“Hey, Boner!” Roger hollered. “Come on, Boner!” The idiot creature, soft of belly, salivated in. They left together.
I only lasted three more months. Doreen met some guy who could speak three languages and was an Egyptologist. I went back to my bombed-out court in east Hollywood.
I was coming out of my dentist’s office in Glendale one day nearly a year later and there was Doreen getting into her car. I walked over and we went into a cafe and had coffee.
“How’s the novel?” she asked.
“Still stalled,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll ever finish the son of a bitch.”
“You alone now?” she asked.
“No.”
“I’m not alone either.”
“Good.”
“It’s not good but it’s all right.”
“Is Roger still up there with Lynne?”
“She was going to dump him,” Doreen told me. “Then he got drunk and fell off the balcony. He was paralyzed from the waist down. He collected $50,000 from the insurance company. Then he got better. Went from crutches to cane. He’s able to walk Boner again. He recently took some marvelous photographs of Olvera Street. Listen, I’ve got to run. I’m going to London next week. A working vacation. All expenses paid! Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
Doreen jumped up, smiled, walked out, turned west and was gone. I lifted my coffeecup, took a sip, put it back down. The check lay on the table. $1.85. I had $2 which would just cover it plus the tip. How the hell I was going to pay my dentist was another matter.
THE GREAT POET
I went to see him. He was the great poet. He was the best narrative poet since Jeffers, still under 70 and famous throughout the world. Perhaps his two best-known books were My Grief Is Better Than Your Grief, Ha! and The Dead Chew Gum in Languor. He had taught at many universities, had won all the prizes, including the Nobel Prize. Bernard Stachman.
I climbed the steps of the YMCA. Mr. Stachman lived in Room 223. I knocked. “HELL, COME ON IN!” somebody screamed from inside. I opened the door and walked in. Bernard Stachman was in bed. The smell of vomit, wine, urine, shit and decaying food was in the air. I began to gag. I ran to the bathroom, vomited, then came out.
“Mr. Stachman,” I said, “why don’t you open a window?”
“That’s a good idea. And don’t give me any of that ‘Mr. Stachman’ shit, I’m Barney.”
He was crippled, and after a great effort he managed to pull himself out of the bed and into the chair at his side. “Now for a good talk,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for this.”
At his elbow, on a table, was a gallon jug of dago red filled with cigarette ashes and dead moths. I looked away, then looked back. he had the jug to his mouth but most of the wine ran right back out, down his shirt, down his pants. Bernard Stachman put the jug back. “Just what I needed.”
“You ought to use a glass,” I said. “It’s easier.”
“Yes, I believe you’re right.” He looked around. There were a few dirty glasses and I wondered which one he would choose. He chose the nearest one. The bottom of the glass was filled with a hardened yellow substance. It looked like the remains of chicken and noodles. He poured the wine. Then he lifted the glass and emptied it. “Yes, that’s much better. I see you brought your camera. I guess you came to photograph me?”
“Yes,” I said. I went over and opened the window and breathed in the fresh air. It had been raining for days and the air was fresh and clear.
“Listen,” he said, “I been meaning to piss for hours. Bring me an empty bottle.” There were many empty bottles. I brought him one. He didn’t have a zipper, just buttons, with only the bottom button fastened because he was so bloated. He reached in and got his penis and rested the head on the lip of the bottle. The moment he began to urinate his penis stiffened and waved about, spraying piss all over—on his shirt, on his pants, in his face, and unbelievably, the last spurt went into his left ear.
“It’s hell being crippled,” he said.
“How did it happen?” I asked.
“How did what happen?”
“Being crippled.”
“My wife. She ran me over with her car.”
“How? Why?”
“She said she couldn’t stand me anymore.”
I didn’t say anything. I took a couple of photos.
“I got photos of my wife. Want to see some photos of my wife?”
“All right.”
“The photo album is there on top of the refrigerator.”
I walked over and got it, sat down. There were just shots of high-heeled shoes and a woman’s trim ankles, nylon-covered legs with garter belts, assorted legs in panty hose. On some of the pages were pasted ads from the meat market: chuck roast, 89¢ a pound. I closed the album. “When we divorced,” he said, “she gave me these.” Bernard reached under the pillow on his bed and pulled out a pair of high-heeled shoes with long spike heels. He’d had them bronzed. He stood them on the night table. Then he poured another drink. “I sleep with those shoes,” he said, “I make love to those shoes and then wash them out.”
I took some more photos.
“Here, you want a photo? Here’s a good photo.” He unbuttoned the lone button on his pants. He didn’t have on any underwear. He took the heel of the shoe and wiggled it up his behind. “Here, take this one.” I got the photo.
It was difficult for him to stand but he managed by holding onto the night table.
“Are you still writing, Barney?”
“Hell, I write all the time.”
“Don’t your fans interrupt your work?”
“Oh hell, sometimes the women find me but they don’t stay long.”
“Are your books selling?”
“I get royalty checks.”
“What is your advice to young writers?”
“Drink, fuck and smoke plenty of cigarettes.”
“What is your advice to older writers?”
“If you’re still alive, you don’t need any advice.”
“What is the impulse that makes you create a poem?”
“What makes you take a shit?”
“What do you think of Reagan and unemployment?”
“I don’t think of Reagan or unemployment. It all bores me. Like space flights and the Super Bowl.”
“What are your concerns then?”
“Modern women.”
“Modern women?”
“They don’t know how to dress. Their shoes are dreadful.”
“What do you think of Women’s Liberation?”
“Any time they’re willing to work the car washes, get behind the plow, chase down the two guys who just held up the liquor store, or clean up the sewers, anytime they’re ready to get their tits shot off in the army, I’m ready to stay home and wash the dishes and get bored picking lint off the rug.”
“But isn’t there some logic in their demands?”
“Of course.”
Stachman poured another drink. Even drinking from the glass, part of the wine dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. He had the body odor of a man who hadn’t bathed in months. “My wife,” he said, “I’m still in love with my wife. Hand me that phone, will you?” I handed the phone to him. He dialed a number. “Claire? Hello, Claire?” He put the receiver down.
“What happened?” I asked.
“The usual. She hung up. Listen, let’s get out of here, let’s go to a bar. I’ve been in this damned room too long. I need to get out.”
“But it’s raining. It’s been raining for a week. The streets are flooded.”
“I don’t care. I want to get out. She’s probably fucking some guy right now. She’s probably got her high heels on. I always made her leave her high heels on.”
I helped Bernard Stachman get into an old brown overcoat. All the buttons were missing off the front. It was stiff with grime. It was hardly an L.A. overcoat, it was heavy and clumsy, it must have come from Chicago or Denver in the thirties.
Then we got his crutches and we climbed painfully down the YMCA stairway. Bernard had a fifth of muscatel in one of the pockets. We reached the entrance and Bernard assured me he could make it across the sidewalk and into the car. I was parked some distance from the curbing.
As I ran around to the other side to get in I heard a shout and then a splash. It was raining, and raining hard. I ran back around and Bernard had managed to fall and wedge himself in the gutter between the car and the curbing. The water swept around him, he was sitting up, the water rushed over him, ran down through his pants, lapped against his sides, the crutches floating sluggishly in his lap.
“It’s all right,” he said, “just drive on and leave me.”
“Oh hell, Barney.”
“I mean it. Drive on. Leave me. My wife doesn’t love me.”
“She’s not your wife, Barney. You’re divorced.”
“Tell that to the Marines.”
“Come on, Barney, I’m going to help you up.”
“No, no. It’s all right. I assure you. Just go ahead. Get drunk without me.”
I picked him up, got the door open and lifted him into the front seat. He was very, very wet. Streams of water ran across the floorboards. Then I went around to the other side and got in. Barney unscrewed the cap off the bottle of muscatel, took a hit, passed the bottle to me. I took a hit. Then I started the car and drove, looking out through the windshield into the rain for a bar that we might possibly enter and not vomit the first time we got the look and smell of the urinal.
YOU KISSED LILLY
It was a Wednesday night. The television hadn’t been much good. Theodore was 56. His wife, Margaret, was 50. They had been married 20 years and had no children. Ted turned off the light. They stretched out in the dark.
“Well,” said Margy, “aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”
Ted sighed and turned to her. He gave her a light kiss.
“You call that a kiss?”
Ted didn’t answer.
“That woman on the program looked just like Lilly, didn’t she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know.”
“Listen, don’t start anything and there won’t be anything.”
“You just don’t want to discuss things. You just want to clam up. Be honest now. That woman on the progam looked like Lilly, didn’t she?”
“All right. There was a similarity.”
“Did it make you think of Lilly?”
“Oh Christ…”
“Don’t be evasive! Did it make you think of her?”
“For a moment or so, yes…”
“Did it make you feel good?”
“No, listen, Marge, that thing happened five years ago!”
“Does time change what happens?”
“I told you I was sorry.”
“Sorry! Do you know what you did to me? Suppose I had done that with some man? How would you feel?”
“I don’t know. Do it and then I’ll know.”
“Oh, now you’re being flip! It’s a joke!”
“Marge, we’ve discussed this thing four or five hundred nights.”
“When you were making love to Lilly did you kiss her like you kissed me tonight?”
“No, I guess not…”
“How then? How?”
“Jesus, stop it!”
“How?”
“Well, different.”
“How was it different?”
“Well, there was a newness. I got excited…”
Marge sat up in bed and screamed. Then she stopped.
“And when you kiss me it’s not exciting, is that it?”
“We’re used to each other.”
“But that’s what love is: living and growing together.”
“O.K.”
“‘O.K.’? What do you mean—‘O.K.’?”
“I mean, you’re right.”
“You don’t say it like you mean it. You just don’t want to talk. You’ve lived with me all these years. Do you know why?”
“I’m not sure. People just settle into things, like jobs. People just settle into things. It happens.”
“You mean being with me is like a job? Is it like a job now?”
“You punch a time clock on a job.”
“There you go again! This is a serious discussion!”
“All right.”
“‘All right’? You loathsome ass! You’re about to fall asleep!”
“Margy, what do you want me to do? That happened years ago!”
“All right, I’ll tell you what I want you to do! I want you to kiss me like you did Lilly! I want you to fuck me like you did Lilly!”
“I can’t do that…”
“Why? Because I don’t excite you like Lilly did? Because I’m not new?”
“I hardly remember Lilly.”
“You must remember enough. All right, you don’t have to fuck me! Just kiss me like you did Lilly!”
“Oh my god, Margy, please let off, I beg you!”
“I want to know why we’ve lived all these years together! Have I wasted my life?”
“Everybody does, almost everybody does.”
“Waste their lives?”
“I think so.”
“If you could only guess how much I hate you!”
“Do you want a divorce?”
“Do I want a divorce? Oh my god, how calm you are! You ruin my whole god damned life and then ask me if I want a divorce! I’m 50 years old! I’ve given you my life! Where do I go from here?”
“You can go to hell! I’m tired of your voice. I’m tired of your bitching.”
“Suppose I had done that with a man?”
“I wish you had. I wish you would!”
Theodore closed his eyes. Margaret sobbed. Outside a dog barked. Somebody tried to start a car. It wouldn’t start. It was 65 degrees in a small town in Illinois. James Carter was president of the United States.
Theodore began to snore. Margaret went to the bottom drawer of the dresser and got the gun out. A .22 revolver. It was loaded. She got back into bed with her husband.
Margaret shook him. “Ted, darling, you’re snoring…”
She shook him again.
“What is it…?” Ted asked.
She took the safety off the gun and put the gun to the part of his chest nearest her and pulled the trigger. The bed jolted and she pulled the gun away. A sound much like a fart came out of Theodore’s mouth. He didn’t seem to be in pain. The moon shone through the window. She looked and the hole was small and there wasn’t much blood. Margaret moved the gun to the other side of Theodore’s chest. She pulled the trigger again. This time he made no sound at all. But he continued to breathe. She watched him. The blood was coming. The blood stank terribly.
Now that he was dying she almost loved him. But Lilly, when she thought about Lilly…Ted’s mouth on hers, and all the rest, then she wanted to shoot him again…Ted had always looked good in a turtleneck and he looked good in green, and when he farted in bed he always first turned away—he never farted against her. He seldom missed a day at work. He’d miss tomorrow…
Margaret sobbed for a while and then went to sleep.
When Theodore awakened he felt as if there were long sharp reeds stuck into each side of his chest. He felt no pain. He put his hands on his chest and then lifted them in the moonlight. His hands were covered with blood. It confused him. He looked at Margaret. She was asleep and in her hand was the gun he had taught her to use for her own protection.
He sat up and the blood began exiting more quickly from the two holes in his chest. Margaret had shot him while he had been asleep. For fucking Lilly. He hadn’t even been able to climax with Lilly.
He thought, I’m almost dead but if I can get away from her I might have a chance.
Theodore gently reached over and unclasped Margaret’s fingers from the gun. The safety catch was still off.
I don’t want to kill you, he thought, I just want to get away. I think I’ve wa
nted to get away for at least 15 years.
He managed to get out of bed. He took the gun and pointed it at Margaret’s upper thigh, right leg. He fired.
Margy screamed and he put his hand over her mouth. He waited some minutes and then took his hand away.
“What are you doing, Theodore?”
He pointed the gun at Margaret’s upper thigh, left leg. He fired. He stopped her new scream by putting his hand over her mouth again. He held it there some minutes, then took it away.
“You kissed Lilly,” Margaret said.
There were two bullets left in the gun. Ted straightened and looked at the holes in his chest. The hole on the right side had stopped bleeding. The hole on the left side spurted a thin needle-like line of red at regular intervals.
“I’ll kill you!” Margy told him from the bed.
“You really want to, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes! And I will!”
Ted began to feel dizzy and sick. Where were the cops? Surely they had heard all the gunshots? Where were they? Couldn’t anybody hear gunfire?
He saw the window. He fired at the window. He was getting weaker. He fell to his knees. He moved on his knees toward another window. He fired again. The bullet made a round hole in the glass but it didn’t shatter. A black shadow passed in front of him. Then it was gone.
He thought, I’ve got to get this gun out of here!
Theodore gathered the last of his strength. He threw the gun against the window pane. The glass broke but the gun fell back inside of the house…
As he became conscious his wife was standing over him. She was actually standing on the two legs he had shot. She was reloading the gun.
“I’m going to kill you,” she said.
“Margy, for Christ’s sake, listen! I love you!”
“Crawl, you lying dog!”
“Margy, please….”
Theodore began to crawl toward another bedroom.
She followed him. “So, it excited you to kiss Lilly?”
“No, no! I didn’t like it! I hated it!”
“I’ll blow those damned kissing lips right off your mouth!”
“Margy, my god!”
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