Hot Water Music

  “Another ten seconds,” said Tony.

  “You might as well clothe yourself too, my man,” said Damion looking down at Tony.

  “Mother,” said Tony, “I happen to live here. I don’t know who let you in. But I figure if I want to lay here balls naked, I’ve got a right.”

  “Hurry, Meg,” said Damion, “I will take you out of this nest of sin.”

  “Listen, mother,” said Tony, getting up and slipping into his jocks, “your sister wanted it and I wanted it and that’s two votes to one.”

  “Ta-ta,” said Damion.

  “Ta-ta, nothing,” said Tony. “She was about to get her rocks off and I was about to get my rocks off and you come bursting in here and interfere with a decent democratic decision, stopping a good old-fashioned horse-fuck!”

  “Pack your things, Meg. I’m taking you home immediately.”

  “Yes, Damion!”

  “I got a good mind to bust you up, fuck-killer!”

  “Please restrain yourself. I abhor violence!”

  Tony swung. Damion was gone.

  “Over here, Tony.” Damion was standing over by the bathroom door. Tony rushed him. He vanished again.

  “Over here, Tony.” Damion was standing on top of the bed, shoes and all.

  Tony rushed across the room, leaped, found nothing, flew over the bed and fell to the floor. He got up and looked around. “Damion! Oh, Damion, you cheap-ass, tinhorn, shoe-factory Superman, where are you? Oh, Damion! Here, Damion! Come to me, Damion!”

  Tony felt the blow on the back of his neck. There was a flash of red and the faint sound of one trumpet playing. Then he fell forward on the rug.

  It was the telephone that brought him to consciousness some time later. He managed to get to the night stand where the phone sat, lifted the receiver and slumped down on the bed.

  “Tony?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is this Tony?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Dolly.”

  “Hey, Dolly, whatcha say, Dolly?”

  “Don’t be funny, Tony. Mother died.”

  “Mother?”

  “Yes, my mother. Tonight.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll stay for the funeral. I’ll be home after the funeral.”

  Tony hung up. He saw the morning paper on the floor. He picked it up and stretched out on the bed. The war in the Falklands was still on. Both sides charged violations of this and that. There was still firing. Wouldn’t that god damned war ever end?

  Tony got up and walked into the kitchen. He found some salami and liverwurst in the refrigerator. He made a salami and liverwurst sandwich with hot mustard, relish, onion and tomato. He found one bottle of Tuborg left. He drank the Tuborg and ate the salami and liverwurst sandwich at the breakfastnook table. Then he lit a cigarette and sat there thinking, well, maybe the old lady left a little money, that would be nice, that would be damned nice. A man deserved a little luck after a rough night like this.

  SOME MOTHER

  Eddie’s mother had horseteeth and I did too and I remember once we walked up a hill together on the way to the store and she said, “Henry, we both need braces for our teeth. We look awful!” I walked proudly up the hill with her and she had on a tight yellow print dress, flowered, and she had on high heels and she wiggled and her heels went click, click, click on the cement. I thought, I’m walking with Eddie’s mother and she’s walking with me and we’re walking up the hill together. That was all—I walked into the store to buy a loaf of bread for my parents and she purchased her things. That was all.

  I liked to go to Eddie’s place. His mother always sat in a chair with a drink in her hand and she crossed her legs real high and you could see where the stockings ended and where the flesh began. I liked Eddie’s mother, she was a real lady. When I walked in she’d say, “Hi, Henry!” and smile and she wouldn’t pull her skirt down. Eddie’s father would say hello too. He was a big guy and he’d be sitting there with a drink in his hand too. Jobs weren’t easy to get in 1933 and besides, Eddie’s father couldn’t work. He’d been an aviator in World War I and had been shot down. He had wires in his arms instead of bone, and so he sat there and drank with Eddie’s mother. It was dark in there where they were drinking but Eddie’s mother laughed often.

  Eddie and I made model airplanes, cheap balsa wood jobs. They wouldn’t fly, we just moved them through the air with our hands. Eddie had a Spad and I had a Fokker. We’d seen “Hell’s Angels” with Jean Harlow. I couldn’t see that Jean Harlow was any sexier than Eddie’s mother. Of course, I didn’t talk about Eddie’s mother to Eddie. Then I noticed that Eugene started coming over. Eugene was another guy with a Spad but I could talk about Eddie’s mother to him. When we got the chance. We had some good dogfights—two Spads against a Fokker. I did the best I could but usually I got shot down. Whenever I got into a real bad spot I’d pull an Immelman. We read the old flying magazines, Flying Aces was best. I even wrote some letters to the editor which he answered. The Immelman, he wrote me, was almost impossible. The stress on the wings was just too great. But sometimes I had to use the Immelman, especially with a guy on my tail. It usually tore my wings off and I had to bail out.

  When we got the chance away from Eddie we’d talk about Eddie’s mother.

  “Jesus, she’s got some legs.”

  “And she doesn’t mind showing them.”

  “Watch out, here comes Eddie.”

  Eddie had no idea we were talking about his mother that way. I was a little ashamed of it but I couldn’t help it. I certainly didn’t want him to think of my mother that way. Of course, my mother didn’t look like that. Nobody else’s mother looked like that. Maybe those horseteeth had something to do with it. I mean, you’d look and see the horseteeth and they were a bit yellow and then you’d look down and see those legs crossed high, one foot flicking and kicking. Yes, I had horseteeth too.

  Well, Eugene and I kept going over there and having the dogfights and I’d do my Immelmans and my wings would get ripped off. Although we had another game and Eddie played that one too. We were stunt flyers and racers. We’d go out and take big chances but somehow we always made it back. Often we landed in our own front yards. We each had a house and we each had a wife and our wives would be waiting for us. We’d describe how our wives would be dressed. They didn’t wear much. Eugene’s wore the least. In fact, she had a dress with a big hole cut right into the front of it. She’d meet Eugene at the door that way. My wife wasn’t quite that bold, but she didn’t wear much either. We all made love all the time. We made love to our wives all the time. They just couldn’t get enough. While we were out stunting and racing and risking our lives they’d be in those houses waiting and waiting for us. And they just loved us, they didn’t love anybody else. Sometimes we’d try to forget about them and go back to the dogfights. It was like Eddie said: when we were talking about women all we did was lay on the grass and we didn’t do anything else. The most we would do, Eddie would say, “Hey, I got one!” And then I’d roll off my belly and show him mine and then Eugene would show his. That’s how most of our afternoons went. Eddie’s mother and father would be in there drinking and once in a while we’d hear Eddie’s mother laugh.

  One day Eugene and I went over there and we hollered for Eddie and Eddie didn’t come out. “Hey, Eddie, for Christ’s sake, come on out!” Eddie didn’t come out.

  “Something’s wrong in there,” Eugene said, “I know there’s something wrong in there.”

  “Maybe somebody got murdered.”

  “We’d better look in there.”

  “You think we should?”

  “We’d better.”

  The screen door pulled open and we walked in. It was as dark as usual. Then we heard a single word:

  “Shit!”

  Eddie’s mother was lying on the bed in the bedroom and she was drunk. Her legs were up and her dress had fallen way back. Eugene grabbed my arm. “Jesus, look at that!”

  It look
ed good, my god it looked good but I was too scared to appreciate it. Suppose somebody came in and found us there looking? Her dress was way back and she was drunk, those thighs exposed, you could almost see the panties.

  “Come on, Eugene, let’s get out of here!”

  “No, let’s look. I want to look at her. Look at all that showing!”

  It reminded me of the time I was hitchhiking and a woman picked me up. She had her skirt up high around her waist, well, almost up around her waist. I looked away, I looked down, and I was scared. She just talked to me as I looked through the windshield and I answered her questions, “Where are you going?” “Nice day, isn’t it?” But I was scared. I didn’t know what to do but I was afraid that if I did it, there’d be trouble, that she’d scream or call the police. So now and then I just sneaked a look and then I turned my eyes away. She finally let me out.

  I was scared about Eddie’s mother too.

  “Listen, Eugene, I’m leaving.”

  “She’s drunk, she doesn’t even know we’re here.”

  “Son of a bitch left,” she said from the bed. “Left and took the kid, my baby…”

  “She’s talking,” I said.

  “She’s knocked out,” said Eugene, “she doesn’t know what the hell.”

  He moved toward the bed. “Watch this.”

  He took her skirt and pulled it further back. He pulled it back so you could see the panties. They were pink.

  “Eugene, I’m leaving!”

  “Chicken!”

  Eugene just stood there staring at her thighs and panties. He stood there a long time. Then he took out his cock. I heard Eddie’s mother moan. She shifted on the bed just a little. Eugene moved closer. Then he touched her thigh with the end of his cock. She moaned again. Then Eugene spurted. He shot his sperm all over her thigh and there seemed to be plenty of it. You could see it running down her leg. Then Eddie’s mother said, “Shit!” and she suddenly sat up in bed. Eugene ran past me out the door and I turned and ran too. Eugene ran into the icebox in the kitchen, bounced off and jumped out the screen door. I followed him and we ran down the street. We ran all the way to my house, down the driveway, and we ran into the garage and pulled the doors shut.

  “You think she saw us?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I shot all over her pink panties.”

  “You’re crazy. What’d you do it for?”

  “I got hot. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “We’ll go to jail.”

  “You didn’t do anything. I shot all over her leg.”

  “I was watching.”

  “Listen,” said Eugene, “I think I’ll go home.”

  “All right, go on.”

  I watched him walk up the driveway and then cross the street to his place. I walked out of the garage. I walked through the back porch and into my bedroom and I sat there and waited. Nobody was home. I went into the bathroom and locked the door and I thought about Eddie’s mother lying on the bed like that. Only I imagined I got her pink panties off and I got it in. And she liked it…

  I waited the rest of the afternoon and I waited all through dinner for something to happen but nothing happened. I went to my bedroom after dinner and sat there and waited. Then it was time to go to sleep and I lay there in bed and I waited. I heard my father snoring in the other room and I still waited. Then I slept.

  The next day was Saturday and I saw Eugene on his front lawn with a beebee gun. There were two large palm trees in front of his house and he was trying to kill some of the sparrows who lived up there. He’d already gotten two of them. They had three cats and every time one of the sparrows fell to the grass, wings flopping, one of the cats would rush up and scoop him off.

  “Nothing’s happened,” I said to Eugene.

  “If it hasn’t happened by now, it won’t,” he said. “I should have fucked her. I’m sorry now I didn’t fuck her.”

  He got another sparrow and down it came and a very fat grey cat with greenyellow eyes picked it up and was off with it behind the hedge. I walked back across the street to my place. My old man was waiting on the front porch. He looked angry. “Listen, I want you to get busy mowing the lawn! Now!”

  I walked to the garage and pulled out the mower. First I mowed the driveway, then I went out to the front lawn. The mower was stiff and old and it was hard work. My old man stood there, looking angry, watching me, as I pushed the mower through the tangled grass.

  SCUM GRIEF

  The poet Victor Valoff was not a very good poet. He had a local reputation, was liked by the ladies and supported by his wife. He was continually giving readings at local bookstores and he was often heard on the Public Radio Station. He read in a loud and dramatic voice but the pitch never varied. Victor was always at climax. That’s what attracted the ladies, I guess. Certain of his lines, if taken separately, seemed to have power, but when all the lines were considered as a whole, you knew that Victor was saying nothing, only saying it loudly.

  But Vicki, like most ladies, being easily charmed by fools, insisted upon hearing Valoff read. It was a hot Friday night in a Feminist-Lesbian-Revolutionary bookshop. No admission. Valoff read for free. And there would be a display of his art work after the reading. His art work was very modern. A stroke or two, usually red, and a bit of an epigram in a contrasting color. Some piece of wisdom would be inscribed on it like:

  Green heaven come home to me,

  I weep grey, gray, grey, gray…

  Valoff was intelligent. He knew there were two ways to spell grey.

  Photos of Tim Leary hung about. IMPEACH REAGAN signs. I didn’t mind the IMPEACH REAGAN signs. Valoff rose and walked to the platform, a half bottle of beer in his hand.

  “Look,” said Vicki, “look at that face! How he has suffered!”

  “Yeah,” I said, “and now I’m going to suffer.”

  Valoff did have a fairly interesting face—compared to most poets. But compared to most poets almost everybody has.

  Victor Valoff began:

  “East of the Suez of my heart

  begins a buzzing buzzing buzzing

  sombre still, still sombre

  and suddenly Summer comes home

  straight on through like a

  Quarterback sneak on the one yard line

  of my heart!”

  Victor screamed the last line and as he did so somebody near me said, “Beautiful!” It was a local feminist poet who had grown tired of blacks and now fucked a doberman in her bedroom. She had braided red hair, dull eyes, and played a mandolin while she read her work. Most of her work involved something about a dead baby’s footprint in the sand. She was married to a doctor who was never around (at least he had the good sense not to attend poetry readings). He gave her a large allowance to support her poetry and to feed the doberman.

  Valoff continued:

  “Docks and ducks and derivative day

  Ferment behind my forehead

  in a most unforgiving way

  o, in a most unforgiving way.

  I sway through the light and darkness…”

  “I’ve got to agree with him there,” I told Vicki.

  “Please be quiet,” she answered.

  “With one thousand pistols and one

  thousand hopes

  I step onto the porch of my mind

  to murder one thousand Popes!”

  I found my half pint, uncapped it and took a good hit.

  “Listen,” said Vicki, “you always get drunk at these readings. Can’t you contain yourself?”

  “I get drunk at my own readings,” I said. “I can’t stand my stuff either.”

  “Gummed mercy,” Valoff went on, “that’s what we are, gummed mercy, gummed gummed gummed mercy…”

  “He’s going to say something about a raven,” I said.

  “Gummed mercy,” continued Valoff, “and the raven forevermore…”

  I laughed. Valoff recognized the laugh. He looked down at me. “Ladies and gentlemen,??
? he said, “in the audience tonight we have the poet Henry Chinaski.”

  Little hisses were heard. They knew me. “Sexist pig!” “Drunk!” “Motherfucker!” I took another drink. “Please continue, Victor,” I said. He did.

  “…conditioned under the hump of valor

  the ersatz imminent piddling rectangle is

  no more than a gene in Genoa

  a quadruplet Quetzalcoatal

  and the Chink cries bittersweet and barbaric

  into her muff!”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Vicki, “but what’s he talking about?”

  “He’s talking about eating pussy.”

  “I thought so. He’s a beautiful man.”

  “I hope he eats pussy better than he writes.”

  “grief, christ, my grief,

  that scum grief,

  stars and stripes of grief,

  waterfalls of grief

  tides of grief,

  grief at discount

  everywhere…”

  “‘That scum grief,’” I said, “I like that.”

  “He’s stopped talking about eating pussy?”

  “Yes, now he says he doesn’t feel good.”

  “…a Baker’s dozen, a cousin’s cousin,

  let in the streptomycin

  and, propitious, gorge my

  gonfalon.

  I dream the carnival plasma

  across frantic leather…”

  “Now what’s he saying?” asked Vicki.

  “He’s saying he’s getting ready to eat pussy again.”

  “Again?”

  Victor read some more and I drank some more. Then he called a ten minute intermission and the audience went up and gathered around the podium. Vicki went up too. It was hot in there and I walked out into the street to cool off. There was a bar a half block away. I got a beer. It wasn’t too crowded. There was a basketball game on tv. I watched the game. Of course, I didn’t care who won. My only thought was, my god, how they run up and down, up and down. I’ll bet their jockstraps are soaking wet, I’ll bet their assholes smell something awful. I had another beer and then walked back to the poetry hole. Valoff was already back on. I could hear him half a block down the street: