“The reading went all right,” I said.
We drove north up Alvarado. Then to Glendale Boulevard. Everything was good. What I hated was that someday everything would dwindle to zero, the loves, the poems, the gladiolas. Finally we’d be stuffed with dirt like a cheap taco.
Ann pulled into the driveway. We got up, went up the steps, opened the door and the dog leaped all over us. The moon stood up, the house smelled of lint and roses, the dog leaped upon me. I pulled his ears, punched him in the belly, his eyes opened wide and he grinned.
I LOVE YOU, ALBERT
Louie was sitting in the Red Peacock with a hangover. When the bartender brought him his drink he said, “There’s only one other person I’ve seen in this town who’s as crazy as you are.” “Yeh?” said Louie, “that’s nice. That’s damned nice.” “And she’s here right now,” continued the barkeep. “Yeh?” said Louie. “She’s the one down there in the blue dress with the beautiful body. But nobody will go near her because she’s crazy.” “Yeh?” said Louie.
Louie picked up his drink and walked over and sat on the stool next to the girl. “Hello,” said Louie. “Hello,” she said. Then they sat there side by side for quite a while without saying another word to each other.
Myra (that was her name) suddenly reached behind the bar and came up with a full mix bottle. She raised it over her head and made as if to throw it into the mirror behind the bar. Louie grabbed her arm and said, “No, no, no, no, my dear!” After that the bartender suggested that Myra leave and when she did Louie left with her.
Myra and Louie picked up three fifths of cheap whiskey and got on the bus going to Louie’s place, The Delsey Arms Apartments. Myra took off one of her shoes (high-heeled) and attempted to murder the bus driver. Louie restrained Myra with one arm and clutched the three fifths of whiskey with the other. They got off the bus and walked toward Louie’s place.
They got in the elevator and Myra began pressing the buttons. The elevator went up, it went down, it went up, it stopped, and Myra kept asking, “Where do you live?” And Louie kept repeating, “Fourth floor, apartment number four.”
Myra kept pushing buttons while the elevator went up and down. “Listen,” she finally said, “we’ve been on this thing for years. I’m sorry but I’ve got to piss.” “O.K.,” said Louie, “let’s make a deal. You let me work the buttons and I’ll let you piss.”
“Done,” she said, and she pulled her panties down, squatted and did the deed. As he watched it trickle across the floor Louie punched the “4” button. They arrived. By then Myra had straightened, pulled up her panties, and was ready to exit.
They went inside Louie’s place and began opening bottles. Myra was best at that. They sat facing each other across 10 or 12 feet of space. Louie sat in the chair by the window and Myra sat on the couch. Myra had a fifth and Louie had a fifth and they began.
Fifteen or 20 minutes passed and then Myra noticed some empty bottles on the floor near the couch. She began picking them up, squinting her eyes and throwing the empty bottles at Louie’s head. She missed with all of them. Some of them went out the open window behind Louie’s head; some of them hit the wall and broke; others bounced off the wall, miraculously not breaking. These Myra retrieved and winged at him again. Soon Myra was out of bottles.
Louie got out of his chair and climbed onto the roof outside his window. He walked about gathering up the bottles. When he had an armload he climbed back through the window and brought them to Myra, set them at her feet. Then he sat down, lifted his fifth and continued to drink. The bottles began coming at him again. He had another drink, then another drink, then he remembered no more…
In the morning Myra awakened first, climbed out of bed, put on coffee, and brought Louie a coffee royal. “Come on,” she told him, “I want you to meet my friend Albert. Albert is a very special person.”
Louie drank his coffee royal, then they made love. It was good. Louie had a very large knot over his left eye. He got out of bed and dressed. “O.K.,” he said, “let’s go.”
They took the elevator down, walked to Alvarado Street and caught the bus running north. They rode along quietly for five minutes and then Myra reached up and pulled the cord. They got off, walked half a block, then entered an old brown apartment house. They walked up one flight of stairs, around a bend in the the hall, and Myra stopped at Room 203. She knocked. Footsteps could be heard and the door opened. “Hello, Albert.” “Hello, Myra.” “Albert, I want you to meet Louie. Louie, this is Albert.” They shook hands.
Albert had four hands. He also had four arms to go with them. The top two arms had sleeves and the bottom two arms hung out of holes cut in the shirt.
“Come on in,” said Albert. In one of his hands Albert held a drink, a scotch and water. In another hand he held a cigarette. In the third hand he held a newspaper. The fourth hand, the one that had shook Louie’s hand, was not occupied with anything. Myra went to the kitchen, got a glass, poured Louie a shot from the bottle in her purse. Then she sat down and began to drink out of the bottle.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Sometimes you just hit the bottom of terror, you give up, and you still don’t die,” said Louie.
“Albert raped the fat lady,” Myra explained. “You should have seen him with all those arms around her. You were a sight, Albert.”
Albert groaned and looked depressed.
“Albert drank himself out of the circus, raped and drank himself right out of the god-damned circus. Now he’s on relief.”
“Somehow I could never fit into society. I am unfond of humanity. I have no desire to conform, no sense of loyalty, no real purpose.”
Albert walked over to the telephone. He held the telephone in one hand, the Daily Racing Form in the second hand, a cigarette in the third and a drink in the fourth.
“Jack? Yeh. This is Albert. Listen, I want Crunchy Main, two win in the first. Give me Blazing Lord, two across in the fourth. Hammerhead Justice, five win in the seventh. And give me Noble Flake, five win and five place in the ninth.”
Albert hung up. “My body gnaws at me from one side and my spirit gnaws at me from the other.”
“How you doing at the track, Albert?” asked Myra.
“I’m 40 bucks ahead. I got a new play. I figured it out one night when I couldn’t sleep. The whole thing opened up to me like a book. If I get any better they won’t take my action. Of course I could always go to the track and place my bets there, but…”
“But what, Albert?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake…”
“What do you mean, Albert?”
“I MEAN PEOPLE STARE! FOR CHRIST’S SAKE DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“Sorry, Albert.”
“Don’t be sorry. I don’t want your pity!”
“All right. No pity.”
“I oughta slap the shit out of you for being so dumb.”
“I’ll bet you could slap the shit out of me. All those hands.”
“Don’t tempt me,” said Albert.
He finished his drink and walked over and mixed himself another. Then he sat down. Louie hadn’t said anything. He felt that he should say something.
“You oughta get into boxing, Albert. Those two extra hands—you’d be a terror.”
“Don’t be funny, asshole.”
Myra poured Louie another drink. They sat around not talking for a while. Then Albert looked up. He looked at Myra. “You fucking this guy?”
“No, I’m not, Albert. I love you, you know that.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“You know I love you, Albert.” Myra walked over and sat on Albert’s lap. “You’re so touchy. I don’t pity you, Albert, I love you.”
She kissed him.
“I love you, too, baby,” said Albert.
“More than any other woman?”
“More than all the other women!”
They kissed again. It was a terribly long kiss. That is, it was a terribly long kis
s for Louie who sat there with his drink. He reached up and touched the large knot above his left eye. Then his bowels twisted a bit and he went to the bathroom and had a long slow crap.
When he came out Myra and Albert were standing in the center of the room, kissing. Louie sat down and picked up Myra’s bottle and watched. While the two top arms held Myra in an embrace the bottom two hands lifted Myra’s dress up to her waist and then worked inside her panties. As the panties came down Louie took another drag from the bottle, set it on the floor, got up, walked to the door, and walked out.
Back at the Red Peacock Louie went to his favorite stool and sat down. The barkeep walked up.
“Well, Louie, how did you make out?”
“Make out?”
“With the lady.”
“With the lady?”
“You left together, man. Did you get her?”
“No, not really…
“What went wrong?”
“What went wrong?”
“Yes, what went wrong?”
“Give me a whiskey sour, Billy.”
Billy walked over and fixed the drink. He brought it back to Louie. Neither of them spoke. Billy walked down to the other end of the bar and stood there. Louie lifted his drink and drank half of it. It was a good drink. He lit a cigarette and held it in one hand. He held the drink in the other hand. The sun was coming in through the door from the street. There was no smog outside. It was going to be a nice day. It was going to be a nicer day than yesterday.
WHITE DOG HUNCH
Henry took the pillow and bunched it behind his back and waited. Louise came in with toast, marmalade and coffee. The toast was buttered.
“Are you sure you don’t want a couple of soft-boiled eggs?” she asked.
“No, it’s O.K. This is fine.”
“You should have a couple of eggs.”
“All right, then.”
Louise left the bedroom. He’d been up earlier to go to the bathroom and noticed his clothes had been hung up. Something Lita would never do. And Louise was an excellent fuck. No children. He loved the way she did things, softly, carefully. Lita was always on the attack—all hard edges. When Louise came back with the eggs he asked her, “What was it?”
“What was what?”
“You even peeled the eggs. I mean, why did your husband divorce you?”
“Oh, wait,” she said, “the coffee is boiling!” and she ran from the room.
He could listen to classical music with her. She played the piano. She had books: The Savage God by Alvarez; The Life of Picasso; E. B. White; e. e. cummings; T. S. Eliot; Pound; Ibsen, and on and on. She even had nine of his own books. Maybe that was the best part.
Louise returned and got into bed, put her plate on her lap. “What went wrong with your marriage?”
“Which one? There’ve been five!”
“The last. Lita.”
“Oh. Well, unless Lita was in motion she didn’t think anything was happening. She liked dancing and parties, her whole life revolved around dancing and parties. She liked what she called ‘getting high.’ That meant men. She claimed I restricted her ‘highs.’ She said I was jealous.”
“Did you restrict her?”
“I suppose so, but I tried not to. During the last party I went into the backyard with my beer and let her carry on. There was a houseful of men, I could hear her in there squealing, ‘Yeehooo! Yee Hoo! Yee Hoo!’ I suppose she was just a natural country girl.”
“You could have danced too.”
“I suppose so. Sometimes I did. But they turn the stereo up so high that you can’t think. I went out into the yard. I went back for some beer and there was a guy kissing her under the stairway. I walked out until they were finished, then went back again for the beer. It was dark but I thought it had been a friend and later I asked him what he was doing under the stairway there.”
“Did she love you?”
“She said she did.”
“You know, kissing and dancing isn’t so bad.”
“I suppose not. But you’d have to see her. She had a way of dancing as if she were offering herself as a sacrifice. For rape. It was very effective. The men loved it. She was 33 years old with two children.”
“She didn’t realize you were a solitary. Men have different natures.”
“She never considered my nature. Like I say, unless she was in motion, or turning on, she didn’t think anything was happening. Otherwise she was bored. ‘Oh, this bores me or that bores me. Eating breakfast with you bores me. Watching you write bores me. I need challenges.’”
“That doesn’t seem completely wrong.”
“I suppose not. But you know, only boring people get bored. They have to prod themselves continually in order to feel alive.”
“Like your drinking, for instance?”
“Yes, like my drinking. I can’t face life straight on either.”
“Was that all there was to the problem?”
“No, she was a nymphomaniac but didn’t know it. She claimed I satisfied her sexually but I doubt if I satisfied her spiritual nymphomania. She was the second nymph I had lived with. She had fine qualities aside from that, but her nymphomania was embarrassing. Both to me and to my friends. They’d take me aside and say, ‘What the hell’s the matter with her?’ And I’d say, ‘Nothing, she’s just a country girl.’”
“Was she?”
“Yes. But the other part was embarrassing.”
“More toast?”
“No, this is fine.”
“What was embarrassing?”
“Her behavior. If there was another man in the room she’d sit as close to him as possible. He would duck down to put out a cigarette in an ashtray on the floor, she’d duck down too. Then he’d turn his head to look at something and she’d do the same thing.”
“Was it a coincidence?”
“I used to think so. But it happened too often. The man would get up to walk across the room and she’d get up and walk right alongside of him. Then when he walked back across the room she’d follow right by his side. The incidents were continuous and numerous, and like I say, embarrassing to both me and my friends. And yet I’m sure she didn’t know what she was doing, it all came from the subconscious.”
“When I was a girl there was a woman in the neighborhood with this 15-year-old daughter. The daughter was uncontrollable. The mother would send her out for a loaf of bread and she’d come back eight hours later with the bread but meanwhile she would have fucked six men.”
“I guess the mother should have baked her own bread.”
“I suppose so. The girl couldn’t help herself. Whenever she saw a man she’d start to jiggle all over. The mother finally had her spayed.”
“Can they do that?”
“Yes, but you have to go through all kinds of legal procedures. There was nothing else to do with her. She’d have been pregnant all her life.
“Do you have anything against dancing?” Louise continued.
“Most people dance for joy, out of good feeling. She crossed over into dirty areas. One of her favorite dances was The White Dog Hunch. A guy would wrap both his legs around her leg and hump her like a male dog in heat. Another of her favorites was The Drunk Dance. She and her partner would end up on the floor rolling over on top of each other.”
“She said you were jealous of her dancing?”
“That was the word she used most often: jealous.”
“I used to dance in high school.”
“Yeah? Listen, thanks for breakfast.”
“It’s all right. I had a partner in high school. We were the best dancers in school. He had three balls; I thought it was a sign of masculinity.”
“Three balls?”
“Yes, three balls. Anyhow, we really knew how to dance. I’d signal by touching him on the wrist, then we’d both leap and turn in the air, very high, and land on our feet. One time we were dancing, I touched his wrist and I made my leap and turn, but I didn’t land on my feet. I landed on my a
ss. He put his hand over his mouth and stared down at me and said, ‘Oh, good heavens!’ and he walked off. He didn’t pick me up. He was a homosexual. We never danced again.”
“Do you have something against three-balled homosexuals?”
“No, but we never danced again.”
“Lita, she was really dance-obsessed. She’d go into strange bars and ask men to dance with her. Of course, they would. They thought she was an easy fuck. I don’t know if she did or didn’t. I suppose that sometimes she did. The trouble with men who dance or hang out in bars is that their perception is on a parallel with the tape worm.”
“How did you know that?”
“They’re caught in the ritual.”
“What ritual?”
“The ritual of misdirected energy.”
Henry got up and began to dress. “Kid, I got to get going.”
“What is it?”
“I just have to get some work done. I’m supposed to be a writer.”
“There’s a play by Ibsen on tv tonight. 8:30. Will you come over?”
“Sure. I left that pint of scotch. Don’t drink it all.”
Henry got into his clothes and went down the stairway and got into his car and drove to his place and his typewriter. Second floor rear. Every day as he typed, the woman downstairs would beat on her ceiling with the broom. He wrote the hard way, it had always been the hard way: The White Dog Hunch…
Louise phoned at 5:30 p.m. She’d been at the scotch. She was drunk. She slurred her words. She rambled. The reader of Thomas Chatterton and D. H. Lawrence. The reader of nine of his books.
“Henry?”
“Yes?”
“Oh, something marvelous has happened!”
“Yes?”
“This black boy came to see me. He’s beautiful! He’s more beautiful than you…”
“Of course.”
“…more beautiful than you and I.”
“Yes.”
“He got me so excited! I’m about to go out of my mind!”
“Yes.”
“You don’t mind?”