No Charlie 2Moons on 46th or Second Avenue, no Charlie on East Fifth. But there was somebody else. Halfway to my apartment on East Fifth I stopped in my tracks.
There he was: Argwings Khodek, sitting on my stoop with the three dogs from upstairs.
Upstairs.
Ever since I moved in, only sounds; the tin flip of the mailbox door in the hallway, two hundred and sixty pounds up thirteen steps, the locks on his door. One night, I barely caught the unrelenting fluorescence on his bald head, his big hand running along the second-floor banister.
Argwings Khodek, Rose.
In all the world, on my stoop.
Rose was wearing long johns, red, unbuttoned to below the navel just above where there’s hair, long johns cut off at the knees, and no shoes, just thongs—Rose hated all men’s shoes except for combat boots, every once in a while, and thongs. Women’s shoes—Rose hated most of them too, made his arches hurt, but he had a closet full of women’s shoes: heels, mules, fuck-me stilettos, studio flats—because Rose was an ac-tor.
When I got to the stoop, Rose’s dogs were on leashes, leashes every which way, and the dogs were all at once wild with smelling the turkey thigh I’d bought at Schacht’s.
I didn’t look at Rose, but I still saw the big chest of him, the big arms and legs, the deep black of his chest and arms and legs. Didn’t dare look at the crotch. Instead I looked off to my left at the poster of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and Stranded Beings Searching for God and the three Polaroids. I said a little prayer to the Sacred Heart of Jesus when I took the step, policing my body, new-shoe stiff, and sure enough, what I did was step on Mary—my grandpa shoe right onto her poodle paw—and Mary yelped and I bent down to comfort her and the little shit bit my hand.
I was smiling when I looked at Rose and then stopped smiling. Kept walking. Rose was holding Mary in his big black hands, Sahara Desert palms, and Mary was yelping yelping.
Sorry, I said.
On the back of Rose’s long underwear, the black letters said FUCK THE POPE.
I was unlocking the front door when I remembered I had a free pass to Fiona and Harry’s Shopping for an Honest Man.
Seemed like a good idea at the time, so I took the free pass out of my wallet, then the free pass was in my hand, and I held my hand palm out to Rose.
My friend, I said, Susan Strong. You’re her idol. Her AUI, I said. Absolute Ultimate Idol, I said. Please come to the show.
When Rose took the free pass, my hand didn’t touch Rose’s hand, Rose didn’t look at the free pass, didn’t look at me, bracelets clack-clack.
When the front door closed behind me, Mrs. Lupino opened her door—just her eyeball and her eyebrow swoop under the chain.
They’re gathering forces, Mrs. Lupino said.
Mrs. Lupino, I said, Does he live here?
Lucifer? Mrs. Lupino said.
Argwings Khodek, I said. The guy out on the stoop.
Mrs. Lupino opened the door more, raised her hand, caught the air with her fingers, brought her hand back down.
You mean Rose? Mrs. Lupino said. You should be proud to have a famous person living just up the stairs from you!
Susan Strong, I said, Is going to go shit-spray!
Gathering forces, Mrs. Lupino said. Lucifer and his disciples. Don’t think I don’t know.
My Art Family were all in the kitchen, peeping toms at the E.T.-phone-home guy. I walked over to the window to see what they were staring at: the E.T.-phone-home guy was sticking the phone receiver—the ear part—up his ass.
Two messages on my red answering machine, both from Ruby. Street noise, Ruby breathing breathing, clearing his throat and breathing until the answering machine clicked off.
No message from Janet at Columbia University.
I threw my grandpa shoe at my red answering machine. Knocked it and the red telephone onto the floor.
HALLOWEEN NIGHT. DIXON Place was two steps down into a long narrow room. People dressed in black were sitting everywhere, on chairs, on tables, on the floor. There wasn’t room to walk, so you had to step over people. Somebody laughed as I was stepping over people. It was my outfit, my sharkskin suit and beatnik tie outfit, my Beatle boots, and I almost turned around, but I didn’t, because it was as far back out as it was in.
Susan Strong was right. Who cares what a bunch of assholes think?
I sat down next to a big guy with one of those drape things Jews or Arabs wear on their heads, sat in the last chair left to sit in, looked around the room. No Charlie 2Moons.
Then, in all the world, the big guy with the drape thing I was sitting beside was Argwings Khodek.
I was sitting right next to Rose.
Rose was extra lovely in black leather—pants, coat, combat boots. His T-shirt was black, too, with white words: FUCK THE WHITE PARANOID PATRIARCHY.
I didn’t say a word to Rose, not one damn word.
But it’s not the truth.
I didn’t move any part of my body, just turned my head.
The first time I saw you, I said, At the Laundromat, I said, When I was protecting my beige washing machines, I said, On your T-shirt was FUCK APARTHEID.
The second time I saw you, I said, In Café Cauchemar, I said, I was your waiter and you ordered Negroni and a Mediterranean Salad, and on your T-shirt it was FUCK THE CENTERS FOR DISEASE CONTROL.
I smiled, stopped smiling, and pointed at Rose’s chest.
The third time, I said, On the stoop of 205 East Fifth Street with your dogs, it was the Pope, I said, FUCK THE POPE. On your red long johns.
But actually, I said, The first time I saw you, I said, I didn’t know it was you, I said, You were just a dark figure at the top of the stairs with three dogs—remember? I said. The first time I set foot in 205 East Fifth Street. That night with Mrs. Lupino and her no-cats. I couldn’t see what you were wearing that night so I couldn’t tell who you wanted to fuck.
Now tonight it’s white paranoid patriarchy, I said. That you want to, I said, Fuck.
Rose turned his head at me. His eyes were beautiful too, deep black eyes. When he spoke, Rose raised one eyebrow and moved his head a little closer. He didn’t smell like Polo.
Deep black eyes on me, not at me, through me.
Rose smiled but it wasn’t really a smile, it was just an expression he put on his face.
And the next time I want to fuck something, Rose said, What I’m going to fuck is you.
Rose never blinked.
Bracelets clack-clack.
Cattle prod to my cock.
Cool, I said.
THE HOUSE LIGHTS went down and the stage lights went up, and I was sitting in the dark.
If we could freeze moments in time.
I felt I belonged there in my seat. Things had meaning and purpose. Fiona and Harry were my friends and they were up there on the stage and the audience was waiting—you could feel the anticipation, the hope of theater to lay bare the human heart. And I was there, I wasn’t in Jackson Holeewood, or Boise, I was avant-garde in Manhattan in a basement theater on the Lower East Side.
Harry was on the stage, lying on a bed in only his shorts reading a magazine. Harry O’Connor in front of fifty people in his underwear.
The magazine was Screw. Above the bed, on the wall, was a portrait of Andy Warhol and a painting of his of a woman’s nose, before her nose job and after her nose job: BEFORE AND AFTER. A full-length mirror stage right. A TV set was on, a porn film—all sorts of people fucking all sorts of ways—groans and moans and little screams. There was a knock on his apartment door.
Harry said, Who is it?
The voice on the other side of the door was old and gravelly and sounded Jewish.
Open the door, let me in, the voice said. I have a gift for you.
What is it? Harry said.
Turn that porn tape off! the voice said.
Why? Harry said.
So you can hear me! the voice said.
This is New York City, Harry said. It’s the eighties. I can
watch porn if I want to.
Virtual hard-on! the voice said.
Virtual what? Harry said.
When’s the last time you got it up? the voice said.
Harry got up off the bed and faced the audience.
If you’re trying to make me feel ashamed of my impotency, Harry said, It won’t work. My dietician has taken me off meat, my doctor has prescribed medication for depression, my therapist says I’m no longer in denial, and I’ve joined a support group for impotent males. We meet at the gym every Thursday night and pump iron. We call ourselves Wounded Warriors.
Why meat? the voice said.
It’s impure, Harry said.
So’s a hard-on! the voice said. Look, open the door, will ya? the voice said. I’ve come a long way. I’m tired. This is all wrong, you got it all wrong. There’s something dead wrong at the core of your life. You have disregarded your peculiar essential nature, the voice said. And think of yourself as a thing, a commodity.
Then: I’m lonely, the voice said. Open the door.
That’s it! Harry said. I’m calling the police!
I am lonely because I am pure, the voice said. And I am original.
Harry walked to the phone on the nightstand and picked up the receiver. That’s it! Harry said. Nine-one-one!
It ain’t your dick that’s broken! the voice said, It’s your heart. Now open this fucking door. I’ve got a gift for you.
Harry hung up the phone.
Who are you? Harry said.
The guy with the lamp, the voice said.
Are you searching for an honest man? Harry asked.
I’m searching for a hard dick, asshole, the voice said. Open the fucking door!
Then: Just tell me one thing, the voice said. You ever met Andy Warhol?
Andy Warhol? Harry said brightly. Why, yes, of course, I’ve met Andy. I used to hang out at the Factory once in a while.
Oh, God, the voice said, Here it comes! I just knew it!
Great parties! Harry said.
Don’t tell me! the voice said. Andy Warhol didn’t—he didn’t ask you if he could draw your genitals, did he?
Yes, Harry said proudly, looking down at his crotch. Andy Warhol drew my genitals.
Oh, misery! the voice said. He’s captured your erection!
No, Harry said, I wasn’t erect.
He’s captured your passion, the voice said.
My passion? Harry said. No, it was just my cock, and my cock wasn’t really erect—just half mast—and Andy Warhol didn’t capture it, he just drew it.
Appearance is all there is, the voice said. These days it’s the image of the thing that’s important—at least for fifteen minutes. The thing itself can be discarded once you have the image of it. No use for a cock once it’s sucked dry, the voice said.
He didn’t suck it dry, Harry says. He didn’t even touch it. He just drew it.
Same difference, the voice said.
The meaning of things is they have no meaning, the voice said. The appearance of the thing is what’s important. If you take a photo, if you draw it, if you capture the image, you capture the thing.
Don’t you see, by drawing your balls, the voice said, Andy Warhol got your balls?
How can somebody do that? Harry said incredulously. How can somebody get your balls? That’s impossible.
Harry cupped his balls in his hand.
Look, they’re right here, Harry said. My balls are right here!
A lot of good they’re doing you, the voice said. We are the hollow men, the voice said. Codpieces stuffed with straw.
What? Harry said.
It’s a joke, the voice said.
What’s a joke? Harry said.
What you’re holding in your hand! the voice said. Nothing is original anymore. Nothing is pure. What’s left is the world of appearances; ergo, your endless repetition of pop images, your bottomless narcissistic desire for attention, your need of acknowledgment from privileged insiders, your limp dick.
Huh? Harry said.
The author is dead! the voice said. Your dick is dead! the voice said. Andy Warhol took your cock and balls with him when he left.
But how could he do that? Harry said.
He’s Andy Warhol, the voice said. This is New York City. It’s the eighties. Just look at the hidden meaning of his name: War Hole.
All he did was draw it, Harry said.
Postmodern totemism! the voice said. Open the door! the voice said. There isn’t much time left! I have an antidote for you.
Antidote? Harry said.
Art, the voice said.
Harry unlocked the chain and opened the door.
THE LIGHTS ON the stage dimmed. The TV went off. Through the door, the lights went up on the back wall. In the background, you could hear Fiona on the accordion singing “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life.” There was a painting like the woman’s nose in BEFORE AND AFTER—only the before was a flaccid cock and the after was a hard cock. Between the flaccid cock and the hard cock was a section of empty canvas. In the section of empty canvas hung a small lantern on a hook.
Harry picked up the lantern and held it out to the audience.
Anybody out there seen my erection? Harry said.
Anybody out there seen a drawing of my erection? Harry said.
Anybody out there know where Andy Warhol is tonight? Harry said.
Anybody named Charlie 2Moons out there? Harry said.
A loud gasp from the audience. It was me.
Charlie 2Moons?
The pain in my forearms, up to my shoulders, splash down through heart, cattle prod to cock.
Harry walked to the mirror, held the lantern up to the mirror, looked at himself.
Anybody in there? Harry said.
* * *
THE LIGHTS WENT up, and everybody clapped. Rose wasn’t clapping, though. Neither was I. Rose and I weren’t clapping because I was holding tight onto Rose’s hand.
My mother’s nerves.
Rose put his bottom lip over his top lip. The color of the inside of his lips, I wondered what other parts on his body were that color.
So you know this Charlie 2Moons, Rose said.
I know him, I said.
Then: Crossed over, my mouth said. What you used to run away from happens to you here. Go to a performance in somebody’s basement and there’s your cock up on the stage!
Rose’s bracelets clack-clack.
So Tony and Tina’s Wedding! Rose said.
Susan Strong said that, I said.
I said it first, Rose said.
Rose put his extra-lovely hand on top of my hand that was holding his hand.
The play’s the thing, Rose said, To catch the conscience of the king.
All hat and no cowboy, I said.
The grilled salmon, Rose said. The Pinot Gris, the limp dick.
Fuck! I said, First Ellen broadcasts it all over the neighborhood, then Susan Strong makes performance art out of it!
Ah, fame! Rose said. Your cock is becoming a household word. Then: Make it aware, make art out of it! Rose said.
Susan Strong said that, I said.
Rose’s lips went together and he pushed them out. He took his hand away from my hand. Rose lifted his hand up between me and him, stuck his index finger up, moved it side to side, back and forth, back and forth.
No no Yoko Ono, Rose said.
I said it first, Rose said. I’m her AUI remember? Her Absolute Ultimate Idol.
Rose pulled the drape of the Jew or Arab hat from his face, bracelets clack-clack. I was back to clutching Rose’s leather coat.
That was the moment, the first time Rose didn’t use his eyes as a weapon. Rose really looked at me.
First rule, Rose said. Never touch me.
I let go of Rose’s leather jacket, put my fists in my armpits, folded my arms in front of me.
Rose pushed his chair back, stood up, leather sounds from his pants and jacket and combat boots.
You know, Rose said, You’re not th
e first man in history who thinks his cock is the path to wisdom. You’re not the first man to make his hard-on into the Holy Grail.
That’s different, I said.
What’s different? Rose said.
Searching for something to get you hard, I said, Is different from searching for your hard-on.
What’s different? Rose said.
What gets you hard, I said, Is out there. Getting hard, I said, Is in here. I was pointing at my chest.
Rose’s leather crotch was inches from my face. I not-looked at his crotch while I looked up at Rose’s face. His lips opened into a big smile, but it wasn’t a smile. Just something he put on his face.
So this Charlie 2Moons guy has your hard-on? Rose said.
No, I said, He’s got my heart.
Rose was looking at me again, really looking.
The Greeks, Rose said, Believed the hero is allowed to struggle against the superior power of destiny. The lucid compulsion to act, Rose said, To act polemically, Rose said, Determines the substance of the self.
Polema-what? I said.
Polemically, Rose said.
By resisting the gods, Rose said, The hero substantiates himself.
Rose turned his crotch around and there was his butt. He wasn’t wearing black leather pants. He was wearing black leather chaps, and his bare black butt was staring me in the face.
Wounded by the aroma of love. Definitely not Polo.
Rose kept talking as he walked away. It’s to ourselves, Rose said, That we are strangers. La lutte, Rose said—Rose raised his fist—The struggle, Rose said, Reveals to us who we are. The hindrance to our task is our task.
Rose had to duck his head to get through the Dixon Place door. His slick shiny big black butt, his leather legs, his combat boots, walked up the stairs.
Then, all at once, Rose turned, crouched down.
I’m curious, Rose said, Did Andy draw your cock?
Andy Warhol? I said, No way!
You’re lucky, Rose said, Because if it was Andy Warhol stole your erection, you’d never get it back.
Why’s that? I said.
Andy Warhol could be the Ultimate Shy Hunter, Rose said, But he’s too afraid.
Rose was across the street at the telephone booth by the service station when I caught up to him.
In the City of Shy Hunters Page 13