to try to unwind.”
“a place like this, huh?”
“this was the place. he didn’t try to close
deals, he just wanted to relax with the
actors, the artists, the screenwriters, the
directors, the producers, the investors
and so forth. and, of course, there were also the
beautiful girls.”
“here?”
“yes, look around …”
I did.
“well, it was just a matter of time until he discovered
coke, then more coke, mostly with his new friends
after the after-hour places closed.”
“flying, what?”
“yes, but professionally he
continued to function well until
he began doing crank.”
“it really keeps you awake, huh? my
round to buy …”
I ordered two more.
“after some months he felt more and more
depressed, he took 6 weeks off and went to
Hawaii, resting, laying in the sun.”
“did he screw?”
“he told me that he tried. anyhow, he came back
and he used to talk to me here just like you’re
doing now.”
“oh.”
“then he became obsessed with some Mexican Real
Estate Dream
which
he would bankroll
with a Mexican friend
who was powerful in politics there.
the master plan was that
within 8 years they would control
a real estate empire and
several banks before the
government could stop them.
“drink up,” I suggested.
“well, they didn’t quite get it rolling.
he lost everything.
at the office he became difficult and unreasonable,
smashing ashtrays, throwing the phone out the window,
once pouring a can of Tab down his secretary’s
blouse. yet somehow he managed to retain an
obnoxious brilliance and he remained almost functional
which was better than most of the others there.”
“most others don’t have much.”
“that’s true. anyhow, one day he arrived at work
dressed in a house painter’s outfit, you know, the
white overalls, the little white cap, carrying a brush and a
bucket of paint. that’s when the Board of Directors
insisted on a 3-month leave of absence.”
“BARKEEP!” I yelled. “COUPLE MORE!”
“he sold his house and moved into an apartment
on Fountain Avenue. his friends came by for
a while, then they stopped.”
“suckerfish like winners.”
“yes, and then there was a period when he tried to
get back with his x-wife but she didn’t want any more
of that. she was with a young sculptor from Boston
who was immensely talented and who taught
at an Ivy League university.”
“a rough turn of events,” I said.
“anyhow, our friend had this apartment
on Fountain Avenue and
one day the manager who lived in the apartment
below noticed water coming down through the
ceiling …”
“oh?”
“he ran upstairs and knocked on the door, there
was no answer, he took out his key and opened it, went
in and there was Randy standing there like a statue,
his head down in the bathroom sink, the water
running and overflowing,
running over the floor, and the manager wasn’t sure what
to think, it looked so strange, and he went over and
saw that the head was wedged there in the sink,
and the manager felt his legs, his back, and everything
was stiff, rigor mortis had long ago set in, there he
was standing with his head down under the water
and the overhead light on …”
“listen, Monty,” I said, “your name is ‘Monty,’ isn’t
it?”
“yes, you’ve got it right.”
“I drove over here earlier but that was such a long time ago.
do you remember if the parking lot is out front
or in the back?”
“it’s straight out back.”
“goodnight, Monty.”
“goodnight.”
fortunately after all that
I still knew front from back. I climbed down off
that bar stool and made my way as best I could to the
exit.
my turn
the male reviewer writes that he
misses the poems about
the drinking bouts and the hard
women and the low
life.
the female reviewer says that
all I write about
is drinking and puking and bad
women
and a life nobody could
ever care
about.
their reviews are
on the same page
and are about
the same book
and
this is a poem
about
book reviewers.
skinny-dipping
as a young man
he went skinny-dipping with
Kafka
but it was too much
for him:
the sun burned him badly
and he was in bed
for two days
with a high
fever.
he was fat
and in great pain
as he twisted in the
sheets.
now Kafka didn’t get burned
and he visited the fat
boy
and the fat boy’s
mother
gave Kafka
hell.
and life continued.
and the fat boy
went on to write many
books and he became
famous in his own
time
while Kafka only wrote
a few books and remained
unknown.
the fat boy
even went on to live
comfortably in Paris
with a wife of some
importance
and they mixed with
many of the
great artists of their
day
while Kafka remained
unknown
and life continued.
a close call
pushing my cart through the supermarket
today
the thought crossed my mind
that I could start
knocking cans from the shelves and swiping
at rolls of towels, toilet paper and
silver foil,
I could throw oranges, bananas, tomatoes
into the air, I could take cans of
beer from the refrigerator and roll
them down the aisle, I could pull up
women’s skirts and grab their asses,
I could ram my shopping cart through
the plate glass window.
then another thought occurred to me:
people generally consider the consequences
before they do something
like that.
I pushed my cart along.
a young woman in a checkered skirt was
bending over
in the pet food section.
I seriously considered grabbing her
ass
but I didn’t, I rolled on
by.
I had the items I needed and I pushed
my cart up to the checkout stand.
a lady in a red smock with a nameplate
waited on me.
the nameplate indicated her name was
“Robin.”
Robin looked at me: “how you doing?”
she asked.
“fine,” I told her.
and then she began tabulating and
bagging my purchases
with no idea that
the fellow standing there before her
had just two minutes ago been
one small step away from the
madhouse.
like a rock
through early evening
I
sit alone
listening to the sound of
the heater;
I fall into myself
like a rock dropped into some
ungrand canyon.
it hits bottom. I
lift my drink.
unfortunately
my hell is not any more hell
than the hell of a
fly.
that’s what makes it
difficult. and
nothing is less
profound than a
melancholy
drunk.
I must remember:
the death or the murder of a
drunk matters
less
than
nothing.
spider, on the wall:
why do you take
so long?
the waitress at the yogurt shop
is young, quite young,
and the boys are lined up on the bench
waiting for a table
as she waits on customers.
the boys say sly and
daring things to her
in very low voices.
they all want to
bed down with her
or
at least
get her
attention.
she hears the
whispered remarks,
really likes hearing them
but says,
again and again,
“shut up! oh, you shut up!”
it goes on and
on:
the boys continue and
she continues:
“oh, shut up!”
in a voice without
grace or melody
in a voice
without warmth or humor
in a voice
remarkably
ugly:
“oh, shut up now!”
but the eager boys
are not aware of her
tone of
voice
and the one who will
finally live with that
voice
is probably not yet sitting
there.
her husband of the
future
will finally understand
the horrible reality of
that voice
(remember,
the voice is the window
to the soul)
and he will think:
oh my god
oh my god
oh my god
what have I
done?
won’t
she
ever
shut up?
one out in the minor leagues
men on 2nd and 3rd.
first base was open.
one out.
we gave Parker an
intentional walk.
we had a 3- to- 2
lead.
last half of the
9th, Simpson on the
mound.
Tanner up.
Simpson let it go.
it was low and
inside.
Tanner tapped it
to our shortstop,
DeMarco.
perfect double play
ball.
DeMarco gloved it,
flipped it to Johnson
our 2b man.
Johnson touched 2nd
then stood there
holding the ball as
the runners were
steaming around
the bases.
I screamed at Johnson
from the dugout:
“DO SOMETHING WITH THE
GODDAMNED BALL!”
the whole stadium was
screaming.
Johnson just stood there
a funny look on his face
with the ball.
then
he fell forward
still holding the ball.
he was
stretched out there as
the winning run
scored.
the dugout emptied
as we ran
to Johnson.
we turned him
over.
he wasn’t moving.
he looked
dead.
the trainer took
his pulse and
looked at me.
then he started
mouth-to-mouth.
the announcer asked
if there was a
doctor in the
stands.
two of them came
down.
one of them
was drunk.
the tiny crowd started
coming
out on the field.
the ushers pushed
them back.
somebody took the
ball out of Johnson’s
hand.
they worked on him
for a long time.
there was a
camera flash.
then another.
then the doctor
stood up:
“it’s no good.
he’s gone.”
the stretcher
came out and
we loaded Johnson
onto the stretcher.
somebody threw a
warm-up
jacket
over his face.
the stadium was
almost deserted as
they carried Johnson
off the field
through
the dugout
and into
the locker room.
I didn’t go
in.
I took a cup of water
from the cooler
and
sat alone on the bench.
Toby the batboy
came over.
“what’s going to happen now, Mr.
Quinn?” he asked.
“our 2nd baseman is
dead, Toby.”
“who you going to play
there now?”
“I don’t think that’s
important right now,” I
told him.
“yes, it is, Mr. Quinn!
we’re 2 games out of
first place
going into September!”
“I’ll think of something,
Toby …”
then I got up and went
through the door
to the locker room,
Toby following right
behind.
the little girls hissed
since my last name was Fuch, he said to Raymond, you can
believe the school yard was
tough: they put itching
powder down my neck, threw gravel at me, stung me
with rubber bands in class, and outside they called
me names, well, one name mainly, over and over,
and on top of all that my parents were poor, I wore
cardboard in my shoes to fill in the holes in the
soles, my pants were patched, my shirts thread-
bare; and even my teachers ganged up
on me, they slammed my
palm with rulers and sent me to the principal’s office as
if I was really guilty of something;
and, of course, the abuse kept coming from my classmates;
I was stoned, beaten, pissed on;
the little girls hissed and stuck their tongues out
at me …
Fuch’s wife smiled sadly at Raymond: my poor darling husband had such
a terrible childhood!
(she was so beautiful it almost stunned one to look at
her.)
Fuch looked at Raymond: hey, your glass is empty.
yeah, said Raymond.
Fuch touched a button and the English butler silently
glided in. he nodded respectfully to Raymond and in his
beautiful accent asked, another drink, sir?
yes, please, Raymond answered.
the butler went off to prepare the drink.
what hurt most, of course, continued Fuch, was the name-