“What’s that you’re drinking there?”
“This,” I said, “is orange juice mixed with life.”
“Do you have any girlfriends?”
“I have problems meeting women, but when I do I have problems getting rid of them.”
“Why did you want to become a writer?”
“Next question, please. . . .”
I read them some more and told them I had flown in with Captain Winehead and seen The Game of the Week. I told them that endurance was more important than truth and that when I was in good spiritual shape, I only ate off of one dish and washed that immediately, but most of the time I was unable to do that. I read some more poems. I read poems until the water pitcher was empty, then I told them that the reading was over. There was a bit of autographing, then we got out and went to the party at the professor’s house. . . .
I got drunk and did my Indian dance, my belly dance and my broken-ass-in-the-wind dance. Then I came back to where the drinks were. It’s hard to drink when you dance. Pete knew what he was doing. He had couches and chairs to separate the dancers from the drinkers; each went about their own art without conflicting with the other.
I got my drink and Pete walked up. He looked around the room. “Which one do you want?”
“Is it that easy?”
“It’s true Southern hospitality.”
“Pete, I hope you get another Guggenheim.”
“It was a good reading. But one thing you’ve got to realize now, you’re an entertainer.”
“Ah, Pete, you’re two old cat’s tits. . . .”
There was one I had noticed, she was older than the others and had protruding teeth, but her teeth protruded perfectly—pushing the lips always outward into this open passionate flower-shape. I wanted my mouth on that mouth. It looked like the entrance to Nirvana. She wore a short skirt and her pantyhose were pulled tight around good legs that kept crossing and uncrossing as she laughed and drank and tugged at her skirt which would just not go down. I sat down next to her as the guy on the other side of her vanished. “I’m . . . ,” I started.
“I know who you are. I was at your reading.”
“I’ll eat your pussy. I’ll drive you crazy.”
“Really?”
“Umm hum.”
“What do you think of Allen Ginsberg?”
“Look, don’t mislead me. I want your mouth, your legs;
I want to stick your fingers up my ass.”
“All right.”
“Remain about, I’ve got a bedroom downstairs. Servant’s quarters.”
I got up and got another drink. Some guy seven feet tall walked up to me. “Look, Chinaski, I don’t believe all that shit about you living in skidrow Hollywood and knowing all the dope dealers, pimps, whores, junkies, horseplayers, drunks . . . all that.”
“It’s mostly true.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I write poems, stories, novels. The poems are basically true, the rest is truth mixed with fiction. Do you know what fiction is?”
“No.”
“Fiction is an improvement on life.” Having destroyed Mr. 7 by nothing, I spun for another drink. There was this blonde, about 19, with rimless glasses and a smile. The smile never left. “I want to fuck you,” she said, “it’s your face, I want to destroy your face with my cunt.”
“That’s been tried before.”
“I can do it.”
“What do you do, stack Gillettes in there?”
“I can do it.”
“Listen, I know that any woman can destroy any man she chooses to destroy. The graveyards of America are littered with broken cocks and tongues. Women have always controlled the destiny of men and man. All this female liberation bullshit means is that women want control of the whole ballgame instead of three-fourths of it.”
“You’re funny.”
“So was Christ. Look, I’m fucking that old one over there with the lips and the legs.”
“You’re having me . . . I insist.”
I walked back to the couch and started playing with the legs of the one with the short skirt and flower lips whose name was Lillian, of all things, Lilly. Whoever thought (it went through my mind) as I squeezed her knees and reached upwards that writing down one little word after another would ever lead to such generous and miraculous endearments?
The party ended and I went downstairs with Lilly. We undressed and sat against the pillows drinking vodka and vodka mix. There was a radio with a bad tenor sending his Sears-Roebuck soul into the room. Lilly told me that she had worked for years helping her husband through school, and when he had gotten his professorship he divorced her. “That’s rough,” I said. “You been married?” she asked. “Yes.” “What happened?” “She divorced me when she found I couldn’t cure her of her nymphomania.”
Then I kissed Lilly. It was as good as I had imagined. That flower mouth was open. We rocked and I sucked on her teeth. We broke.
“I consider you,” she said, “one of the two or three best living writers of today.”
“You can do better than that,” I said and switched off the bed lamp. I kissed her some more, played with her breasts and body, then went down there. I was fairly drunk but I did all right. But after I did that to her, I couldn’t do her the other way. I got up and rode and rode. I was hard but I couldn’t climax. I rolled off and went to sleep. . . .
In the morning, Lilly was flat on her back, snoring. I went to the bathroom, pissed, brushed my teeth and washed my face. Then I went back to bed. I turned her toward me and started playing with her parts. I was always very horny with hangovers, not horny to eat but horny to blast—fucking was the best cure for hangovers, it got all the parts ticking again. Her breath was bad so I couldn’t use the flower mouth. I mounted. She groaned. It was very good. I don’t think I gave her more than 11 strokes before I climaxed and rolled off. I heard her get up and go to the bathroom. When she came back I pretended to be sleepy. When she got in I turned her back to me and decided on another three hours of sleep. After 15 minutes she got out of bed. She began to dress.
“I gotta get outta here. I gotta take my kids to school.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, kid.”
“Don’t call me kid!”
“Oh. Do you still consider me one of the two or three best writers in the world?”
“No.”
“All right.”
“I gotta go.”
She closed the door and walked up the stairway. I poured a vodka into a drinking glass, walked to the bathroom, mixed it with water, drank it down, puked it right up. . . .
L.A. Free Press, February 13–19, 1976
and Feb. 20–26, 1976
Politics and Love
Paul Caval was dubbed by his enemies as “the playboy butcher.” He had overthrown that South American nation with, as he said, “Seven bullets. One which missed and a half dozen which found their proper places in the proper bodies.” He also said, “You either make history or history makes you. I liken myself to the Maker.” He was short, he was fat, he had little chubby fists, and he had a habit of laughing at the oddest times. That habit had often gotten him into trouble. Now, he made the trouble. The people weren’t behind him but the Army was, and since the Army was the people with the guns as opposed to the larger group of people without guns, that margin was sufficient.
Now Paul Caval was behind his desk, he was fairly drunk, and he said, “Come on, Mr. Brodsky, join me in another drink! What the hell, you’ve arrived at one of the Thresholds of History!”
“I’d rather not, Mr. President.”
“We tend to dislike Americans, Mr. Brodsky, they have bad manners. In my country, one never refuses a drink.”
“Well, it is an excellent wine,” said the interviewer, Mark Brodsky from the magazine World View. Paul Caval had never been interviewed before and he already had one hour of Paul Caval on tape. And none of it was dull; it was erratic, maybe insane, but not dull at all. The man was a monster
power with a grand stage presence. The interview would make both of them famous.
Paul’s wife, Monica, who had sat with them through the interview, got up and did the honors, pouring Mark Brodsky a new drink. She was a handsome young woman, although she did look a little stark as if she had seen too many things too fast. She complimented Paul Caval. They were rather like a pair in a circus cage controlling the lions and the tigers together, doing it all with an offhand grace.
“Thank you, Mrs. Caval,” Mark Brodsky said. Then he looked at Paul Caval. “Now you were saying that a true democracy can’t work because the vote of the average man is the vote of an idiot. . . .”
At that moment the tape recorder clicked off.
“Pardon me,” Mark said, taking out the tape and replacing it with a new one.
Paul Caval drained his drink and Monica got up and refilled his glass. She moved with short steps under her long bright red gown but under that gown was a figure that any Miss World might accept. She refilled her own drink and sat back down.
Then the tape recorder was going again.
“Now,” said Mark Brodsky, “what do you consider. . . .”
Paul Caval belched.
“I’m tired of talking about that crap.”
He took a drain of his drink. Just a half-glass.
“By the way, American, have you met my wife?”
My, he’s really getting drunk, thought Mark. Caval must have drunk at least two bottles.
“Yes, sir, I’ve met Monica, she’s very charming. . . .”
“No, Mr. Brodsky, I meant my first wife, Andrea.”
“Andrea?”
“Yeah, yeah. . . .”
“No, Mr. President, according to my notes your first wife died seven years ago . . . I never had the pleasure of meeting her.”
“Well, now you will. . . .”
“Mr. President, your first wife is. . . .”
“Look buddy, Mr. President is so stuffy! Besides, I’m a dictator. Just call me Paul.”
“Yes, Paul. . . .”
“Drink up, drink up! I want ya to meet my first wife.”
Mark Brodsky took a drink.
“It’s all right, sir. I needn’t meet her. . . .”
“She’s very nice,” said Monica, “you’ll like her.”
“Damn tootin’,” said Paul Caval. He had read up on old American colloquialisms.
He pressed a button on his desk, spoke into the intercom, “Maria, will you have Andrea brought down here? Now . . . And thank you. . . .”
The tape recorder spun on. Mark thought it might be a good time to continue.
“Now, Mr. President, I mean, Paul, how does your administration differ from the preceding one?”
“It doesn’t.”
“What?”
“We’re just as ruthless and corrupt, maybe more so. . . .”
“You want us to publish that?”
“Sure, I don’t give a damn,” Paul Caval laughed, “what the hell can anybody do about it?”
“You’ve got a great sense of humor, sir.”
“I’m not trying to be funny, Mr. Brodsky.”
“He’s funny when he’s serious,” said Monica, “and he’s serious all the time.”
Then the doors swung open and two guards entered carrying Andrea, followed by Maria, the maid, who walked a little bit behind the group.
“Put her in the chair, gentlemen, thank you. . . .”
The two guards sat Andrea in the overstuffed chair, then left. Maria bent over Andrea, applied a touch of lipstick, brushed a few strands of hair into place, and left.
Andrea was dressed in a mini-skirt, blouse, high heels, pantyhose. She had on large green earrings and she stared straight ahead. Monica was beautiful but Andrea was more so.
“Brodsky, this is Andrea, Andrea, this is Mark Brodsky, American journalist.”
Mark Brodsky looked at Paul Caval.
“I’m pleased to meet her, sir.”
“Don’t tell me, tell her!”
Mark Brodsky looked at Andrea.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Caval.”
Mrs. Caval didn’t respond.
Paul Caval smiled proudly.
“Look at her! Outside of a few cracks, she’s just as good as new. We had her hair done today.”
“Yes, she looks quite real, sir.”
“What do you mean, looks real? She is real!”
“Of course, sir.”
“He is very serious, Mr. Brodsky,” said Monica, wife #2.
“Fill all the glasses, Monica!”
“Oh, yes!”
Monica had opened a new bottle and was ready. She did the refills and sat back down.
“A drink to Andrea, my most beautiful Andrea!”
He lifted his glass. Mark and Monica lifted their glasses. Then they all drank to Andrea.
Monica refilled their glasses.
“Now, sir,” said Mark, “I’d like to continue with the interview. . . .”
“Don’t you want to take some photographs of Andrea? Perhaps one for the cover of your magazine?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“He’s very serious, Mr. Brodsky,” said Monica, wife #2.
Paul Caval got up from his desk, walked around to the overstuffed chair where Andrea sat. He reached down and pulled back her skirt.
“Look at that, man! You ever seen legs on a woman like that? Look at those legs!”
“They are quite beautiful, sir.”
“I’m jealous,” said Monica.
“Just think, Brodsky, put those legs on the cover of World View and think how many copies you’d sell!”
Paul Caval walked around and sat behind his desk again. He sighed contentedly.
“I sometimes take Andrea to public functions, the opera, the sporting events, to cabinet meetings. . . .”
“It’s a great love you have for her, sir. . . .”
“A great fucking love,” said Paul Caval.
Then nobody spoke for some minutes. Mark thought he might try it again. The recorder was still on.
“What do you do, sir, about pressures from Russia and the United States?”
“I tell them to go fuck themselves.”
“He really does,” said Monica.
Paul Caval took another drink.
“We got enough oil, enough natural resources to more than sustain ourselves. We don’t need to be freed from anything.”
“Self-sustaining, that’s fine, sir.”
“Shit, we could make it on our cocaine exports alone, Brodsky.”
“Your government has a hand in that?”
“My boy, the government is the hand! By the way, why don’t you tell your people that Reagan dyes his hair?”
Mark felt that was a long shot but he ignored it by asking another question.
“Is your government doing anything for the poor, sir?”
“The poor? The poor are meant to be poor. That’s what they are there for. That’s their function. That’s what they are best at. If they didn’t really want to be poor they’d figure a way.”
“Maybe there isn’t a way, sir?”
“I was poor.”
“But maybe the other poor aren’t like you.”
“That’s just what I was telling you.”
“But don’t you have any compassion?”
“Hell yes!”
He looked over at Andrea whose skirt was still flipped back.
“Look at that! Doesn’t that give you the rocks?”
“She’s very beautiful, sir.”
Paul Caval seemed to be making some motions beneath his desk. Then he stood up. He looked down just below his belt and laughed.
“Look at that!”
“I’m jealous,” said Monica.
“Don’t worry, baby, there’s plenty for you.”
He sat back down and made some more motions beneath his desk. Then he looked up at Mark Brodsky.
“Bet you’d like to fuck my wife.”
&n
bsp; “What, sir? And who, sir? “Bet you’d like to fuck Andrea!”
“I’d like to proceed, sir.”
“Great, go ahead.”
“Well, after Hernandez was assassinated, what. . . .”
“I meant: go ahead, fuck her.”
Paul Caval appeared to have a glazed look to his face. He picked up his glass, drained it, said “shit,” softly, then hurled his glass against the wall. The glass shattered like a shot.
“She was always a whore!”
The door crashed open and two guards rushed in. Their guns were drawn.
Paul Caval laughed.
“It’s all right, fellas, go back to your posts.”
They both glared at Mark, then exited.
Monica went to a cabinet, took out another wine glass, placed it on Caval’s desk, refilled it. Caval took out a cigar, bit off the end and Monica lit it. He looked up at her.
“You love me, don’t ya, baby?”
“Of course, Paul.”
“And you ain’t no whore.”
“No way, Paul.”
“Good girl!”
He reached around and grabbed her ass, gave it a good squeeze. Then she went back and sat down, appearing not to be as jealous.
The recorder was still rolling.
“Sir,” Mark asked, “is your name really Caval?”
“No, it’s Mendez. I changed it to Caval a long time ago.
It was my first step to get away from where I was. I got class so I gave myself a class name.”
“I see.”
“You see nothing. You need a name to fit you. I’m going to name you ‘Dog.’ Hey, Dog, I’d bet you’d even like to fuck Monica?”
Monica giggled.
“Sir,” Mark suggested, “you’ve been drinking a great deal. I’m sure you don’t mean what you say.”
“I always mean what I say.”
“He does,” said Monica.
“I’d like to continue the interview.”
“You do? Well, Dog, I feel like PARTYING! I get tired of running this government! LET’S PARTY!”
“Sir?”
“WHAT?”
“I feel that I have enough material for the interview.
With your permission, I’ll take my leave now.”
“You’ll take nothing, Dog!”
“Sir . . .”
“WE’RE GONNA PARTY!”
Caval got up and came around to where Mark Brodsky was sitting. He pulled out a coin.