I say to him, “there’s nothing but space between us. you
care to close that
space?”
he rushes toward me and somehow it’s a part of the part of the
part.
in and out of the dark
my wife likes movie houses, the popcorn and soft drinks, the
settling into seats, she finds a child’s delight in
this and I am happy for her—but really, I myself, I must have
come from another place, I must have been a mole in another
life, something that burrowed and hid alone:
the other people crowded in the seats, near and far, give me
feelings that I dislike; it’s stupid, maybe, but there it
is; and then
there’s the darkness and then the
giant human faces, bodies, that move about on the screen, they
speak and we
listen.
of one hundred movies there’s one that’s fair, one that’s good
and ninety eight that are very bad.
most movies start badly and steadily get
worse;
if you can believe the actions and speech of the
characters
you might even believe that the popcorn you chew also
has a meaning of
sorts.
(well, it might be that people see so many movies
that when they finally see one not
so bad as the others, they think it’s
great. an Academy Award means that you don’t stink
quite as much as your cousin.)
the movie ends and we are out in the street, moving
toward the car; “well,” says my wife, “it wasn’t as
good as they say.”
“no,” I say, “it wasn’t.”
“there were a few good parts, though,” she replies.
“yeah,” I answer.
we are at the car, get in, then I am driving us out
of that part of town; we look around at the night;
the night looks good.
“you hungry?” she asks.
“yes. you?”
we stop at a signal; I watch the red light;
I could eat that red light—anything, anything at
all to fill the void; millions of dollars spent to create
something more terrible than the actual lives of
most living things; one should never have to pay an
admission to hell.
the light changes and we escape,
forward.
be kind
we are always asked
to understand the other person’s
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.
one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.
but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.
not their fault?
whose fault?
mine?
I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.
age is no crime
but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life
among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives
is.
the man with the beautiful eyes
when we were kids
there was a strange house
all the shades were
always
drawn
and we never heard voices
in there
and the yard was full of
bamboo
and we liked to play in
the bamboo
pretend we were
Tarzan
(although there was no
Jane).
and there was a
fish pond
a large one
full of the
fattest goldfish
you ever saw
and they were
tame.
they came to the
surface of the water
and took pieces of
bread
from our hands.
our parents had
told us:
“never go near that
house.”
so, of course,
we went.
we wondered if anybody
lived there.
weeks went by and we
never saw
anybody.
then one day
we heard
a voice
from the house
“YOU GOD DAMNED
WHORE!”
it was a man’s
voice.
then the screen
door
of the house was
flung open
and the man
walked
out.
he was holding a
fifth of whiskey
in his right
hand.
he was about
30.
he had a cigar
in his
mouth,
needed a
shave.
his hair was
wild and
uncombed
and he was
barefoot
in undershirt
and pants.
but his eyes
were
bright.
they blazed
with
brightness
and he said,
“hey, little
gentlemen,
having a good
time, I
hope?”
then he gave a
little laugh
and walked
back into the
house.
we left,
went back to my
parents’ yard
and thought
about it.
our parents,
we decided,
had wanted us
to stay away
from there
because they
never wanted us
to see a man
like
that,
a strong natural
man
with
beautiful
eyes.
our parents
were ashamed
that they were
not
like that
man,
that’s why they
wanted us
to stay
away.
but
we went back
to that house
and the bamboo
and the tame
goldfish.
we went back
many times
for many
weeks
but we never
saw
or heard
the man
again.
the shades were
down
as always
and it was
quiet.
then one day
as we came back from
school
we saw the
house.
it had burned
down,
there was nothing
left,
just a smoldering
twisted black
foundation
&n
bsp; and we went to
the fish pond
and there was
no water
in it
and the fat
orange goldfish
were dead
there,
drying out.
we went back to
my parents’ yard
and talked about
it
and decided that
our parents had
burned their
house down,
had killed
them
had killed the
goldfish
because it was
all too
beautiful,
even the bamboo
forest had
burned.
they had been
afraid of
the man with the
beautiful
eyes.
and
we were afraid
then
that
all throughout our lives
things like that
would
happen,
that nobody
wanted
anybody
to be
strong and
beautiful
like that,
that
others would never
allow it,
and that
many people
would have to
die.
a strange day
it was one of those hot and tiring days at Hollywood
Park
with a huge crowd, a
tiring, rude, dumb
crowd.
I won the last race and stayed to collect and when I
got to my car
there was a massive jam of traffic attempting to
work its way out of there.
so I took my shoes off, sat and waited, turned on the
radio, lucked onto some classical music, found
a pint of Scotch in the glove compartment, uncapped
it, had a
hit.
I’m going to let them all get out of here, I
thought, then I’ll
go.
I found ¾’s of a cigar, lit it, had another hit
of Scotch.
I listened to the music, smoked, drank the
Scotch and watched the losers
leave.
there was even a little crap game going
about 100 yards to the
east
then that
broke up.
I decided to finish the
pint.
I did, then stretched out on the
seat.
I don’t know how long I
slept
but when I awakened it was dark and
the parking lot was
empty.
I decided not to put on my shoes, started the car
and drove out of
there….
when I got back to my place I could hear the phone
ringing.
as I put the key in the door and opened it,
the phone kept
ringing.
I walked over, picked up the
phone.
“hello?”
“you son of a bitch, where have you
been?”
“the racetrack.”
“the racetrack? it’s 12:30 a.m.! I’ve been
phoning since
7 p.m.!”
“I just got in from the
racetrack.”
“you got some woman
there?”
“no.”
“I don’t believe you!”
she hung up.
I walked to the refrigerator, got a beer, went to
the bathroom, let the water run in the
tub.
I finished the beer, got another, opened it and
climbed into the
tub.
the phone rang
again.
I got out of the tub with my beer and
dripping away
I walked to the phone, picked it
up.
“hello?”
“you son of a bitch, I still don’t
believe you!”
she hung up.
I walked back to the tub with my beer,
leaving another trail of
water.
as I got back into the tub
the phone rang
again.
I let it ring, counting the
rings: 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,
10,11,12,13,14,15,
16…
she hung up.
then, perhaps, 3 or 4 minutes
passed.
the phone rang
again.
I counted the rings:
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,
9…
then it was
quiet.
about then I remembered I had
left my shoes in the
car.
no matter, except I only had
one pair.
chances were, though, that nobody
would ever want to steal that
car.
I got out of the tub for another
beer,
leaving another trail
behind me.
it was the end of a
long
long
day.
Trollius and trellises
of course, I may die in the next ten minutes
and I’m ready for that
but what I’m really worried about is
that my editor-publisher might retire
even though he is ten years younger than
I.
it was just 25 years ago (I was at that ripe
old age of 45)
when we began our unholy alliance to
test the literary waters,
neither of us being much
known.
I think we had some luck and still have some
of same
yet
the odds are pretty fair
that he will opt for warm and pleasant
afternoons
in the garden
long before I.
writing is its own intoxication
while publishing and editing,
attempting to collect bills
carries its own
attrition
which also includes dealing with the
petty bitchings and demands
of many
so-called genius darlings who are
not.
I won’t blame him for getting
out
and hope he sends me photos of his
Rose Lane, his
Gardenia Avenue.
will I have to seek other
promulgators?
that fellow in the Russian
fur hat?
or that beast in the East
with all that hair
in his ears, with those wet and
greasy lips?
or will my editor-publisher
upon exiting for that world of Trollius and
trellis
hand over the
machinery
of his former trade to a
cousin, a
daughter or
some Poundian from Big
Sur?
or will he just pass the legacy on
to the
Shipping Clerk
who will rise like
Lazarus,
fingering new-found
importance?
one can imagine terrible
things:
“Mr. Chinaski, all your work
must now be submitted in
Rondo form
and
typed
triple-spaced on rice
paper.”
power corrupt
s,
life aborts
and all you
have left
is a
bunch of
warts.
“no, no, Mr. Chinaski:
Rondo form!”
“hey, man,” I’ll ask,
“haven’t you heard of
the thirties?”
“the thirties? what’s
that?”
my present editor-publisher
and I
at times
did discuss the thirties,
the Depression
and
some of the little tricks it
taught us—
like how to endure on almost
nothing
and move forward
anyhow.
well, John, if it happens enjoy your
divertissement to
plant husbandry,
cultivate and aerate
between
bushes, water only in the