The Fan Man

  Stone angels dancing on the upraised bowl of the fountain, dripping with water. Beneath the stone angels is a stoned chick, laughing, long black hair, her dress soaking wet her tits belly ass showing. O Horse Badorties, this too is why you come to Earth, for EARTH CHICKS!

  Carrying satchel carrying umbrella, leaving fountain behind. I must not linger at this fountain or I will eat a hot dog from that little shack nearby, there, with mustard and sauerkraut. A Central Park hot dog, man, is instant ptomaine. However, to protect against putrification causing ptomaine, the hot dogs are wrapped in a plastic jacket. How wonderful, man, a plastic hot dog, I’d better have two of them, AT ONCE.

  “Gimme a… gimme… .” What is this I see, man. It is a plastic toy wind-wheel, man, of blue and white on a little stick, man. AN AUTOMATIC PERPETUAL FAN, MAN! “… one of these fans, man, make it two of them, man, thanks.” And now, man, as I walk along, with this wind-wheel attached into the back of my suit-jacket collar, the motion of my body actually produces a windstream against the delicate blades of the wind-wheels, man, and they are turning. Batteries not necessary, man, and if I run along the blades go faster and the pitch changes . . running, man, jogging with satchel umbrella and wind-wheel, man. Jogging, healthful invigorating jogging … slow down, man, stop jogging or you will collapse with a blood clot in the big toe, man.

  I’ve covered a lot of ground, man, and through the trees is the roof of the Central Park boathouse, man. I HAVE, IT, MAN! I WILL TAKE A LONG SLEEP IN A ROWBOAT, MAN, OUT ON THE LAKE, WITH NO ONE TO BOTHER ME!

  What an idea, man. I am going straight along to the boathouse, man, going to the ticket window, saying to the lady, “Give me a ticket, pleebe.” Make monkey-face, stick ears out, roll eyes up, hang tongue down. Ticket lady is sitting in ticket booth, half-asleep, man, and she wakes up suddenly into a Horse Badorties face and jumps, man, with a ticket. And as she hands it through the window, man, I slowly sink down beneath the window, and with only my hand showing I take the ticket and crawl away to the entrance to the ramp that leads to the boats, where I immediately straighten up into nautical carriage, man, for there, ahead, tending to the rowboats is one of the most important figures in the Puerto Rican Navy, Admiral Rodriguez, man, in his official white yachting cap from John’s Bargain Store.

  Commodore Schmuck salutes the Admiral, who returns the salute, and shows me to my boat, man.

  “Hang onto my umbrella a second, Admiral, while I crawl in, as I don’t want to drop anything in the water. Giant eels, man, live down there. OK, man, hand it over, thanks.”

  “Hokay, amigo, here you go,” says Admiral Rodriguez, giving the boat a little shove, man, and I am going out into the channel, manning the oars, man, making gentle ripples in the water and pulling away from land.

  Waves sparkle oars rise, fall, and as the boathouse slips away behind me, man, the roof gleaming in the sunlight, it seems to become a Chinese pagoda. Long ago, man, I was a Chinese boatman, skilled with oars, able to make a boat move fast. The old Chinese boatman vibes are taking over now, man, making the oars really work, moving the boat faster, churning up the water, splash splash … OH NO!

  “Stop the boat, man, hold everything. I have to return to the land and call a doctor. I just got a drop of this motherfucking stagnant poisoned water on my lip, man … arrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh !”

  Wiping mouth and tongue off on jacket sleeve like wild animal, man, biting at the wool, attempting to remove from my lips before it is ingested the drop of deadly Central Park lake water, man, which is more toxic than the venom of a black mamba, give me galloping typhoid, man. Spitting in the lake “Hock-tooooeeeeee, man!” Open satchel, dig down into dark depths find antiseptic solution, gargle immediately, full-strength.

  But what is worse, man, far worse than the terrible cramps and sudden mind lesions produced by this water, is the speaker of a transistor radio in the distance, through which Puerto Rican music is being broadcast, man. Dig down into satchel for Commodore Schmuck naval action earflap cap. Puerto Rican water music, man, cripple, drive insane. Everything is OK now, man. I am in the soundproof hat, and can resume gentle rowing up the channel. I’m getting tired, man, and my feet are getting cold, the poison must be spreading through my body. I had better administer the antidote. Out of my satchel, man, comes Doctor Badorties’ huge Ann Page Blue Cheese Dressing bottle, which is filled with clear spring water. Fitted into the neck of the bottle is a number four black rubber two-holed chemistry stopper. A chemist’s thistle tube, conveniently shaped like the bowl of a pipe, is passed through the number one hole of the number four stopper. Through the number two hole is fitted a mouthpiece hose. And out of the special Culpeeper’s herbalist pouch, I am taking a few sprigs of wild asparagus leaves, and sprinkling them in the thistle tube.

  And now, man, I am once again coming up with the award-winning superb-design perpetual Japanese Match. This small container, no bigger than a postage stamp, upon which the Ace of Spades is embossed, contains actual lighter fluid. By simply unscrewing this little knob I remove the match itself, and strike it against the abrasive surface of the Ace of Spades, producing healthful nonsulphurous fire to light the homemade Horse Badorties hookah.

  Scratch… scratch

  Total failure of ignition. Astronaut Badorties waits in painful anticipation while the ground crew scrambles around inside the satchel. Lift-off is then provided by old-fashioned polluting sulphurous matches which work instantly and lift Astronaut Badorties into outer spaced-out places, man. Floating, man, on Central Park lake.

  Now, man, in my sound-proof hat and relaxed brain, I am slipping down under the seat, man, and stretching out on the deck of the boat, man, and going to sleep.

  The oars are in, man, and the boat is gently rocking, drifting along wherever it cares to go, man. The gods will navigate it for me, man, and protect the innocent sleeper. To the tides of the holy stagnant pool, man, I commit myself. I am so tired, man, from losing my school bus and running through swamps and phoning all night and rowing out to the middle of this artificial motherfucking poisoned lake. Now, man, in total silence and peace, looking up to the bright soot-gray sky above, man, I am soaking up vital prana; the astral fluid of life, man, swims into my valuable precious falling-apart person.

  There seems to be a slight leak in this boat, man. It was dry when I entered it, but I feel water swirling around my Chinese-Japanese shoes. A minor acupuncture, man, of the Puerto Rican flagship. I cannot investigate it now. Commodore Schmuck is sinking into sleep, man, in order to gain strength for unknown battles to come.

  Chapter 13

  Commodore Schmuck Is Betrayed at the Bay of Crabs

  “Hey, Raoul, dere ees a boat floatin’ all eetself on de water.”

  “Come on, muchachos, les’ get dat boat an’ go for a ride!”

  “Eeet’s too far out. How we gon’ get eet?”

  “I’ll sweem out for eet.”

  “Hokay, hombre, muy bien.”

  Jump een de lake, sweem out for de boat. We de Hundred an’ First Street Knights, hombre, we sweem good, get a holt ob de rope hangin’ down from de fron’ ob de boat an’ bring her bock to shore.

  “Hokay, here eet ees. “

  “Come on, muchachos!”

  “Hey … wait a secon’, somebody ees een dees boat. Look, he layin’ een de bottom ob de boat.”

  “Eet’s hokay, he ees a heepie, he don’ mind eef we use hees boat.”

  Climbin’ een, we all climbin’ een de heepie’s boat. “Don’ wake heem up, muchachos, he look bery tired. Don’ step on heem. Come on, muchachos, all aboar’.”

  “Dees boat hob a leek een eet.”

  “Das’ alrigh’ …we can … take the oar, Jose.”

  “We got too many een dees boat, mon.”

  “Row hard, amigos, row!”

  “Hey, Raul, I tellin’ you, look at de boat, our boat she is takin’ a lot ob water… .”

  “Row, amigos, row!”

  “F
uck eet, mon, the fron’ ob dees boat ees goin’ under.”

  “She’s goeeng down… .”

  “Jump, muchachos, she ees seekeeng!”

  I’m having some kind of dream, man, that somebody is trying to push me down into the toilet bowl again, man, somebody trying to drown me. Fuck this dream, man, I’d better wake up. It must be time to leave my pad … man, WHAT’S GOING ON! Where am I, what, man, what?

  Green scummy water, man, all over me, and kids, man, all around … I’m in some kind of green dish, man … what is it, man, a Puerto Rican bathtub? There are trees, man, you’re in Central Park, man, and your boat is sinking. Quick, man, grab your satchel, there it goes.

  Like lightning, man, Commodore Schmuck grabs the Bardo of Death by the handle. Hang onto that satchel, man. Watch it, man, the umbrella is floating away. I’ve got it, man, I have saved it from instant disintegration in this water. The boat, man, is completely under, and I am standing in it, man, in three feet of poisoned water, man. I’ve always wondered how deep this fucking lake is.

  And now I’ve got to walk across the bottom of it, man, to shore. Step out of the sunken boat, man. Commodore Schmuck’s flagship has been sunk from under him. Walking, man, I am walking once again through muck and slime, man, across the bottom of the Central Park lake, man, which is filled with bottles and tin cans and creeping death weeds, man. How hideous, my afternoon nap has been ruined, man, in a most fiendish way. This lake water, man, will finish me. This much of it, man, would kill anything.

  Once, man, I saw a crab crawl out of this pond, and he was covered, man, with oily slime. Crawling along dazed, as I am now. This crab, man, was walking along, and he was TRYING TO CLIMB A TREE. Trying to get away from this motherfucking polluted water, man, which I have just been completely submerged in, man, swallowing countless mouthfuls. You should have seen the crab, man, trying to make it up the roots of the tree. Grab hold with his claw and lift himself up. I watched him all day, man. By sundown, he was halfway up the tree.

  And I am halfway to shore, man, dripping wet, and I have apparently lost my hearing, man. The immersion in the horrible waters of this lake, man, has rendered me totally deaf. The effect has been immediate, man, the water must have gotten down into my eardrums. Perhaps I can shake some of it . . Man? I AM WEARING MY COMMODORE SCHMUCK HAT! I’M NOT DEAF?

  No, man, you can hear. You will not have to produce your symphonies in total silence, man. Thank goodness, man, that even though all other parts of my body, from asshole to elbow, were completely soaked with water, my alimentary ear canals remained sealed. In a few hours, man, there will be nothing left of me but two ears walking across Central Park.

  Chapter 14

  The Fan Man in the House of the Dead

  I am standing on the shore, dripping wet, man. I must therefore crawl up through these bushes, man, and disrobe. Off with my brand-new suit, man, which I am wringing out and hanging on a tree limb, man, in the sun.

  Here comes a cop, man, and he sees my suit hanging out to dry, and he is coming over to the bushes in which I am hiding my naked person.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Look, man, I fell in the fucking lake with my new suit on, man, and I’m trying to dry it out.”

  “You fell in the lake? How did that happen?”

  “I slipped, man. I was standing on a rock looking at a fucking fish and I went down.”

  He feels my clothes, man, just to make sure. “Yeah, they’re wet all right, aren’t they?”

  “It’s a drip-dry suit, man, it’ll be dry in no time.”

  “Well, keep out of sight.”

  “Right, man, I’m hiding in these bushes, man, thanks.”

  Cop, man, walking off, twirling his Billy stick. Fortunately, man, he did not want to look inside my soaking wet satchel, man, wherein are traveling various organic health-food materials which do nor bear the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

  My suit is hardly dry, man, but I cannot hang around in these bushes all day, man. I’ve got to put it on again, slightly damp. That’s how it goes, man. It’s what I get for coming to Central Park, man, instead of going to Van Cortlandt Park.

  All right, man, I am once again walking along in my soaking suit with my squeaking water-shoes, dragging my way across the park, toward NBC. There is a bird, man, hopping along, talking to himself. I will freak him out, man, make birdsong.

  “Criiiiiiiccccccckkkkkkk, criiiiicccck, tweeeeeeee,” says the bird, and Horse Badorties says

  “Criiiiccccccckkkkkkk, criiiiicccck, tweeeeeeee.”

  Bird turn around, look around, spooked, wondering where is that sound coming from, man. Is there some other bird around?

  It is only me, Horse Badorties, running through his bird-lifetimes. I must, man, get everyone in the Love Chorus to make flapping motions with their arms. To resurrect the bird memory. That is definite.

  Someday, man, I will get myself together, flap my arms, and split the cosmos. Go into nirvana, man, get me some rest on the big white couch of bliss. Not today though, man, today I must go to NBC.

  But first, man, I must sit down on this isolated park bench, man, flung up here in the bushes by some thoughtful juvenile delinquent. And even though my brief case is filled with water, fortunately, man, my herbal leaves and twigs are all contained in handy plastic bags recommended by Good Housekeeping, man, and hermetically sealed against the onslaughts of the Puerto Rican frogmen who tried to drown me. I have dry smoke, man, and now that I am in this quiet little spot, let me roll a tremendous joint of banana flakes in licorice paper, and though it is as big as a gorilla’s finger, smoke it all completely entirely down to the last stub-end, which I shall swallow. And then, fortifed by the life-giving brain-fog of banana smoke, I rise.

  But before I rise, man, why not roll still another one, to make sure I’m really stoned, because sometimes, man, in my condition, it is hard to tell.

  Sprinkle flakes into paper, make cylinders of fingers, roll perfect joint, and light.

  I am still sitting, man, not walking. Walk, Horse Badorties, walk in your wet suit. OK, man, I’m going, I’m moving, the big bird is floating down the day. I seem to be coming out of the park, man, as well as out of my mind. What, man, does that sign say …

  76th Street

  Jesus, man, what am I doing up here, NBC is down in Rockefeller Center. But there ahead of me, man, is the Museum of Natural History. Let’s go look at the stuffed animals.

  Go up the steps of the museum and enter the dark building into dark hallway, where a herd of old gray elephants are walking along tall, man, with glass eyeballs.

  Look, man, they have a stuffed gorilla family here, standing in a fantastically vivid life-like arrangement of foliage and rocks to simulate an African mountain range. The grass slopes down, and beyond it, curving in incredibly real fashion is a painting of great and further distances, the African plains. A gorilla is standing in his garden of Eden, man, looking down the hillside. Couple little baby gorillas sitting around fucking with some berries and the old lady gorilla is sitting in the doorway with her saggy gorilla tits. And coming up the hill through the far-away jungle trees of this marvelously accurate and beautifully arranged diorama of jungle life is a natural biologist scientist collector, man, with his net, and he is coming to stuff the apes and take them back to his weird house.

  Faint smell of decay in the air. Hides must give off a little stink every day. But dig, man, the sound of the great ventilators, making a tremendous hum in the background. Man, I must find the source of that sound. Here’s the office of the curator, man, go directly in. Secretary sitting at a desk, looks up. “Yes, may I help you?”

  “Fan Man. Here to repair the fan. Some trouble with the ventilator, we received a call at the main office.”

  “Oh, let me see … that would be maintenance. I’ll ring them … hello… this is the curator’s office. There’s a fan repairman up here . There’s some trouble with the ventilator … .”


  “The pitch is slightly off, baby. We can always tell this sort of thing by the sound it makes.”

  “Very good, thank you. A guard will be here in a few minutes, sir, to take you.”

  “Thanks you so much.”

  “I’ve noticed it has been a bit stuffy in here today.”

  “Yes, the pitch is probably slightly off in the main blade.” Dig into satchel, bring out tuning fork, strike on kneecap, hold it up to secretary’s ear, give her A440 vibrations per second in her ear canal. “There, baby, that’s the proper pitch.”

  “How interesting. You tune it like … a musical instrument?”

  “Exactly, there is an amazing correspondence between fans and musical instruments, excluding, of course, the violin.”

  “Here is the guard.”

  “You called, Miss Winston?”

  “Yes, would you take this gentleman to … where exactly do you have to do your work, sir?”

  “At the main unit … the big fan, man, it must be in the basement somewhere.”

  “Right, I know where you mean. Just follow me, sir.”

  Repairman Badorties and the guard walk down the hall, man, and down some steps, and down another hall, and open a door marked

  Staff Only

  and go down some more steps into the sub-basement of the lonely house of death, man, into the cold stone cellar, man, where the hum is growing louder, man. The great roaring drone of the supreme fan is exciting my eardrums to the visionary state, man. Man, what a sound, open the mind completely out, tremendous vibrating drone:

  “BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMMNNNNNN.’’

  And there it is ahead of us, man. Enormous, the great Museum Fan, man, with numerous ducts connecting it to the entire building. This is the Chief, man, speaking his great word to the dead:

  “BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMMNNNNNN.’’