by Thom Jones
Still another pipes in, “Motherfucker look like a hairdresser to me. A hey-dresser.”
They all laughed their asses off, but I ignored this shit and eased up to the girl with my umbrella and in a baritone whisper sang, “‘Hello, I love you, won’t you tell me your name?’”
She laughed a little and looked me over. I could see a sense of relief roll over her like a wave. “Judith,” she says with a cockney accent. “Judith Smith. Who would you be, then?”
I extended my umbrella over her head and told her my name. She called me a real gentleman. Something she was unused to in these parts. I said, “Judith Smith, you look like you could stand to dry out. Look, I’m hungry. I don’t wish to sound forward or menacing; I’m a straight guy. Would you care to grab a bite?”
She braced herself and thought it over for a minute and then said, “Sure. I’m famished. I believe I could eat a horse.”
I hailed the next cab and as the driver whisked us away from the gangbangers, I told him to take us to Some Like It Hot. It was cold, and steaming with humidity in the taxi. I figured she could do with something spicy and the restaurant was in the general neighborhood. It was a fairly classy place, with a doorman in a red wool overcoat and a pair of white gloves waiting for us under a green canvas canopy. It was a slow night and we were escorted to a table overlooking the street. I made a pretense of looking over the menu but I knew what I wanted. I ordered the Szechuan Chicken No. 5. The way I see it, there are people who climb Everest, ballplayers who strive to hit ninety homers a year, runners trying to crack the three-minute mile, and people who eat five-power Szechuan. The waitress could barely speak English, so when I says, “Number five,” she goes off running and a second later the manager comes over in his blue tuxedo and extremely deferential he says, “Mr. Marzuki, you must be mistaken. Number five is velly huat. Not just for average Joe-man, Tom, Dick, and Harry.”
“That’s how I like it,” I says. “Hot stuff, babe—can’t get enough.”
Judith E. Smith tittered at yet another appropriately laid-in golden-oldies citation. Heh heh. I was doin’ good. I like to work song lyrics into my conversation. My court-appointed shrink says it’s a schizophrenic trait but chicks go for it. Meanwhile this restaurant manager is looking at me like I’m crazy. “Number five?” The guy had gone from yellow jaundice to pure white. Chinese Johnny Winter. He was a skinny guy but his hands were plump and he kept stabbing at the menu with his stubby finger. He says, “No, please, sir, this one velly big…misunnerslandish.” I held firm and away he went in a major Chinese tizzy. He disappeared into the bowels of the restaurant.
Out came the manager’s son, who spoke perfect English. We repeated the same conversation. “Number five?! Number five? Oh God, oh God, oh God!” I could tell Judith was impressed. She had slid out of her raincoat and started fussing with her hair. Preening behavior. Pretty soon the whole sinister Gang of Four surrounded our table, all of them excited. “Velly hot, velly hot! Not adwisable.”
“Calm down, boys. I am Louis E. Marzuki and I can eat anything you throw my way—ground glass, granular Drano—anything. I’m a responsible adult and I’m walking into this with my eyes wide open.” I was also going to add that I served in Manchuria with the Second Marines during that protracted conflict. I was going to lay that one in but I didn’t want to come off like a braggart.
Judith was impressed. She was in the palm of my hand. I could tell by her body language.
Given the gravity of my request the Gang of Four didn’t seem to catch the subtleties of my humor. They agreed to give me No. 5 but made me sign a consent form, in triplicate, absolving them of all responsibility. Had it notarized by the bookkeeper. Turns out they had never seen a common occidental eat authentic five-power Szechuan. Either I was completely insane or some kind of rough customer who was nonetheless charming, polite, charismatic, good-looking, et cetera—the list is long. Judith said, “If they don’t want people eating number five, then why is it on the menu?”
It felt good to get out of the rain, but an aura of tense expectation surrounded our small table. We had scarcely placed our order before the waiter appeared with our food. Judith got the spinach island with prawns at No. 1. She took two mouthfuls and had to put down her fork. Tears squirted from her big blue eyes. I asked her what she thought and she said it was like eating a volcano from hell. But then she has to be thinking, If this is a one and Louie orders a five, what other superpowers must he possess?
I dug into my Szechuan Chicken and was instantly transformed into a fire-breathing dragon. My throat slammed shut but I didn’t let on. I watched Judith Smith swallow a full glass of water and attempt another go at her spinach island. It was too much for her. Her neck spun in concentric circles and she goes, “Louie, I’m on fire!”
“Drinking water makes it worse, luv. Clear your palate with plain rice.” The words were barely out of my mouth when the second volley of delayed-action Szechuan chicken heat struck home. The sensation of a flaming napalm conflagration I felt at the back of my throat and oral cavity rose ten thousand degrees into a white phosphorus combustion; from a superficial burn to deep-tissue ignition. Like Judith, I was assailed by a fierce thirst. I gulped green tea, which only made it worse. By the time they got me to the ER, I was almost comatose. Instead of an evening of connubial bliss with the fair lady, I got an ice bath in the hospital hydrotherapy room. Then the ER doctor says, “Mr. Marzuki, your blood pressure is 260 over 195. And your blood work is not good. Your cholesterol is 409 and the triglycerides beyond measure. I’m putting you on Lipitor.” With Judith standing there wringing her hands, I forced myself to laugh. “Doc, I’m under a lot of pressure at work but, hey, I’m Louis Edmund Marzuki and I didn’t get to where I am in the world by sweating the small stuff. Don’t be such an alarmist.”
The doctor asked me what sort of work I perform. I think he was just making small talk so he could ogle Judith. I told him that I make hospital deliveries for Rado Labs. “Perhaps you’ve heard of us. My job is to convey radioactive materials to hospitals in the greater Chicago area. When you get riddled with cancer and all hope is gone, Rado can give you a single radium injection that gives you three months of health. Enough time to get your affairs in order and then…well, brother, then it’s all she wrote. You just bought the farm! Our sojourn on this fair planet is brief. Heh, heh, heh.”
But what I said was true, I was under pressure. Those motherfuckers at work are always expanding my area because the other drivers can’t cut the mustard. They go to old Mr. Reliable but how much can one man stand? I had made two late deliveries that week. From their point of view, you’ve got a cancer patient on the table and the surgeon and techs all in lead aprons and the conveyer and conveyance are unavoidably tied up in Chicago traffic! After I explained the situation, the ER doctor said, “Mr. Marzuki, I mistook you for an eminent physician, not a deliveryman.”
I just shrugged. “Well, Doc,” I says, “it’s a long story of coulda beens. You see, I had a misspent youth and did a lot of drugs and drinking. I was out there ripping and running. One time I took twenty hits of LSD and went into McDonald’s when the ghost of Jim Morrison came up to me, pointed his finger in my face, and said, ‘Louis, never take drugs again! Take it from one who knows.’ I told the Lizard King I would quit—gave him my word! We conversed for about an hour, talked about the Twelve Step Program and so on and then I said, ‘Jim, tell me something; what’s it like on the other side?’
“James Douglas Morrison thought this over for a moment and said, ‘It’s really great, Louie. You wouldn’t believe. I mean, it’s totally far out. Completely radical. Très bien, man. Très bien. But this is no time for you to break on though to the other side, Lou. Work your program, man.’”
The doctor said, “Was Mr. Morrison bloated, bearded, and twenty-seven, just as he died?”
I said, “No, he was at the zenith of health, thin, but dressed in sixties garb.”
Both Jude and the doctor were blown away by this
little vignette, as it not only confirmed their hope for a better world after this one, but also demonstrated my special status with a legend of rock music.
The doctor looks at me and says, “That’s amazing! Bizarre, but it has the harrowing ring of utter truth. What else did he say?”
“Well, you know, not a constant chorus of infernal hymns or anything boring but a true garden of luxury where the lion layeth down with the lamb. Pretty much how I had it figured. This was back in ’93 and I haven’t touched drugs since, that is except for my lithium and the Mellaril. I can get a little cranked up without that therapeutic combo. Boy!”
The ER doctor shook my hand and then he shook Judith’s hand and told her, “Mrs. Marzuki, your husband is one of the most intelligent and fascinating persons I have ever met.”
Of course Judith wasn’t Mrs. Marzuki then. It was our first date. I hardly knew her. She was wearing a white blouse and because it was partly wet you could see through it. She had thin shoulders and large breasts—just a humongous set of ta-tas. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on them, but of course you never know. Sometimes a woman will look great in clothes and then you get her bra off and find cellulite or something and it’s all you can do to go through with the act. This is especially true of redheads. Their pussy hair is weird. My first wife, Shaundra, was like that. If the truth be known, I only married S. because I felt sorry for her.
Shaundra, man, back in those days I was a chef at Never on Sundays and Shaundra was making her way as a waitress. One time she came back to the kitchen in tears. She was extremely distraught. I said, “What is wrong, Shaundra?”
Well, it turns out that Gary Payton when he was still with the Seattle SuperSonics came into town to play the Chicago Bulls. Now he was in her section acting rude and saying insulting things, she said. I have good common sense and am known for my ability for handling difficult people in touchy situations. I said, “Shaun, you go back out there and demand an apology.” Two minutes later she comes back crying even harder. She tried, but it simply didn’t work. She didn’t have the nerve to pull it off, the ego strength. Disgusted, I stepped away from my chores and said, “I’m going to just have to take care of this myself.” And man, did I ever. Here’s what happened: I marched out into the restaurant and confronted the high-scoring but often troublesome point guard mano a mano. I told Payton that just because he was a celebrity he had no right to act rude to any person be they big or small. I patiently and firmly reminded him that he was a role model for a lot of children and that it wasn’t right for him to come into a public establishment and start in with his vulgar trash talking. And he soon saw the error of his ways. By the time I was finished his head hung low in shame and tears were forming in the corners of his eyes. I thought maybe I went too far and because I didn’t want him to break out sobbing in the establishment, I demanded that he and his party leave immediately, which they did, chastened to the max! Needless to say, everyone was super impressed. Shaundra later changed the story of this incident to where she was no mere waitress but the hostess. And I wasn’t the chef but the dishwasher and Gary Payton wasn’t really Gary Payton but just some “tall black guy emaciated from crack cocaine and AIDS.” I mean I can tell a big-ass motherfucking lie like anyone, but my version of the story is what really happened. I was benching 380 in those days. Well, fuck her and the horse she rode in on—and she was a horse! Shaundra’s ankles were always too strong and her legs were only passable in high heels and sheer stockings. You can sure get sick of a chick coming at you with legs like a Clydesdale. Having her home in on you like a linebacker, bearing down hard—not pleasant.
But I digress. Rado’s been all over me not only for two “lates” but also for a series of driving violations. This guy in a red BMW convertible, some kind of olive-skinned camel jockey, pulled in front of me on Lake Shore Drive the other day and when I caught up with him, I took my hands off the wheel and you know, I don’t like being crude or anything, but I double-flipped him off. Bingo, a motorcycle cop pulls me over and starts writing me up for reckless driving. Real calm, I said, “Officer, I want you to understand that the man in that red BMW almost caused a five-car collision. He is the true psycho and a menace of the roadway. A road-rage classic, an angry and bitter maniac!”
“Is that right?” the trooper says, a big wiseass.
“Yes,” I said. “You know, last night in bed I was reading Cicero where this guy comes along and says, ‘And yet, Prometheus, I think you know that reason may be doctor to your wrath.’ And Prometheus says, ‘Yes, if it chooses well the time for treatment and does not probe the wound that is inflamed.’ Perhaps you take my meaning, Officer.”
He did, called me a regular philosopher. He put away his ticket pad as I informed him that I was a commercial driver with a priority order of radioactive material for a VIP cancer patient. “As we sit here and banter a sick man lies on the table, dying.” The officer looked in the back seat and saw the radioactive cautionary signs on the lead box and said, “Mr. Marzuki, say no more. I’m human and capable of mistakes like any man.” He handed me back my license and took off on his motorcycle. I was greatly relieved because another violation and my license would be suspended. Five miles north I saw him writing a ticket to the shitheel in the BMW. I honked as I passed and the police officer gave me the thumbs-up signal and flashed a big smile. Little good it did. I was twenty-eight minutes late and placed on probation by the chief pharmacist at Rado. “Fuck up one more time, Marzuki, and your lazy ass is on the street,” he says.
Charles Bronson, the actor, is a good pal of mine. You know, it’s probably no secret but Charlie likes the ladies as I do. We like to go down to Mexico and party with Hollywood starlets, in the nude. Charles is eight inches hard and my wanger is ten. We have really great times in Mexico and we’ve been doing this since God knows when. Sometimes he will just pop by to talk about philosophy or to pick my brain about world events and the meaning of life. A great chess player is Charles. Not my caliber but damn close! Judith calls this all a “Walter Mitty fantasy.” I won’t lie, we went through some tough times after that romantic first date and she quit believing in me.
Sometimes Judith can be harder than nails and she will just ride my ass. She let herself go after we got married and put on some major poundage. It is my bane! Seven wives and all of them fatsoes! The fat gave her energy—turned into a carping fishwife, a highly dominant woman of the sort who can only respond to men that are stronger than her. Men who are confident at every level of thought and action. Hugh Hefner and I have had many discussions on this very subject. Hef has made a life study of the opposite sex. Ordinarily I can chill Judith out with a love poem and five or six dozen roses, but when we went to the Marzuki family reunion in Skokie last week, my stupid brother, Calvin, threw food in my mother’s face. Jesus, what a dick! Well, he was completely out of control on Pabst Blue Ribbon. I had to do something so I hopped on the bastard, threw him out the window, and then ten cop cars show up. It took eighteen officers to pull me off of Calvin. Eighteen, and that is no lie. During the bloody scuffle, the officer in charge said, “Louis, please listen to reason; you’re going to kill him and go to jail. It’s not worth it for a man of your caliber to throw it all away over a senseless weekend beef.” He was right.
They wanted to cuff me and chain me in leg irons but when I gave the officer in charge my word to behave, I was taken to the station without restraints. In fact I rode to the precinct building with the homicide detective, who said he never saw such a display of martial arts short of a Jackie Chan flick! Eighteen officers on one man! Judith followed along in the Morris Minor to bail me out. She reminded me that this was the fourth straight Marzuki reunion that had ended in a brawl. (Okay, I’m one-fourth Native American and sometimes I forget my own strength and fighting prowess and sometimes I forget my medication.) After I posted bail, I took Judith to Vito’s. I was formerly the head chef there and in all modesty I must confess that my Alfredo sauce put them on the map—made them famous! (
They stole the patent on it but hell, that’s all water under the bridge. I let bygones be bygones.) At Vito’s Judith ordered a mai tai that was too sweet and the next thing you know, I’m behind the bar fixing drinks. I’m a pretty good mixologist. (Hef used to love what I could do with rum and Pepsi, begged me to come work at the mansion back in the old days, but I was writing my novel at the time and had to turn him down.) So, as I said, I got pretty creative behind the bar and, meanwhile, Judy got laced. Alcohol was the bridge that led her into a really bad, high-dominance mood. There are times when you realize that your very marriage can slip into eternal ruin if you do not immediately say or do the exactly right thing. Like duh, I got some big experience there? Well, that night at Vito’s, after the brawl and the jailing and her sitting alone drinking solitary mai tais—this was one of those moments. I reached deep down into the heart of my Marzuki soul. I did not come up with lyrical poetry. Words were simply not sufficient; like the samurai that I am, I chose action. The next thing you know we were back at Some Like It Hot. I told her I lost four hours’ time on the job with Rado. She’s all pissed, worried I’m going to get canned. But, man, I don’t even know what happened. One minute you’re fine and the next, four hours is gone! Twilight Zone gone. What happened to the time? Weird. I just remember coming to on Lake Shore Drive. I had a dull headache and my face lay against the steering wheel of the Morris Minor. One minute it’s 8 A.M. and the next thing you know it’s high noon. I missed a shitload of deliveries. This is what I tell Judith. She lit up a Marlboro Light and narrowed her huge eyes into angry little razor slits. She gets this bored sarcastic voice and says, “Tell your boss it was a UFO abduction.” This is not as ridiculous as it sounds. In fact, it was highly likely. I sort of remember a probelike object being stuck into my liver by these little dudes in silver suits with big eyes. Ho, you say! But it’s true! I don’t embellish or self-aggrandize. I show my warts. The court-appointed shrink says I have borderline-personality disorder that occasionally slides away from hard reality into the dark world of psychosis. He heard my story and seemed to think I flipped out and lost four hours to madness, not a UFO. Was I on my meds? “‘No? Well, sorta?’ Aha, Louis! Proof positive! I hope you haven’t been drinking again!” Goddamn it, the bastard. I only see him because of the court order, though I must confess the last time I shit-canned the lithium, some very bad things happened and I got a look at the dark pit of my soul. Here is how it went down, years ago: I maxed out my Master Charge and got a sound system installed in the Morris Minor. Top of the line. I parked it in back of the kitchen. This is back in the days when I was washing dishes. I just got through cleaning out the grease trap, stepped outside for a smoke, and there sat the Morris with four flat tires, my sound system gone, and a pair of smashed headlights in the bargain. I had to hump it home that night, six miles. Six miles through the South Side of Chicago. Right through the heart of Blackstone Ranger territory. I didn’t give a shit, the way I was feeling I wished a whole pack of them would try to attack me! Let’s get it on. I was ready to rumble.