didn’t eat
as good
as we
did.
he liked to
sop up
what was left
on his plate
with a piece of
bread,
meanwhile making
appreciative sounds
rather like
half-grunts.
he slurped his
coffee
making loud
bubbling
sounds.
then he’d put
the cup
down:
“dessert? is it
jello?”
my mother would
bring it
in a large bowl
and my father would
spoon it
out.
as it plopped
in the dish
the jello made
strange sounds,
almost fart-like
sounds.
then came the
whipped cream,
mounds of it
on the
jello.
“ah! jello and
whipped cream!”
my father sucked the
jello and whipped
cream
off his spoon—
it sounded as if it
was entering a
wind
tunnel.
finished with
that
he would wipe his
mouth
with a huge white
napkin,
rubbing hard
in circular
motions,
the napkin almost
hiding his
entire
face.
after that
out came the
Camel
cigarettes.
he’d light one
with a wooden
kitchen match,
then place the
match,
still burning,
onto an
ashtray.
then a slurp of
coffee, the cup
back down, and a good
drag on the
Camel.
“ah that was a
good
meal!”
moments later
in my bedroom
on my bed
in the dark
the food that I
had eaten
and what I had
seen
was already
making me
ill.
the only good
thing
was
listening to
the crickets
out there,
out there
in another world
I didn’t
live
in.
such luck
we were at this table,
men and women,
after dinner.
somehow
the conversation got
around to
PMS.
one of the ladies
stated firmly that
the only cure for
PMS
was old
age.
there were other
remarks
that I have
forgotten,
except for one
which came from this
German guest
once married,
now divorced.
also, I had seen
him with
any number of
beautiful young
girlfriends.
anyhow, after quietly
listening
to our conversation
for some time
he asked us,
“what’s PMS?”
now here was one
truly touched
by
the angels.
the light was so
bright
we
all looked
away.
flophouse
you haven’t lived
until you’ve been in a
flophouse
with nothing but one
light bulb
and 56 men
squeezed together
on cots
with everybody
snoring
at once
and some of those
snores
so
deep and
gross and
unbelievable—
dark
snotty
gross
subhuman
wheezings
from hell
itself.
your mind
almost breaks
under those
death-like
sounds
and the
intermingling
odors:
hard
unwashed socks
pissed and
shitted
underwear
and over it all
slowly circulating
air
much like that
emanating from
uncovered
garbage
cans.
and those
bodies
in the dark
fat and
thin
and
bent
some
legless
armless
some
mindless
and worst of
all:
the total
absence of
hope
it shrouds
them
covers them
totally.
it’s not
bearable.
you get
up
go out
walk the
streets
up and
down
sidewalks
past buildings
around the
corner
and back
up
the same
street
thinking
those men
were all
children
once
what has happened
to
them?
and what has
happened
to
me?
it’s dark
and cold
out
here.
hand-outs
sometimes I am hit
for change
3 or 4 times
in twenty minutes
and nine times out of
ten I’ll
give.
the time or two
that I don’t
I have an instinctive
reaction
not to
and I
don’t
but mostly I
dig and
give
but each time
I can’t help but
remember
the many times
hollow-eyed
my skin tight to the
ribs
my mind airy and
mad
I never asked
anybody
for anything
and it wasn’t
pride
it was simply because
I didn’t respect
them
didn’t regard them
as worthy human
beings.
they were the
enemy
and they still are
as I dig
in
and
give.
waiting
hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles
whe
re every 3rd lot was vacant
and it was a short ride to the orange
groves—
if you had a car and the
gas.
hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles
too young to be a man and too old to
be a boy.
hard times.
a neighbor tried to rob our
house, my father caught him
climbing through the
window,
held him there in the dark
on the floor:
“you rotten son of a
bitch!”
“Henry, Henry, let me go,
let me go!”
“you son of a bitch, I’ll kill
you!”
my mother phoned the police.
another neighbor set his house on fire
in an attempt to collect the
insurance.
he was investigated and
jailed.
hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles,
nothing to do, nowhere to go, listening to
the terrified talk of our parents
at night:
“what will we do? what will we
do?”
“god, I don’t know…”
starving dogs in the alleys, skin taut
across ribs, hair falling out, tongues
out, such sad eyes, sadder than any sadness
on earth.
hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles,
the men of the neighborhood were quiet
and the women were like pale
statues.
the parks full of socialists,
communists, anarchists, standing on the park
benches, orating, agitating.
the sun came down through a clear sky and
the ocean was clean
and we were
neither men nor
boys.
we fed the dogs leftover pieces of dry hard
bread
which they ate gratefully,
eyes shining in
wonder,
tails waving at such
luck
as
World War II moved toward us,
even then, during those
hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles.
those mornings
I still remember those New Orleans rats
out on the balcony railings
in the dark of early morning
as I stood waiting my turn at the
crapper.
there were always two or three
big ones
just sitting there—sometimes they’d
move quickly then
stop and sit there.
I looked at them and they looked at
me.
they showed no fear.
at last the crapper door would open
and out would walk
one of the tenants
and he always looked worse than
the rats
and then he’d be gone
down the hallway
and I’d go into the still-stinking
crapper
with my hangover.
and almost always
when I came out
the rats would be gone.
as soon as it got a little light
they would
vanish.
and then
the world would be
mine,
I’d walk down the stairway
and into it
and my low-wage
pitiful
job
while remembering the
rats,
how it was better for them
than for
me.
I walked to work as the sun
came up hot
and the whores slept
like
babies.
everything you touch
putting on your torn clothes in an old New Orleans roominghouse,
you and your stockboy soul,
then rolling your little green wagon past the salesgirls who
took no notice of you, those girls dreaming of bigger
game with their tiny rectangular
brains.
or in Los Angeles, coming in from your shipping clerk job at
an auto parts warehouse, taking the elevator up to 319 to find
your woman sprawled out on the bed, drunk at
6 p.m.
you were never any good at picking them, you always got the
leftovers, the crazies, the alkies, the pill-freaks.
maybe that was all you could get and maybe you were all they
could get.
you went to the bars and found more alkies, pill-freaks, crazies.
all they had to show you were a pair of well-turned ankles in
spike-heeled shoes.
you thumped up and down on beds with them as if you had discovered
the meaning of
existence.
then there was this day at work when Larry the salesman came down the
aisle with his big belly and his little button eyes, Larry always
walked loudly on leather-soled shoes and he was almost always
whistling.
he stopped whistling and stood at your shipping table as you
worked.
then he began rocking back and forth, he had this habit and
he stood there rocking, observing you, he was one of those jokers, you
know, and then he began laughing, you were sick from a long crazy
night, needed a shave, you were dressed in a torn shirt.
“what is it, Larry?” you asked.
and then he said, “Hank, everything you touch turns to shit!”
you couldn’t argue with him about that.
car wash
got out, fellow said, “hey!” walked toward
me, we shook hands, he slipped me 2 red
tickets for free car washes, “find you later,”
I told him, walked on through to waiting
area with wife, we sat on outside bench.
black fellow with a limp came up, said,
“hey, man, how’s it going?”
I answered, “fine, bro, you makin’ it?”
“no problem,” he said, then walked off to
dry down a Caddy.
“these people know you?” my wife asked.
“no.”
“how come they talk to you?”
“they like me, people have always liked me,
it’s my cross.”
then our car was finished, fellow flipped
his rag at me, we got up, got to the
car, I slipped him a buck, we got in, I
started the engine, the foreman walked
up, big guy with dark shades, huge guy,
he smiled a big one, “good to see you,
man!”
I smiled back, “thanks, but it’s your party,
man!”
I pulled out into traffic, “they know you,”
said my wife.
“sure,” I said, “I’ve been there.”
the flashing of the odds
parking lot attendant, Bobby, was funny,
wise-cracking, laughing, was
good at it, he was an original,
sometimes when I was down
listening to Bobby brought me back
up.
didn’t see him for 3 weeks, asked the
other attendants but they didn’t know
or made things up.
drove in today and there was
Bobby, his uniform wrinkled, he was just
standing there while the others
worked.
approached him and he seemed to
recognize me, then spoke: “got all
stressed out driving here, it took me
3 hour
s!”
he wasn’t laughing, had grown suddenly
fat, his belt buckle was
unfastened, I buckled him up, he
had a 3 day beard,
his
hair was grey, his face wrinkled, his
eyes stuck in a backwash, 20 years
lost in 3 weeks.
“good to see you, Bobby.”
“yeah, sure, when you going to buy
this place?”
he was talking about the
racetrack.
I walked across the lot and into
the track, took the escalator
up, reached the top floor, walked
toward the service stand.
Betty saw me and got my coffee
poured.
“you ready for a big day?”
she asked.
“I’m ready for any kind of
day.”
“you come here to win, don’t
you?”
“I come here not to
lose.”