“I thought it already was,” said Blinky.
“YOU PRICK!”
The girls turned on their heels and were gone into the night.
Blinky walked up to Carl. He slid the Laker’s ticket at him.
Carl reached for his wallet. Blinky waved him off and walked down to Barney the Hump.
“Why’d you slap that girl, Barney?”
“WHY? HEY, WHY, HUH? WHY, HUH?”
“Yeah, why?”
“That whore stuck her finger in my ear!”
“What’s the matter? You got a problem with that?”
“I just don’t like girls who jerk me around,” Barney said with a grin.
The phone rang again. Carl picked it up.
“Lion’s Nuts…”
“I’ll kill myself, that’s what I’ll do, I’LL KILL MYSELF!”
“No chance,” said Carl and hung up.
The hardest thing about life, he thought, was dealing with other people’s problems. You could be consumed with other people’s problems: they were always having car crashes or going mad or forgetting to pay the rent, or they left the butter out, fucked strangers, had insomnia, or—if they slept—had unhappy dreams. And they never considered the fact that you had your own miseries to unravel. Ah, well…
Carl nodded Blinky in for another refill.
“You gonna make the game?” Blinky asked.
“Sure. I always arrive late to beat the traffic and leave early to beat the traffic.”
“Why go at all?”
“What do you want me to do? Sit around and listen to Chopin?”
“Carl, those two girls were fine looking. How come you passed?”
“I don’t know. Fucking to me is like shaving. I guess it’s something I have to do now and then but I feel like putting it off.”
“You getting old?”
“Maybe just wise. You know, fucking is nature’s idea.”
“A good idea, I think.”
“Yeah, but overrated.”
“You’re putting me on…”
Blinky moved off…
It was maybe ten minutes later that the girls came back. They stood just inside the door. And in front of them stood their pimp. Big and dark. But he was different than most. He wasn’t one of those slick pimps. He wasn’t dressed to shine. He had on an old overcoat and heavy workman’s shoes. He was very big with a razor scar curling down the left side of his face. He looked like a good natured guy who could get very mean and he looked ready to get very mean.
“Gentlemen, I hear my girls have been having some trouble in here.”
Nobody answered.
“It makes me unhappy when somebody makes one of my girls unhappy. And I don’t like them or me to be unhappy.”
Blinky moved forward a bit, then stopped.
“Listen, man, it was just a mistake. One of those things, you know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
The pimp just stood there.
He stood there and stood there. It was very quiet. The girls waited behind the big guy. It was an agony of tension. Every small sound could be heard. The dripping of the bar faucet, the slight hum of the electric clock and the almost soothing sound of the street traffic.
Then Mickey the Bookie, the drunkest of them all, sitting at bar center said, “Yeah. So shit. What ya gonna do?”
The pimp moved at once. He moved in behind Mickey before Mickey could react. Mickey was working on a draft beer. His glass was half full. The pimp took the glass and spilled the contents on the bar.
“What I’m going to do, I’m going to do. But the first thing YOU’RE going to do is lap that up!”
“Kiss my ass,” Mickey said.
Mickey had on a blue Dodger’s baseball cap. The pimp flipped it off, grabbed Mickey by the hair and then he had the razor at his throat.
“Get it! Lap it up! Every last motherfucking drop! NOW!”
He pushed Mickey’s head down and Mickey’s tongue came out. He began lapping at the bar.
“Hey, man,” said Blinky, “you…”
“SHUT UP!”
The pimp held Mickey’s head down and Mickey’s tongue worked up the beer. Then he let him go. He stepped back. Mickey straightened up and lit a cigarette. The cigarette trembled in his mouth. He inhaled, then exhaled a pitiful curl of smoke.
“You guys,” said the pimp, “got to learn that my ladies are real ladies and must be treated accordingly. They offer a service that keeps mankind contented and I don’t want them pushed around.”
Carl turned on his stool.
“All right, whatever we did, it’s done. Maybe it was wrong. It probably was. We’re sorry for that. But you’re making too much of it.”
“I’ll decide what’s too much,” the pimp said. “I intend to see that this kind of shit doesn’t continue.”
“So what are you going to do?” asked Carl, looking at the razor in his hand. “Kill somebody? You want somebody’s balls in a sack?”
“I wouldn’t mind that, I might arrange that.”
“Come on, Jason,” said Toni, “let’s get out of here. We don’t need any more. We don’t need this shit.”
The pimp nodded her off.
“I want to know which guy hit my woman. Now, whoever hit my woman, I want him to speak up.”
There was silence.
“You might as well speak up. All I gotta do is ask my woman.”
There was more silence. Barney the Hump drained his drink and stood up.
“I hit your whore. She stuck her finger in my ear and messed with me and if she did the same thing again I’d hit her again.”
“Mister,” said the big pimp, “it’s evident your mother never taught you manners.”
The pimp moved forward. Barney the Hump squared off in front of the crapper. Barney missed with a right as the pimp came in and they both crashed through the crapper door. It splintered like balsa wood. There was a scramble in the crapper and the pimp came out holding Barney in a death grip. He spun him once, then lifted him and threw him across the bar and into the bar mirror. The mirror shattered, bottles fell and smashed as Barney fell behind the bar and lay motionless, face down. Then a full quart of gin came sailing from somewhere and caught the pimp behind the ear. He staggered a moment, then righted himself.
Then he roared, “I’LL GET ALL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!”
Patrons were running out the front and out the back. The big pimp had his razor out and he sliced through the motion, sliced part of an ear from Mickey the Bookie. Suddenly the lights went out. The girls screamed, ran. There was the flash of a gunshot and the pimp dropped his razor and grabbed his belly.
“Christ, you chickenshit…”
Carl ran out the back way and into the alley and then out of there and west down 6th Street. People were just strolling along and he slowed to a fast walk. He circled the corner and went down to where his car was parked. He got in, kicked it over, looking back at the bar. Nobody was coming out of there. Then the pimp walked out. He looked powerful in the early night. He stood there a moment like a man looking for a cab. Then he fell forward not able to put out his hands to break the fall. His head hit first, bounced, then he was still. Carl drove off to the sound of an approaching siren.
Carl unlocked the door, put the chain on and flicked on the light. Rissy was sitting on the couch. There was a half-a-fifth of scotch on the table and Rissy was drunk, hair down in her face. She was smoking a king-sized cigarette, a red glow on the end of it. She coughed.
“Hey, where ya been, lover boy? Out fuckin’?”
“Christ, what are you doing here?”
“I wanna talk. I told you he hit me! I wanna talk!”
Carl sat down, took a hit straight from the bottle.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Hey, that’s been our PROBLEM, lover boy! We never talked about things!”
“We don’t have any problem. Our marriage is annulled.”
Carl sat to her left. She reached out a hand, touched h
im, and as she did so she spilled some of her drink in her lap. The long glowing cigarette was in her mouth and she smiled around it.
“Hey, what do you think? I’m NEVER going to let you go! It’s love! True love!”
“Ah, shit,” said Carl. He lifted the fifth and had another hit.
Rissy put her cigarette out in the ashtray, tossed off her drink, filled it again, lit another cigarette.
“That son-of-a-bitch beat me up, can you imagine? That son-of-a-bitch BEAT me!”
“What did you do? Were you screwing around?”
She looked at him, hair still down in her face. Her speech was slurred. She sat with her cigarette in one hand, her drink in the other:
“What’s THAT got to do with it? You don’t BEAT people! People have their rights! Don’t ya think?”
Carl didn’t answer. He picked up a cigarette and the lighter. He bent over the lighter, flicked it. The flame was too full. As he lit the cigarette he burned his nose.
“God damn it,” he said.
Rissy reached out and touched him again.
“Whatsa matter, honey?”
Then she picked up the remote control, switched on the tv set and they both sat waiting for the screen to come to life.
met a man on the street
who said, “you’ve kept me going for two
years, it’s really amazing to meet you.”
“thank you,” I answered, “but who’s
going to keep me going?”
I’ve asked this question before and
all I ever get back is a gentle
smile.
but it’s a good question.
they have no notion that I may consider
suicide several times a
week.
they’ve read some of my books
and that’s enough for
them.
but I only write that stuff,
I can’t read
it.
hell is now
the sun was rather diminished,
the dog came in low,
11:32 a.m.
Wednesday in the year of
our Lord,
all the man heard was the
low gurgling growl,
then the beast had ripped
his thigh,
it was summertime,
the scream parted the
air,
the beast
pirouetted,
leaped powerfully,
sailed toward the
man’s
throat,
flowers grew in the
flower beds,
the lawn was newly
mowed,
the man threw up
his hands
against the bared
fangs,
shrank away,
the beast bounced
off,
landed on all
fours,
the small finger
of the man’s
right hand
in his
mouth.
the dog stood
dumbly,
then dropped the
finger.
it was a majestic
and beautiful
animal.
its fur rose
along its back
and about the
neck.
it began circling
the man
rapidly.
“JESUS CHRIST!
JESUS CHRIST,
HELP ME!”
two men came
running from the neighboring
back yard.
one was fat and
bald
with a face like
an owl.
the other was
thin with a very
white face
with a large
birthmark,
purple-black,
shaped like a
walnut.
“BRIGGS!” they
yelled,
“BRIGGS!
STOP THAT!”
Briggs paused, then
trotted off into the
back yard.
the man held his
hand
up against his
chest
and covered it
with his
other hand.
the man was
sobbing, sobbing
choking
sobs.
“I’ll KILL that
fucking dog!
I’ll KILL both
of you!
what’s the matter?
are you CRAZY?
ARE YOU
CRAZY?”
then the fat man
with the face
like an
owl
saw something
on the
lawn.
he walked over
and looked down
at it.
it was the
finger.
“what’s this?”
he asked.
“what’s this?”
an old man on a
bicycle rode past
on the sidewalk
he was in red
and white shorts,
wore goggles
and a yellow
helmet.
on the back of
his sweat shirt
it said,
MEAT ME,
BABY.
he rode on
by.
it was 11:39 a.m.
in the year of our
Lord.
the kid
had trouble hitting left
handers so I got him to
switch hit,
then I shifted him from
left to center,
dropped him from
lead-off to the 6th
spot,
also had him work
on the bunt.
I had long talks with
him about his
career,
told him that
concentration was
essential.
I worked hard with
the kid,
had him take
extra batting
practice,
had him switch
to a lighter
bat,
work on
contact,
the power would
come by
itself.
I had him stand
closer to the
plate,
be more
selective at
what he
swung
at.
I worked hard
with the
kid,
played him
every day
but his average
dipped to
.229 and I had
to ship him
to the
minors.
all that talent
and he couldn’t get
it
together.
he acted confused,
disoriented.
my guess was
it’s some
broad.
poor bastard.
all that
natural talent
shot to
shit.
I’ve seen it
happen so many
times.
well, I’ve got
Sunderson out
there now.
he’s hitting
.289,
lots of line
drives,
he’s adequate
in the
field,
steady.
we oughta be
right in the
race,
come
September.
“To Serve and Protect”
there were two policemen on motorcycles.
ther
e was a policelady and a policeman
from a squad car.
the car was angled crosswise in the
driveway to the parking lot
of the cafe.
one policeman was calling in
downtown.
there was a man about
23.
he was facing the wall of a
building.
he was obviously an
indigent.
his clothes were greasy and
ill-fitting.
and he had shit his
pants.
the stain was showing
through the back.
he was not cuffed
and he was not directly
facing the
wall.
he was turned a little to
one side,
peeking at his
captors.
the police seemed to be
hardly
watching him.
they were
indifferent,
talking among
themselves.
it was a beautiful winter
afternoon.
I walked past the scene
on the way to the
cafe.
as I did, the lady policeman
gave me a hateful look
that said, buzz off, this is
none of your
business.
it was and it
wasn’t.
I went into the cafe and had
lunch.
when I came out
everybody was
gone
and it was still a
beautiful winter
afternoon.
poor bastard had shit his
Betting on the Muse Page 9