“Easy now, Harris…”
“I said NOW!, fucker!”
I got up and left with the poems.
I returned to that front court two months later to deliver a couple of copies of Mad Fly to Harris. I had run all ten of his poems. Margie let me in. Randall wasn’t there.
“He’s in New Orleans,” said Margie, “I think he’s getting a break. Jack Teller wants to publish his next book but he wants to meet Randall first. Teller says he can’t print anybody he doesn’t like. He’s paid the air fare both ways.”
“Randall isn’t exactly endearing,” I said.
“We’ll see,” said Margie. “Teller’s a drunk and an ex-con. They might make a lovely pair.”
Teller put out the magazine Rifraff and had his own press. He did very fine work. The last issue of Rifraff had had Harris’ ugly face on the cover sucking at a beer-bottle and had featured a number of his poems.
Rifraff was generally recognized as the number one lit mag of the time. Harris was beginning to get more and more notice. This would be a good chance for him if he didn’t botch it with his mean tongue and his drunken manners. Before I left Margie told me she was pregnant—by Harris. As I said, she was 45.
“What’d he say when you told him?”
“He seemed indifferent.”
I left.
The book did come out in an edition of 2,000, finely printed. The cover was made of cork imported from Ireland. The pages were vari-colored, of extremely good paper, set in rare type and interspersed with some of Harris’ India ink sketches. The book received acclaim, both for itself and its contents. But Teller couldn’t pay royalties. He and his wife lived on a very narrow margin. In ten years the book would go for $75 on the rare book market. Meanwhile Harris went back to his shipping clerk job at the auto parts warehouse.
When I called again four or five months later Margie was gone.
“She’s been gone a long time,” said Harris. “Have a beer.”
“What happened?”
“Well, after I got back from New Orleans, I wrote a few short stories. While I was at work she got to poking around in my drawers. She read a couple of my stories and took exception to them.”
“What were they about?”
“Oh, she read something about my climbing in and out of bed with some women in New Orleans.”
“Were the stories true?” I asked.
“How’s Mad Fly doing?” he asked.
The baby was born, a girl, Naomi Louise Harris. She and her mother lived in Santa Monica and Harris drove out once a week to see them. He paid child support and continued to drink his beer. Next I knew he had a weekly column in the underground newspaper L.A. Lifeline. He called his colums Sketches of a First Class Maniac. His prose was like his poetry—undisciplined, antisocial, and lazy.
Harris grew a goatee and grew his hair longer. The next time I saw him he was living with a 35-year-old girl, a pretty redhead called Susan. Susan worked in an art supply store, painted, and played fair guitar. She also drank an occasional beer with Randall which was more than Margie had done. The court seemed cleaner. When Harris finished a bottle he threw it into a paper bag instead of throwing it on the floor. He was still a nasty drunk, though.
“I’m writing a novel,” he told me, “and I’m getting a poetry reading now and then at nearby universities. I also have one coming up in Michigan and one in New Mexico. The offers are pretty good. I don’t like to read, but I’m a good reader. I give them a show and I give them some good poetry.”
Harris was also beginning to paint. He didn’t paint very well. He painted like a five-year-old drunk on vodka but he managed to sell one or two for $40 or $50. He told me that he was considering quitting his job. Three weeks later he did quit in order to make the Michigan reading. He’d already used his vacation for the New Orleans trip.
I remember once he had vowed to me, “I’ll never read in front of those bloodsuckers, Chinaski. I’ll go to my grave without ever giving a poetry reading. It’s vanity, it’s a sell-out.” I didn’t remind him of his statement.
His novel Death in the Life of All the Eyes On Earth was brought out by a small but prestige press which paid standard royalties. The reviews were good, including one in The New York Review of Books. But he was still a nasty drunk and had many fights with Susan over his drinking.
Finally, after one horrible drunk, when he had raved and cursed and screamed all night, Susan left him. I saw Randall several days after her departure. Harris was strangely quiet, hardly nasty at all.
“I loved her, Chinaski,” he told me. “I’m not going to make it, baby.”
“You’ll make it, Randall. You’ll see. You’ll make it. The human being is much more durable than you think.”
“Shit,” he said. “I hope you’re right. I’ve got this damned hole in my gut. Women have put many a good man under the bridge. They don’t feel it like we do.”
“They feel it. She just couldn’t handle your drinking.”
“Fuck, man, I write most of my stuff when I’m drunk.”
“Is that the secret?”
“Shit, yes. Sober, I’m just a shipping clerk and not a very good one at that…”
I left him there hanging over his beer.
I made the rounds again three months later. Harris was still in his front court. He introduced me to Sandra, a nice-looking blonde of 27. Her father was a superior court judge and she was a graduate of U.S.C. Besides being well-shaped she had a cool sophistication that had been lacking in Randall’s other women. They were drinking a bottle of good Italian wine.
Randall’s goatee had turned into a beard and his hair was much longer. His clothes were new and in the latest style. He had on $40 shoes, a new wristwatch and his face seemed thinner, his fingernails clean…but his nose still reddened as he drank the wine.
“Randall and I are moving to West L.A. this weekend,” she told me. “This place is filthy.”
“I’ve done a lot of good writing here,” he said.
“Randall, dear,” she said, “it isn’t the place that does the writing, it’s you. I think we might get Randall a job teaching three days a week.”
“I can’t teach.”
“Darling, you can teach them everything.”
“Shit,” he said.
“They’re thinking of doing a movie of Randall’s book. We’ve seen the script. It’s a very fine script.”
“A movie?” I asked.
“There’s not much chance,” said Harris.
“Darling, it’s in the works. Have a little faith.”
I had another glass of wine with them, then left. Sandra was a beautiful girl.
I wasn’t given Randall’s West L.A. address and didn’t make any attempt to find him. It was over a year later when I read the review of the movie Flower Up the Tail of Hell. It had been taken from his novel. It was a fine review and Harris even had an acting bit in the film.
I went to see it. They’d done a good job on the book. Harris looked a little more austere than when I had last seen him. I decided to find him. After a bit of detective work I knocked on the door of his cabin in Malibu one night about 9:00 p.m. Randall answered the door.
“Chinaski, you old dog,” he said. “Come on in.”
A beautiful girl sat on the couch. She appeared to be about 19, she simply radiated natural beauty. “This is Karilla,” he said. They were drinking a bottle of expensive French wine. I sat down with them and had a glass. I had several glasses. Another bottle came out and we talked quietly. Harris didn’t get drunk and nasty and didn’t appear to smoke as much.
“I’m working on a play for Broadway,” he told me. “They say the theatre is dying but I have something for them. One of the leading producers is interested. I’m getting the last act in shape now. It’s a good medium. I was always splendid on conversation, you know.”
“Yes,” I said.
I left about 11:30 that night. The conversation had been pleasant…Harris had begun to show a dist
inguished grey about the temples and he didn’t say “shit” more than four or five times.
The play Shoot Your Father, Shoot Your God, Shoot Away the Disentanglement was a success. It had one of the longest runs in Broadway history. It had everything: something for the revolutionaries, something for the reactionaries, something for lovers of comedy, something for lovers of drama, even something for the in tellectuals, and it still made sense. Randall Harris moved from Malibu to a large place high in the Hollywood Hills. You read about him now in the syndicated gossip columns.
I went to work and found the location of his Hollywood Hills place, a three-story mansion which overlooked the lights of Los Angeles and Hollywood.
I parked, got out of the car, and walked up the path to the front door. It was around 8:30 p.m., cool, almost cold; there was a full moon and the air was fresh and clear.
I rang the bell. It seemed a very long wait. Finally the door opened. It was the butler. “Yes, sir?” he asked me.
“Henry Chinaski to see Randall Harris,” I said.
“Just a moment, sir.” He closed the door quietly and I waited. Again a long time. Then the butler was back. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Harris can’t be disturbed at this time.”
“Oh, all right.”
“Would you care to leave a message, sir?”
“A message?”
“Yes, a message.”
“Yes, tell him ‘congratulations.’”
“‘Congratulations?’ Is that all?”
“Yes, that’s all.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight.”
I went back to my car, got in. It started and I began the long drive down out of the hills. I had that early copy of Mad Fly with me that I had wanted him to sign. It was the copy with ten of Randall Harris’ poems in it. He probably was busy. Maybe, I thought, if I mail the magazine to him with a stamped return envelope, he’ll sign.
It was only about 9:00 p.m. There was time for me to go somewhere else.
THE DEVIL WAS HOT
Well, it was after an argument with Flo and I didn’t feel like getting drunk or going to a massage parlor. So I got in my car and drove west toward the beach. It was along toward evening and I drove slowly. I got to the pier, parked, and walked on up the pier. I stopped in the penny arcade, played a few games, but the place stank of piss so I walked out. I was too old to ride the merry-go-round so I passed that. The usual types walked the pier—a sleepy indifferent crowd.
It was then I noticed a roaring sound coming from a nearby building. A tape or record, no doubt. There was a barker out front: “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Inside, Inside here…we actually have captured the devil! He is on display to see with your own eyes! Think, just for a quarter, twenty-five cents, you can actually see the devil…the biggest loser of all time! The loser of the only revolution ever attempted in Heaven!”
Well, I was ready for a little comedy to offset what Flo was putting me through. I paid my quarter and stepped inside with six or seven other assorted suckers. They had this guy in a cage. They’d sprayed him red and he had something in his mouth that made him puff out little rolls of smoke and spurts of flame. He wasn’t putting on a very good show. He was just walking around in circles, saying over and over again, “God damn it, I’ve got to get out of here! How’d I ever get in this friggin’ fix?” Well, I’ll tell you he did look dangerous. Suddenly he did six rapid back flips. On his last flip he landed on his feet, looked around and said, “Oh shit, I feel awful!”
Then he saw me. He walked right over to where I was standing next to the wire. He was warm like a heater. I don’t know how they worked that.
“My son,” he said, “you’ve come at last! I’ve been waiting. Thirty-two days I’ve been in this fucking cage!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My son,” he said, “don’t joke with me. Come back late tonight with the wire-cutters and free me.”
“Don’t lay any shit on me, man,” I said
“Thirty-two days I’ve been in here, my son! At last I have my freedom!”
“You mean you claim you’re really the devil?”
“I’ll screw a cat’s ass if I’m not,” he answered.
“If you’re the devil then you can use your supernatural powers to get out of here.”
“My powers have temporarily vanished. This guy, the barker, he was in the drunk tank with me. I told him I was the devil and he bailed me out. I’d lost my powers in that jail or I wouldn’t have needed him. He got me drunk again and when I woke up I was in this cage. The cheap bastard, he feeds me dogfood and peanut butter sandwiches. My son, help me, I beg you!”
“You’re crazy,” I said, “you’re some kind of nut.”
“Just come back tonight, my son, with the wire-clippers.”
The barker walked in and announced that the session with the devil was over and if we wanted to see him anymore it’d be another twenty-five cents. I’d seen enough. I walked out with the six or seven other assorted suckers.
“Hey, he talked to you,” said a little old guy walking next to me, “I’ve seen him every night and you’re the first person he has ever talked to.”
“Balls,” I said.
The barker stopped me. “What’d he tell you? I saw him talking to you. What’d he tell you?”
“He told me everything,” I said.
“Well, hands off, buddy, he’s mine! I ain’t made so much money since I had the bearded three-legged lady.”
“What happened to her?”
“She ran away with the octopus man. They’re running a farm in Kansas.”
“I think you people are all crazy.”
“I’m just telling you, I found this guy. Keep off!”
I walked to my car, got in and drove back to Flo. When I got there she was sitting in the kitchen drinking whiskey. She sat there and told me a few hundred times what a useless hunk of man I was. I drank with her a while not saying much myself. Then I got up, went to the garage, got the wire-cutters, put them in my pocket, got in the car and drove back to the pier.
I broke in the back way, the latch was rusty and snapped right off. He was asleep on the floor of the cage. I began trying to cut the wire but I couldn’t cut through it. The wire was very thick. Then he woke up.
“My son,” he said, “you came back! I knew you would!”
“Look, man, I can’t cut the wire with these clippers. The wire’s too thick.”
He stood up. “Hand ’em here.”
“God,” I said, “your hands are hot! You must have some kind of fever.”
“Don’t call me God,” he said.
He snipped the wire with the clippers like it was thread and stepped out. “And now, my son, to your place. I’ve got to get my strength back. A few porterhouse steaks and I’ll be straight. I’ve eaten so much dogfood I’m afraid I’m going to bark any minute.”
We walked back to my car and I drove him to my place. When we walked in Flo was still sitting in the kitchen drinking whiskey. I fried him a bacon and egg sandwich for starters and we sat down with Flo.
“Your friend is a handsome looking devil,” she told me.
“He claims to be the devil,” I said.
“Been a long time,” he said, “since I had me a hunk of good woman.”
He leaned over and gave Flo a long kiss. When he let go she seemed to be in a state of shock. “That was the hottest kiss I ever had,” she said, “and I’ve had plenty.”
“Really?” he asked.
“If you make love anything like the way you kiss, it would simply be too much, just simply too much!”
“Where’s your bedroom?” he asked me.
“Just follow the lady,” I said.
He followed Flo to the bedroom and I poured a deep whiskey.
I never heard such screams and moans and it went on for a good forty-five minutes. Then he walked out alone and sat down and poured himself a drink.
“My son,” he sai
d, “you got yourself a good woman there.”
He walked to the couch in the front room, stretched out and fell asleep. I walked into the bedroom, undressed, and climbed in with Flo.
“My god,” she said, “my god, I don’t believe it. He put me through heaven and hell.”
“I just hope he doesn’t set the couch on fire,” I said.
“You mean he smokes cigarettes and falls asleep?”
“Forget it,” I said.
Well, he began taking over. I had to sleep on the couch. I had to listen to Flo screaming and moaning in there every night. One day while Flo was at the market and we were having a beer in the breakfast nook I had a talk with him. “Listen,” I said, “I don’t mind helping somebody out, but now I’ve lost my bed and my wife. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“I believe I’ll stay a while, my son, your old lady is one of the best pieces I’ve ever had.”
“Listen, man,” I said, “I might have to take extreme means to remove you.”
“Tough boy, eh? Well look tough boy, I got a little news for you. My supernatural powers have returned. If you try to fuck with me you might get burned. Watch!”
We’ve got a dog. Old Bones; he’s not worth much but he barks at night, he’s a fair watchdog. Well, he pointed his finger at Old Bones, the finger kind of made a sneezing sound, then it sizzled and a thin line of flame ran up and touched Old Bones. Old Bones frizzled-up and vanished. He just wasn’t there anymore. No bone, no fur, not even any stink. Just space.
“O.k., man,” I told him. “You can stay a couple of days but after that you gotta leave.”
“Fry me up a porterhouse,” he said, “I’m hungry, and I’m afraid my sperm-count is dropping off.”
I got up and threw a steak in the pan.
“Cook me up some french fries to go with that,” he said, “and some sliced tomato. I don’t need any coffee. Been having insomnia. I’ll just have a couple more beers.”
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