that on luck."
"But if she hadn't married Number One," said Harry, "she would have
married Number Two."
"Don't listen to him, Tom," said the blond.
"It's all right," said Maxson, "I know you love me."
"Thank you, Daddy," said the blond.
"It's all right, Nana,"
"'Nana,'" said Harry, "I like that name, 'Nana.' That's class, Class
an ass. That's what the rich get while we get the scrubwomen."
"Why don't you join the Communist Party?" asked Maxson.
"Man, I don't care to Wait Centuries for something that might not
finally work. I want it now."
"Look, Harry," I said, "all we're doing is standing around and holding
conversations with these people. That doesn't get us anything. I don't care
what they think. Let's get the loot and split. The longer we stay, the
sooner we draw the heat."
"Now, Eddie," he answered, "that's the first good bit of sense I've
heard you speak in five or six years."
"I don't care," said Maxson. "You're just the weak feeding off of the
strong. If I weren't here, you'd hardly exist. You remind me of people who
go around assassinating political and spiritual leaders. It's the worst kind
of cowardice; it's the easiest thing to do with the least talent available.
It comes from hatred and envy; it comes from rancor and bitterness and
ultimate stupidity; it comes from the lowest scale of the human ladder; it
stinks and it reeks and it makes me ashamed to belong to the same tribe."
"Boy," said Harry, "that was some speech. Even piss can't stop your
flow of bullshit. You're one spoiled turd. You realize how many people there
are on this earth without a chance? Because of where and how they were born?
Because they had no education? Because they never had anything and never
will have and nobody gives a fuck, and you marry the best body you can find,
your age be damned?"
"Take your loot and go," said Maxson. "All you bastards who never make
it have some alibi."
"Oh, wait," said Harry, "everything counts. We're making now. You
don't quite understand."
"Tom," said the blond, "just give them the money, the jewelry ... let
them go ... please get off Channel 7."
"It's not Channel 7, Nana. It's letting them know. I've got to let
them know."
"Eddie," said Harry, "check the bathroom. Bring back some adhesive
tape."
I walked down the hall and found the bathroom. In the medicine cabinet
was a wide roll of adhesive. Harry made me nervous. I never knew what he was
going to do. I brought the tape back into the bedroom. Harry was yanking the
phone cord out of the wall. "OK," he told me, "shut off Channel 7."
I got it. I taped his mouth good.
"Now the hands, the hands in back," said Harry.
He walked over to Nana, pulled out both of her breasts and looked at
them.
Then he spit in her face. She wiped it off with the bedsheet.
"OK," he said, "now this one. Get the mouth, but leave the hands
loose. I like a little fight."
I fixed her up.
Harry got Tom Maxson turned on his side in his bed; he had him facing
Nana. He walked over and got one of Maxson's cigars and lit it. "I guess
Maxson's right," said Harry. "We are the suckerfish. We are the maggots. We
are the slime, and maybe the cowards."
He took a good pull on the cigar.
"It's yours, Eddie."
"Harry, I can't."
"You can. You don't know how. You've never been taught how. No
education. I'm your teacher. She's yours. It's simple."
"You do it, Harry."
"No. She'll mean more to you."
"Why?"
"Because you're such a simple asshole."
I walked over to her bed. She was so beautiful and I was so ugly I
fell as if my whole body was smeared with a layer of shit.
"Go on," said Harry, "get it on, asshole."
"Harry, I'm scared. It's not right; she's not mine."
"She's yours."
"Why?"
"Look at it like a war. We won this war. We've killed all their
machos, all their big-timers, all their heroes. There's nothing left but
women and children. We kill the children and send the old women up the road.
We are the conquering army. All that's left is their women. And the most
beautiful woman of all is ours . . . is yours. She's helpless. Take her."
I walked up and pulled back the covers. It was as if I had died and
was suddenly in heaven, and there was this magical creature in front of me.
I took her negligee and ripped it completely off.
"Fuck her, Eddie!"
All the curves were absolutely where they were supposed to be. They
were there and beyond. It was like beautiful skies; it was like beautiful
rivers flowing. I just wanted to look. I was afraid. I stood there, this
horn of a thing in front of me. I had no rights.
"Go ahead," said Harry. "Fuck her! She's the same as any other woman.
She plays games, tells lies. She'll be an old woman someday, and other young
girls will replace her. She'll even die. Fuck her while she's still there!"
I pulled at her shoulders, trying to gather her to me. She had gotten
strength from somewhere. She pushed against me, pulling her head back. She
was completely repulsed.
"Listen, Nana, I really don't want to do this ... but I do. I'm sorry.
I don't know what to do. I want you and I'm ashamed."
She made a sound through the adhesive on her mouth and pushed against
me. She was so beautiful. I didn't deserve that. Her eyes looked into mine.
They said what I was thinking: I had no human right.
"Go ahead," said Harry, "slam it to her! She'll love it."
"I can't do it, Harry."
"All right," he said, "you watch Channel 7 then."
I walked over and sat next to Tom Maxson. We sat side-by-side on his
bed. He was making small sounds through the adhesive. Harry walked over to
the other bed. "All right, whore, I guess I'll have to impregnate you."
Nana leaped out of bed and ran toward the door. Harry caught her by
the hair, spun her and slapped her hard across the face. She fell against
the wall and slid down. Harry pulled her up by the hair and hit her again.
Maxson made a louder sound through his adhesive and leaped up. He ran over
and butted Harry with his head. Harry gave him a chop along the back of the
neck, and Maxson dropped.
"Tape the hero's ankles," he told me.
I bound Maxson's feet and shoved him onto his bed.
"Sit him up," said Harry. "I want him to watch."
"Look, Harry," I said, "let's get out of here. The longer we stay-"
"Shut up!"
Harry dragged the blond back to the bed. She still had on a pair of
panties. He ripped them off and threw them at Maxson. The panties fell at
his feet. Maxson moaned and began to struggle. I punched him a hard one,
deep into the belly.
Harry took off his pants and undershorts.
"Whore," he said to the blond, "I'm gonna sink this thing deep into
you and you're going to feel it and there's nothing you can do. You'll take
all of it! And I'm going to cream deep inside of you!"
He had her on her back; she was still struggling. He hit her again,
hard. Her head fell back. He spread her legs. He tried to work his cock in.
He was having trouble.
"Loosen up, bitch; I know you want it! Lift your legs!"
He hit her hard, twice. The legs rose.
"That's better, whore!"
Harry poked and poked. Finally, he penetrated. He moved it in and out,
slowly.
Maxson began moaning and moving again. I sank another one into his
belly.
Harry began to get up a rhythm. The blond groaned as if in pain.
"You like it, don't you, whore? It's better turkeyneck than your old
man ever gave you, ain't it? Feel it growing?"
I couldn't stand it. I stood up, took out my cock and began
masturbating. Harry was ramming the blond so hard that her head was
bouncing. Then he slapped her and pulled out.
"Not yet, whore. I'm taking my time."
He walked over to where Tom Maxson was sitting.
"Look at the SIZE of that thing! And I'm going to put it back into her
now and come right inside her, Tommy boy! You'll never be able to make love
to your Nana without thinking of me! Without thinking of THIS!"
Harry put his cock right into Maxson's face, "And I may have her suck
me off after I'm finished!"
Then he turned, went back to the other bed and mounted the blond. He
slapped her again and began pumping wildly.
"You cheap, stinking whore, I'm going to come!"
Then: "Oh, shit! OH, MY GOD! Oh, oh, oh!"
He fell down against Nana and lay there. After a moment he pulled out.
Then he looked over at me. "Sure you don't want some?"
"No thanks, Harry."
Harry began to laugh. "Look at you, fool, you've whacked off!" Harry
got back into his pants, laughing. "All right," he said, "tape up her hands
and ankles. We're gettin' out of here."
I walked over and taped her up.
"But, Harry, how about the money and jewels?"
"We'll take his wallet. I want to get out of here. I'm nervous."
"But, Harry, let's take it all."
"No," he said, "just the wallet. Check his trousers. just take the
money."
I found the wallet.
"There's only $83 here, Harry."
"We take it and we leave. I'm nervous. I feel something in the air. We
have to go."
"Shit, Harry, that's no haul! We can really clean them out!"
"I told you: I'm nervous. I feel trouble coming. You can stay. I'm
leaving."
I followed him down the stairway.
"That son of a bitch will think twice before he insults anybody
again," said Harry.
We found the window we had jimmied open and left the same way. We
walked through the garden and out the iron gate.
"All right," said Harry, "we walk at a casual gait. Light a cigarette.
Try to look normal."
"Why are you so nervous, Harry?"
"Shut up!"
We walked four blocks. The car was still there. Harry took the wheel
and we drove off.
"Where we going?" I asked.
"The Guild Theater."
"What's playing?"
"Black Silk Stockings, with Annette Haven."
The place was down on Lankershim.
We parked and got out. Harry bought the tickets. We walked in.
"Popcorn?" I asked Harry.
"No."
"I want some."
"Get it."
Harry waited until I got the popcorn, large. We found some seats near
the back. We were in luck. The feature was just beginning.
originally appeared in Hustler magazine, March 1979
GUTS
Like anybody can tell you, I am not a very nice man. I don't know the
word. I have always admired the villain, the outlaw, the son of a bitch. I
don't like the clean-shaven boy with the necktie and the good job. I like
desperate men, men with broken teeth and broken minds and broken ways. They
interest me. They are full of surprises and explosions. I also like vile
women, drunk cursing bitches with loose stockings and sloppy mascara faces.
I'm more interested in perverts than saints. I can relax with bums because I
am a bum. I don't like laws, morals, religions, rules. I don't like to be
shaped by society.
I was drinking with Marty, the ex-con, up in my room one night. I
didn't have a job. I didn't want a job. I just wanted to sit around with my
shoes off and drink wine and talk, and laugh if possible. Marty was a little
dull, but he had workingman's hands, a broken nose, mole's eyes, nothing
much to him but he'd been through it.
"I like you, Hank," said Marty, "you're a real man, you're one of the
few real men I've known."
"Yeh," I said.
"You got guts."
"Yeh."
"I was a hard-rock miner once . . ."
"Yeh?"
"I got in a fight with this guy. We used ax handles. He broke my left
arm with his first swing. I went on to fight him. I beat his goddamned head
in. When he came around from that beating, he was out of his head. I'd
mashed his brains in. They put him in a madhouse."
"That's all right," I said.
"Listen," said Marty, "I want to fight you."
"You get first punch. Go ahead, hit me."
Marty was sitting in a straight-backed green chair. I was walking to
the sink to pour another glass of wine from the bottle. I turned around and
smashed him a right to the face. He flipped over backwards in the chair, got
up and came toward me. I wasn't looking for the left. It got me high on the
forehead and knocked me down. I reached into a paper sack full of vomit and
empties, came out with a bottle, rose to my knees and hurled it. Marty
ducked and I came up with the chair behind me. I had it over my head when
the door opened. It was our landlady, a good-looking young blonde in her
twenties. What she was doing running a place like that I could never figure
out. I put the chair down.
"Go to your room, Marty."
Marty looked ashamed, like a little boy. He walked down the hall to his
room, walked in and closed the door.
"Mr. Chinaski," she said, "I want you to know ..."
"I want you to know," I said, "that it's no use."
"What's no use?"
"You're not my type. I don't want to fuck you."
"Listen," she said, "I want to tell you something. I saw you pissing in
the lot next door last night and if you do that again I'm going to throw you
out of here. Somebody's been pissing in the elevator too. Has that been
you?"
"I don't piss in elevators."
"Well, I saw you in the lot last night. I was watching. It was you."
"The hell it was me."
"You were too drunk to know. Don't do it again."
She closed the door and was gone.
I was sitting there quietly drinking wine a few minutes later and
trying to remember if I had pissed in the lot, when there was a knock
on the door.
"Come in," I said.
It was Marty. "I gotta tell you something."
"Sure. Sit down."
I poured Marty a glass of port and he sat down.
"I'm in love," he said.
I didn't answer. I rolled a cigarette.
"You believe in love?" he asked.
"I have to. It happened to me once."
"Where is she?"
"She's gone. Dead."
"Dead? How?"
"Drink."
"This one drinks too. It worries me. She's always drunk. She can't
stop."
"None of us can."
"I go to A.A. meetings with her. She's drunk when she goes. Half of
them down there at the A.A. are drunk. You can smell the fumes."
I didn't answer.
"God, she's young. And what a body! I love her, man, really love her!"
"Oh hell, Marty, that's just sex."
"No, I love her. Hank, I really feel it."
"I guess it's possible."
"Christ, they've got her down in a cellar room. She can't pay her
rent."
"The cellar?"
"Yeah, they got a room down there with all the boilers and shit."
"Hard to believe."
"Yeah, she's down there. And I love her, man, and I don't have any
money to help her with."
"That's sad. I been in the same situation. It hurts."
"If I can get straight, if I can get on the wagon for ten days and get
my health back -- I can get a job somewhere, I can help her."
"Well," I said, "you're drinking now. If you love her, you'll stop
drinking. Right now."
"By god," he said, "I will! I'll pour this drink into the sink!"
"Don't be melodramatic. Just pass that glass over here."
I took the elevator down to the first floor with the fifth of cheap
whiskey I had stolen at Sam's liquor store a week earlier. Then I took the
stairway to the cellar. There was a small light burning down there. I walked
along looking for a door. I finally found one. It must have been 1:00 or
2:00 in the morning. I knocked. The door opened a notch and here stood a
really fine-looking woman in a negligee. I hadn't expected that. Young, and
a strawberry blonde.
I stuck my foot in the door, then I pushed my way in, closed the door
and looked around. Not a bad place at all.
"Who are you?" she asked. "Get out of here."
"This is a nice place you got here. I like it better than my own."
"Get out of here! Get out! Get out!"
I pulled the fifth of whiskey out of the paper bag. She looked at it.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Jeanie."
"Look, Jeanie, where do you keep your drinking glasses?"
She pointed to a wall shelf and I walked over and got two tall water
glasses. There was a sink. I put a little water in each, then walked over,
set them down, opened the whiskey and mixed it in. We sat on the edge of her
bed and drank. She was young, attractive. I couldn't believe it. I waited
for a neurotic explosion, for something psychotic. Jeanie looked normal,
even healthy. But she did like her whiskey. She drank right along with me.
Having come down there in a rush of eagerness, I no longer felt that
eagerness. I mean, if she had had a little pig in her or something indecent
or foul (a harelip, anything), I would have felt more like moving in. I
remembered a story I had read in the Racing Form once about a high-
bred stallion they couldn't get to mate with the mares. They got the most
beautiful mares they could find, but the stallion only shied away. Then
somebody, who knew something, got an idea. He smeared mud all over a
beautiful mare and the stallion immediately mounted her. The theory was that
the stallion felt inferior to all the beauty and when it was muddied-up,
fouled, he at least felt equal or maybe even superior. Horses' minds and
men's minds could be a great deal alike.
Anyhow, Jeanie poured the next drink and asked me my name and where I
roomed. I told her that I was upstairs somewhere and I just wanted to drink
with somebody.
"I saw you at the Clamber-In one night about a week ago," she said,
"you were very funny, you had everybody laughing, you bought everybody
drinks."
"I don't remember."
"I remember. You like my negligee?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you take off your pants and get more comfortable?"
I did and sat back on the bed with her. It moved very slowly. I
remember telling her that she had nice breasts and then I was sucking on one
of them. Next I knew we were at it. I was on top. But something didn't work.
I rolled off. "I'm sorry," I said.
"It's all right," she said, "I still like you." We sat there talking
vaguely and finishing the whiskey.
Then she got up and turned off the lights. I felt very sad and climbed
into bed and lay against her back. Jeanie was warm, full, and I could feel
her breathing, and I could feel her hair against my face. My penis begain to
rise and I poked it against her. I felt her reach down and guide it in.
"Now," she said, "now, that's it. . ."
It was good that way, long and good, and then we were finished and then
we slept.
When I woke up she was still asleep and I got up to get dressed. I was
fully clothed when she turned and looked at me: "One more time before you
go."
"All right."
I undressed again and got in with her. She turned her back to me and we
did it again, the same way. After I climaxed she lay with her back to me.
"Will you come see me again?" she asked.
"Of course."
"You live upstairs?"
"Yes. 309.1 can come see you or you can come see me."
"I'd rather you came to see me," she said.
"All right," I said. I got dressed, opened the door, closed the door,
walked up the stairway, got in the elevator, and hit the 3 button.
It was about a week later, one night, I was drinking wine with Marty.
We talked about various things of no importance and then he said, "Christ, I
feel awful."
"What again?"
"Yeah. My girl, Jeanie. I told you about her."
"Yes. The one who lives in the cellar. You're in love with her."
"Yeh. They kicked her out of the cellar. She couldn't even make the
cellar rent."
"Where'd she go?"
"I don't know. She's gone. I heard they kicked her out. Nobody knows
what she did, where she went. I went to the A.A. meeting. She wasn't there.
I'm sick. Hank, I'm really sick. I loved her. I'm about out of my head."
I didn't answer.
"What can I do, man? I'm really torn apart.. ."
"Let's drink to her luck, Marty, to her good luck."
We had a good long one to her.
"She was all right. Hank, you gotta believe me, she was all right."
"I believe you Marty."
A week later Marty got kicked out for not paying his rent and I got a
job in a meat packing plant and there were a couple of Mexican bars across
the street. I liked those Mexican bars. After work, I smelled of blood, but
nobody seemed to mind. It wasn't until I got on the bus to go back to my
room that those noses started raising and I got the dirty looks, and I began
feeling mean again. That helped.
HIT MAN
Ronnie was to meet the two men at the German bar in the Silver-lake
district. It was 7:15 p.m. He sat there drinking the dark beer at the table
by himself. The barmaid was blond, fine ass, and her breasts looked as if
they were going to fall out of her blouse.
Ronnie liked blondes. It was like iceskating and rollerskating. The
blondes were iceskating, the rest were rollerskating. The blondes even
smelled different. But women meant trouble, and for him the trouble often
outweighed the joy. In other words, the price was too high.
Yet a man needed a woman now and then, if for no other reason than to
prove he could get one. The sex was secondary. It wasn't a lover's world, it
never would be.
7:20. He waved her over for another beer. She came smiling, carrying
the beer out in front of her breasts. You couldn't help liking her like
that.
"You like working here?" he asked her.
"Oh yes, I meet a lot of men."
"Nice men?"
"Nice men and the other kind."
"How can you tell them apart?"
"I can tell by looking."
"What kind of man am I?"
"Oh," she laughed, "nice, of course."
"You've earned your tip," said Ronnie.
7:25. They'd said 7. Then he looked up. It was Curt. Curt had the guy
with him. They came over and sat down. Curt waved for a pitcher.
"The Rams ain't worth shit," said Curt, "I've lost an even $500 on them
this season."
"You think Prothro's finished?"
"Yeah, it's over for him," said Curt. "Oh, this is Bill. Bill, this is
Ronnie."
They shook hands. The barmaid arrived with the pitcher.
"Gentlemen," said Ronnie, "this is Kathy."
"Oh," said Bill.
"Oh, yes," said Curt.
The barmaid laughed and wiggled on.
"It's good beer," said Ronnie. "I've been here since 7:00, waiting. I
ought to know."
"You don't want to get drunk," said Curt.
"Is he reliable?" asked Bill.
"He's got the best references," said Curt.
"Look," said Bill, "I don't want comedy. It's my money."
"How do I know you're not a pig?" asked Ronnie.
"How do I know you won't cut with the $2500?"
"Three grand."
"Curt said two and one half."
"I just upped it. I don't like you."
"I don't care too much for your ass either. I've got a good mind to
call it off."
"You won't. You guys never do."
"Do you do this regular?"
"Yes. Do you?"
"All right, gentlemen," said Curt, "I don't care what you settle for. I
get my grand for the contract."
"You're the lucky one, Curt," said Bill.
"Yeah," said Ronnie.
"Each man is an expert in his own line," said Curt, lighting a
cigarette.
"Curt, how do I know this guy won't cut with the three grand?"
"He won't or he's out of business. It's the only kind of work he can
do."
"That's horrible," said Bill.
"What's horrible about it? You need him don't you?"
"Well, yes."
"Other people need him too. They say each man is good at something.
He's good at that."
Somebody put some money in the juke and they sat listening to the music
and drinking the beer.
"I'd really like to give it to that blonde," said Ronnie. "I'd like to
give her about six hours of turkeyneck."
"I would too," said Curt, "if I had it."
"Let's get another pitcher," said Bill. "I'm nervous.
"There's nothing to worry about," said Curt. He waved for another
pitcher of beer. "That $500 I dropped on the Rams, I'll get it back at
Anita. They open December 26th. I'll be there."
"Is the Shoe going to ride in the meet?" asked Bill.
"I haven't read the papers. I'd imagine he will. He can't quit. It's in
his blood."
"Longden quit," said Ronnie.
"Well, he had to; they had to strap the old man in the saddle."
"He won his last race."
"Campus pulled the other horse."
"I don't think you can beat the horses," said Bill.
"A smart man can beat anything he puts his mind to," said Curt. "I've
never worked in my life."
"Yeah," said Ronnie, "but I gotta work tonight."
"Be sure you do a good job, baby," said Curt.
"I always do a good job."
They were quiet and sat drinking their beer. Then Ronnie said, "All
right, where's the god damned money?"
"You'll get it, you'll get it," said Bill. "It's lucky I brought an
extra $500."
"I want it now. All of it."
"Give him the money. Bill. And while you're at it, give me mine."
It was all in hundreds. Bill counted it under the table. Ronnie got his
first, then Curt got his. They checked it. O.k.
"Where's it at?" asked Ronnie.
"Here," said Bill, handing him an envelope. "The address and key are
inside."
"How far away is it?"
"Thirty minutes. You take the Ventura freeway."
"Can I ask you one thing?"
"Sure."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Yes, why?"
"Do you care?"
"No."
"Then why ask?"
"Too much beer, I guess."
"Maybe you better get going," said Curt.
"Just one more pitcher of beer," said Ronnie.
"No," said Curt, "get going."
"Well, shit, all right."
Ronnie moved around the table, got out, walked to the exit. Curt and
Bill sat there looking at him. He'walked outside. Night. Stars. Moon.
Traffic. His car. He unlocked it, got in, drove off.
Ronnie checked the street carefully and the address more carefully. He
parked a block and a half away and walked back. The key fit the door. He
opened it and walked in. There was a T.V. set going in the front room. He
walked across the rug.
"Bill?" somebody asked. He listened for the voice. She was in the
bathroom. "Bill?" she said again. He pushed the door open and there she sat
in the tub, very blond, very white, young. She screamed.
He got his hands around her throat and pushed her under the water. His
sleeves were soaked. She kicked and struggled violently. It got so bad that
he had to get in the tub with her, clothes and all. He had to hold her down.
Finally she was still and he let her go.
Bill's clothes didn't quite fit him but at least they were dry. The
wallet was wet but he kept the wallet. Then he got out of there, walked the
block and one half to his car and drove off.
THIS IS WHAT KILLED DYLAN THOMAS
This is what killed Dylan Thomas.
I board the plane with my girlfriend, the sound man, the camera man and
the producer. The camera is working. The sound man has attached little
microphones to my girlfriend and myself. I am on my way to San Francisco to
give a poetry reading. I am Henry Chinaski, poet. I am profound, I am
magnificent. Balls. Well, yes, I do have magnificent balls.
Channel 15 is thinking of doing a documentary on me. I have on a clean
new shirt, and my girlfriend is vibrant, magnificent, in her early thirties.
She sculpts, writes, and makes marvelous love. The camera pokes into my
face. I pretend it isn't there. The passengers watch, the stewardesses beam,
the land is stolen from the Indians, Tom Mix is dead, and I've had a fine
breakfast.
But I can't help thinking of the years in lonely rooms when the only
people who knocked were the landladies asking for the back rent, or the
F.B.I. I lived with rats and mice and wine and my blood crawled the walls in
a world I couldn't understand and still can't. Rather than live their life,
I starved; I ran inside my own mind and hid. I pulled down all the shades
and stared at the ceiling. When I went out it was to a bar where I begged
drinks, ran errands, was beaten in alleys by well-fed and secure men, by
dull and comfortable men. Well, I won a few fights but only because I was
crazy. I went for years without women, I lived on peanut butter and stale
bread and boiled potatoes. I was the fool, the dolt, the idiot. I wanted to
write but the typer was always in hock. I gave it up and drank...
The plane rose and the camera went on. The girlfriend and I talked. The
drinks arrived. I had poetry, and a fine woman. Life was picking up. But the
traps, Chinaski, watch the traps. You fought a long fight to put the word
down the way you wanted. Don't let a little adulation and a movie camera
pull you out of position. Remember what Jeffers said -- even the strongest
men can be trapped, like God when he once walked on earth.
Well, you ain't God, Chinaski, relax and have another drink. Maybe you
ought to say something profound for the sound man? No, let him sweat. Let
them all sweat. It's their film burning. Check the clouds for size. You're
riding with executives from I.B.M., from Texaco, from . . .
You're riding with the enemy.
On the escalator out of the airport a man asks me, "What's all the
cameras? What's going on?"
"I'm a poet," I tell him.
"A poet?" he asks, "what's your name?"
"Garcia Lorca," I say. . . .
Well, North Beach is different. They're young and they wear jeans and
they wait around. I'm old. Where's the young ones of 20 years ago? Where's
Joltin' Joe? All that. Well, I was in S.F. 30 years ago and I avoided North
Beach. Now I'm walking through it. I see my face on posters all about. Be
careful, old man, the suck is on. They want your blood.
My girlfriend and I walk along with Marionetti. Well, here we are
walking along with Marionetti. It's nice being with Marionetti, he has very
gentle eyes and the young girls stop him on the street and talk to him. Now,
I think, I could stay in San Francisco . . . but I know better; it's back to
L.A. for me with that machinegun mounted in the front court window. They
might have caught God, but Chinaski gets advice from the devil.
Marionetti leaves and there's a beatnick coffeeshop. I have never been
in a beatnick coffeeshop. I am in a beatnick coffeeshop. My girl and I get
the best -- 60 cents a cup. Big time. It isn't worth it. The kids sit about
sipping at their coffees and waiting for it to happen. It isn't going to
happen.
We walk across the street to an Italian cafe. Marionetti is back with
the guy from the S. F. Chronicle who wrote in his column that I was
the best short story writer to come along since Hemingway. I tell him he is
wrong; I don't know who is the best since Heming- way but it isn't H.C. I'm
too careless. I don't put out enough effort. I'm tired.
The wine comes on. Bad wine. The lady brings in soup, salad, a bowl of
raviolis. Another bottle of bad wine. We are too full to eat the main
course. The talk is loose. We don't strain to be brilliant. Maybe we can't
be. We get out.
I walk behind them up the hill. I walk with my beautiful girlfriend. I
begin to vomit. Bad red wine. Salad. Soup. Raviolis. I always vomit before a
reading. It's a good sign. The edge is on. The knife is in my gut while I
walk up the hill.
They put us in a room, leave us a few bottles of beer. I glance over my
poems. I am terrified. I heave in the sink, I heave in the toilet, I heave
on the floor. I am ready.
The biggest crowd since Yevtushenko ... I walk on stage. Hot shit. Hot
shit Chinaski. There is a refrigerator full of beer behind me. I reach in
and take one. I sit down and begin to read. They've paid $2 a head. Fine
people, those. Some are quite hostile from the outset. 1/3 of them hate me,
1/3 of them love me, the other 3rd don't know what the hell. I have some
poems that I know will increase the hate. It's good to have hostility, it
keeps the head loose.
"Will Laura Day please stand up? Will my love please stand up?"
She does, waving her arms.
I begin to get more interested in the beer than the poetry. I talk
between the poems, dry and banal stuff, drab. I am H. Bogart. I am
Hemingway. I am hot shit.
"Read the poems, Chinaski!" they scream.
They are right, you know. I try to stay with the poems. But I'm at the
refrigerator door much of the time too. It makes the work easier, and
they've already paid. I'm told once John Cage came out on stage, ate an
apple, walked off, got one thousand dollars. I figured I had a few beers
coming.
Well, it was over. They came around. Autographs. They'd come from
Oregon, L.A., Washington. Nice pretty little girls too. This is what killed
Dylan Thomas.
Back upstairs at the place, drinking beer and talking to Laura and Joe
Krysiak. They are beating on the door downstairs. "Chinaski! Chinaski!" Joe
goes down to hold them off. I'm a rock star. Finally I go down and let some
of them in. I know some of them. Starving poets. Editors of little
magazines. Some get through that I don't know. All right, all right -- lock
the door!
We drink. We drink. We drink. Al Masantic falls down in the bathroom
and crashes the top of his head open. A very fine poet, that Al.
Well, everybody is talking. It's just another sloppy beerdrunk. Then
the editor of a little magazine starts beating on a fag. I don't like it. I
try to separate them. A window is broken. I push them down the steps. I push
everybody down the steps, except Laura. The party is over. Well, not quite.
Laura and I are into it. My love and I are into it. She's got a temper, I've
got one to match. It's over nothing, as usual. I tell her to get the hell
out. She does.
I wake up hours later and she's standing in the center of the room. I
leap out of bed and cuss her. She's on me.
"I'll kill you, you son of a bitch!"
I'm drunk. She's on top of me on the kitchen floor. My face is
bleeding. She bites a hole in my arm. I don't want to die. I don't want to
die! Passion be damned! I run into the kitchen and pour half a bottle of
iodine over my arm. She's throwing my shorts and shirts out of her suitcase,
taking her airplane ticket. She's on her way again. We're finished forever
again. I go back to bed and listen to her heels going down the hill.
On the plane back the camera is going. Those guys from Channel 15 are
going to find out about life. The camera zooms in on the hole in my arm.
There is a double shot in my hand.
"Gentlemen," I say, "there is no way to make it with the female. There
is absolutely no way."
They all nod in agreement. The sound man nods, the camera man nods, the
producer nods. Some of the passengers nod. I drink heavily all the way in,
savoring my sorrow, as they say. What can a poet do without pain? He needs
it as much as his typewriter.
Of course, I make the airport bar. I would have made it anyhow. The
camera follows me into the bar. The guys in the bar look around, lift their
drinks and talk about how impossible it is to make it with the female.
My take for the reading is $400.
"What's the camera for?" asks the guy next to me.
"I'm a poet," I tell him.
"A poet?" he asks. "What's your name?"
"Dylan Thomas," I say.
I lift my drink, empty it with one gulp, stare straight ahead. I'm on
my way.
NO NECK AND BAD AS HELL
I had a jumpy stomach and she took pictures of me sweating and dying in
the waiting area as I watched a plump girl in a short purple dress and high
heels shoot down a row of plastic ducks with a gun. I told Vicki I'd be back
and I asked the girl at the counter for a paper cup and some water and I
dropped my Alka Seltzers in. I sat back down and sweated.
Vicki was happy. We were getting out of town. I liked Vicki to be
happy. She deserved her happiness. I got up and went to the men's room and
had a good crap. When I got out they were calling the passengers. It wasn't
a very large seaplane. Two propellers. We were on last. It only held six or
seven.
Vicki sat in the co-pilot's seat and they made me a seat out of the
thing that folded over the door. There we went! FREEDOM. My seatbelt didn't
work.
There was a Japanese guy looking at me. "My seatbelt doesn't work," I
told him. He grinned back at me, happily. "Suck shit, baby," I told him.
Vicki kept looking back and smiling. She was happy, a kid with candy -- a 35
year old seaplane.
It took twelve minutes and we hit the water. I hadn't heaved. I got
out. Vicki told me all about it. "The plane was built in 1940. It had holes
in the floor. He worked the rudder with a handle from the roof. 'I'm
scared,' I told him, and he said, 'I'm scared too.' "
I depended