She sat down. The toast came up and Kevin handed her a slice.
“Gwen, when you don’t remember something it is very strange. It’s the same as if it never happened.”
“Some murderers forget what they’ve done too.”
“You’re not comparing this to murder?”
“It can seriously affect the future of two little girls.”
“A lot of things can.”
“I’d have to guess that your behavior was destructive.”
“Maybe it was constructive. Maybe they liked it.”
“It’s been a hell of a long time,” Gwen said, “since you sniffed my peepee.”
“That’s right, bring yourself into it.”
“I am in it. We live in a community of 20,000 people and something like this is not going to stay a secret.”
“How are they going to prove it? It’s two little girls’ word against mine.”
“More coffee?”
“Yes.”
“I meant to get you some tabasco sauce. I know you like it on your eggs.”
“You always forget.”
“I know. Listen, Kevin, you finish your breakfast. You take as long as you want to eat. Excuse me. I have something to do.”
“All right.”
He wasn’t sure if he loved Gwen but living with her was comfortable. She took care of all the details and details were what drove a man crazy. He put plenty of butter on his toast. Butter was one of man’s last luxuries. Automobiles would one day be too expensive to buy and everybody would just sit around eating butter and waiting. The Jesus freaks who talked about the end of the world were looking better every day. Kevin finished his toast and butter and Gwen walked back in.
“All right, it’s arranged. I’ve called everybody.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s going to be a meeting in one hour at Tom’s place.”
“Tom’s place?”
“Yes, Tom and Bonnie and Bonnie’s parents and Tom’s brother and sister—they’ll all be there.”
“Will the kids be there?”
“No.”
“What about Bonnie’s lawyer?”
“Are you frightened?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“I don’t know. I have never sniffed a little girl’s peepee.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it is neither decent nor civilized.”
“And where has our decent civilization led us?”
“I guess to men like you who take little girls into closets.”
“You seem to be enjoying this.”
“I don’t know if those little girls will ever forgive you.”
“You want me to ask their forgiveness? I have to do that? For something I don’t even remember?”
“Why not?”
“Let them forget it. Why drive the point home?”
As Kevin and Gwen drove up in front of Tom’s place, Tom stood up and said, “Here they are. Now we’ve all got to stay calm. There’s a decent, fair way to settle this. We’re all mature human beings. We can settle everything among ourselves. There’s no need to call the police. Last night I wanted to kill Kevin. Now I just want to help him.”
The six relatives of Jeanjean and Cathy sat and waited. The doorbell rang. Tom opened the door. “Hello, folks.”
“Hello,” said Gwen. Kevin didn’t say anything.
“Sit down.”
They walked over and sat on the couch. “Drink?”
“No,” said Gwen.
“Scotch and soda,” said Kevin.
Tom mixed the drink, then handed it to Kevin. Kevin tossed it off, reached in his pocket for a cigarette.
“Kevin,” said Tom, “we’ve decided you should see a psychologist.”
“Not a psychiatrist?”
“No, a psychologist.”
“All right.”
“And we think you should pay for any therapy Jeanjean and Cathy might need.”
“All right.”
“We’re going to keep this quiet, for your sake and for the sake of the children.”
“Thanks.”
“Kevin, there’s only one thing we’d like to know. We’re your friends. We’ve been friends for years. Just one thing. Why do you drink so much?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I guess, mostly, I just get bored.”
A WORKING DAY
Joe Mayer was a freelance writer. He had a hangover and the telephone awakened him at 9 a.m. He got up and answered it. “Hello?”
“Hi, Joe. How’s it going?”
“Oh, beautiful.”
“Beautiful, eh?”
“Yes?”
“Vicki and I just moved into our new house. We don’t have a phone yet. But I can give you the address. You got a pen there?”
“Just a minute.”
Joe took down the address.
“I didn’t like that last story of yours I saw in Hot Angel.”
“O.K.” said Joe.
“I don’t mean I didn’t like it, I mean I don’t like it compared to most of your stuff. By the way, do you know where Buddy Edwards is? Griff Martin who used to edit Hot Tales is looking for him. I thought you might know.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“I think he might be in Mexico.”
“He might be.”
“Well, listen, we’ll be around to see you soon.”
“Sure.” Joe hung up. He put a couple of eggs in a pan of water, set some coffee water on and took an Alka Seltzer. Then he went back to bed.
The phone rang again. He got up and answered it.
“Joe?”
“Yes?”
“This is Eddie Greer.”
“Oh yes.”
“We want you to read for a benefit…”
“What is it?”
“For the I.R.A.”
“Listen, Eddie, I don’t go for politics or religion or whatever. I really don’t know what’s going on over there. I don’t have a tv, read the papers…any of that. I don’t know who’s right or who’s wrong, if there is such a thing.”
“England’s wrong, man.”
“I can’t read for the I.R.A., Eddie.”
“All right, then…”
The eggs were done. He sat down, peeled them, put on some toast and mixed the Sanka in with the hot water. He got down the eggs and toast and had two coffees. Then he went back to bed.
He was just about asleep when the phone rang again. He got up and answered it.
“Mr. Mayer?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Mike Haven, I’m a friend of Stuart Irving’s. We once appeared in Stone Mule together when Stone Mule was edited in Salt Lake City.”
“Yes?”
“I’m down from Montana for a week. I’m staying at the Hotel Sheraton here in town. I’d like to come see you and talk to you.”
“Today’s a bad day, Mike.”
“Well, maybe I can come over later in the week?”
“Yes, why don’t you call me later on?”
“You know, Joe, I write just like you do, both in poetry and prose. I want to bring some of my stuff over and read it to you. You’ll be surprised. My stuff is really powerful.”
“Oh yes?”
“You’ll see.”
The mailman was next. One letter. Joe opened it:
Dear Mr. Mayer:
I got your address from Sylvia who you used to write to in Paris many years ago. Sylvia is still alive in San Francisco today and still writing her wild and prophetic and angelic and mad poems. I’m living in Los Angeles now and would just love to come and visit you! Please tell me when it would be all right with you.
love, Diane
Joe got out of his robe and got dressed. The phone rang again. He walked over to it, looked at it and didn’t answer it. He walked out, got into his car and drove it toward Santa Anita. He drove slowly. He turned the radio on and got some symphony music. It wasn’t too smoggy. He drove down Sunset, took h
is favorite cutoff, drove over the hill toward Chinatown, past the Annex, up past Little Joe’s, past Chinatown and took the slow easy ride past the railroad yards, looking down at the old brown boxcars. If he were any damned good at painting he’d like to get that one down. Maybe he’d paint them anyhow. He drove in up Broadway and over Huntington Drive to the track. He got a corned beef sandwich and a coffee, split the Form and sat down. It looked like a fair card.
He caught Rosalena in the first at $10.80, Wife’s Objection in the second at $9.20 and hooked them in the daily double for $48.40. He’d had $2 win on Rosalena and $5 win on Wife’s Objection, so he was $73.20 up. He ran out on Sweetott, was second with Harbor Point, second with Pitch Out, second with Brannan, all win bets, and he was sitting $48.20 ahead when he hit $20 win on Southern Cream, which brought him back to $73.20 again.
It wasn’t bad at the track. He only met three people he knew. Factory workers. Black. From the old days.
The eighth race was the problem. Cougar who was packing 128 was in against Unconscious packing 123. Joe didn’t consider the others in the race. He couldn’t make up his mind. Cougar was 3-to-5 and Unconscious was 7-to-2. Being $73.20 ahead he felt he could afford the luxury of betting the 3-to-5 shot. He laid $30 win. Cougar broke sluggishly, acting as if he were running in a ditch. By the time he was halfway around the first turn he was 17 lengths back of the lead horse. Joe knew he had a loser. At the finish his 3-to-5 was five lengths back and the race was over.
He went $10 and $10 on Barbizon, Jr. and Lost at Sea in the ninth, failed, and walked out with $23.20. It was easier picking tomatoes. He got into his old car and drove slowly back…
Just as he got into the tub the doorbell rang. He toweled and got into his shirt and pants. It was Max Billinghouse. Max was in his early twenties, toothless, red-haired. He worked as a janitor and always wore bluejeans and a dirty white t-shirt. He sat down in a chair and crossed his legs
“Well, Mayer, what’s happening?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you surviving on your writing?”
“At the moment.”
“Is there anything new?”
“Not since you were here last week.”
“How did your poetry reading come out?”
“It was all right.”
“The crowd that goes to poetry readings is a very phoney crowd.”
“Most crowds are.”
“You got any candy?” Max asked.
“Candy?”
“Yeah, I got a sweet tooth. I’ve got this sweet tooth.”
“I don’t have any candy.”
Max got up and walked into the kitchen. He came out with a tomato and two slices of bread. He sat down.
“Jesus, you don’t have anything to eat around here.”
“I’m going to have to go to the store.”
“You know,” said Max, “if I had to read in front of a crowd, I’d really insult them, I’d hurt their feelings.”
“You might.”
“But I can’t write. I think I’m going to carry around a tape recorder. I talk to myself sometimes when I’m working. Then I can write down what I say and I’ll have a story.”
Max was an hour-and-a-half man. He was good for an hour-and-a-half. He never listened, he just talked. After an hour-and-a-half, Max stood up.
“Well, I gotta go.”
“O.K., Max.”
Max left. He always talked about the same things. How he had insulted some people on a bus. How once he had met Charles Manson. How a man was better off with a whore than with a decent woman. Sex was in the head. He didn’t need new clothes, a new car. He was a loner. He didn’t need people.
Joe went into the kitchen and found a can of tuna and made three sandwiches. He took out the pint of scotch he had been saving and poured a good scotch and water. He flicked the radio to the classical station. “The Blue Danube Waltz.” He flicked it off. He finished the sandwiches. The doorbell rang. Joe walked to the door and opened it. It was Hymie. Hymie had a soft job somewhere in some city government near L.A. He was a poet.
“Listen,” he said, “that book I had an idea for, An Anthology of L.A. Poets, let’s forget it.”
“All right.”
Hymie sat down. “We need a new title. I think I have it. Mercy for the Warmongers. Think about it.”
“I kind of like it,” said Joe.
“And we can say, ‘This book is for Franco, and for Lee Harvey Oswald and Adolf Hitler.’ Now I’m Jewish, so that takes some guts. What do you think?”
“Sounds good.”
Hymie got up and did his imitation of a typical old-time Jewish fat man, a very Jewish fat man. He spit on himself and sat down. Hymie was very funny. Hymie was the funniest man Joe knew. Hymie was good for an hour. After an hour, Hymie stood up and left. He always talked about the same things. How most of the poets were very bad. That it was tragic, it was so tragic it was laughable. What could a guy do?
Joe had another good scotch and water and walked over to the typewriter. He typed two lines, then the phone rang. It was Dunning at the hospital. Dunning liked to drink a lot of beer. He’d done his 20 in the army. Dunning’s father had been the editor of a famous little magazine. Dunning’s father had died in June. Dunning’s wife was ambitious. She had pushed him to be a doctor, hard. He’d made it to chiropractor. And was working as a male nurse while trying to save up for an eight or ten thousand dollar x-ray machine.
“How about coming over and drinking some beer with you?” asked Dunning.
“Listen, can we put it off?” asked Joe.
“What’sa matter? You writing?”
“Just started.”
“All right. I’ll take a rain check.”
“Thanks, Dunning.”
Joe sat down at the machine again. It wasn’t bad. He got halfway down the page when he heard footsteps. Then a knock. Joe opened the door.
It was two young kids. One with a black beard, the other smooth-shaven.
The kid with the beard said, “I saw you at your last reading.”
“Come in,” said Joe.
They came in. They had six bottles of imported beer, green bottles.
“I’ll get an opener,” said Joe.
They sat there sucking at the beer.
“It was a good reading,” said the kid with the beard.
“Who was your major influence?” asked the one without the beard.
“Jeffers. Longer poems. Tamar. Roan Stallion. So forth.”
“Any new writing that interests you?”
“No.”
“They say you’re coming out of the underground, that you’re part of the Establishment. What do you think of that?”
“Nothing.”
There were some more questions of the same order. The boys were only good for one beer apiece. Joe took care of the other four. They left in 45 minutes. But the one without the beard said, just as they left, “We’ll be back.”
Joe sat down to the machine again with a new drink. He couldn’t type. He got up and walked to the phone. He dialed. And waited. She was there. She answered.
“Listen,” said Joe, “let me get out of here. Let me come down there and lay up.”
“You mean you want to stay tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Again?”
“Yes, again.”
“All right.”
Joe walked around the corner of the porch and right down the driveway. She lived three or four courts down. He knocked. Lu let him in. The lights were out. She just had on panties and led him to the bed.
“God,” he moaned.
“What is it?”
“Well, it’s all unexplainable in a way or almost unexplainable.”
“Just take off your clothes and come to bed.”
Joe did. He crawled in. He didn’t know at first if it would work again. So many nights in a row. But her body was there and it was a young body. And the lips were open and real. Joe floated in. It was good be
ing in the dark. He worked her over good. He even got down there again and tongued that cunt. Then as he mounted, after four or five strokes he heard a voice…
“Mayer…I’m looking for a Joe Mayer…”
He heard his landlord’s voice. His landlord was drunk.
“Well, if he ain’t in that front apartment, you check this one back here. He’s either in one or the other.”
Joe got in four or five more strokes before the knocking began at the door. Joe slid out and, naked, went to the door. He opened a side window.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, Joe! Hi, Joe, what you doin’ Joe?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, how about some beer, Joe?”
“No,” said Joe. He slammed the side window and walked back to the bed, got in.
“Who was it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t recognize the face.”
“Kiss me, Joe. Just don’t lay there.”
He kissed her as the Southern California moon came through the Southern California curtains. He was Joe Mayer. Freelance writer.
He had it made.
THE MAN WHO LOVED ELEVATORS
Harry stood in the apartment house driveway waiting for the elevator to come down. Just as the door opened he heard a woman’s voice behind him. “Just a moment, please!” She stepped into the elevator and the door closed. She had on a yellow dress, her hair was piled on top of her head, and goofy pearl earrings swung on long silver chains. She had a large ass and was heavily built. Her breasts and body seemed to be striving to burst out of that yellow dress. Her eyes were the palest green and looked right through him. She carried a bag of groceries with the word Vons printed on it. Her lips were smeared with lipstick. Her thick painted lips were obscene, almost ugly, an insult. The bright red lipstick glistened and Harry reached over and pushed the EMERGENCY button.
It worked, the elevator stopped. Harry moved toward her. With one hand he lifted her skirt and stared at her legs. She had unbelievable legs, all muscle and flesh. She seemed stricken, frozen. He grabbed her as she dropped the bag of groceries. Cans of vegetables, an avocado, toilet paper, packaged meat and three candy bars spilled to the elevator floor. Then his mouth was on those lips. They opened. He reached down and lifted the skirt. He kept his mouth on hers and worked the panties off. Then, standing up, he took her, banging her hard against the elevator wall. When he finished, he zipped up, hit the third floor button, and waited, his back to her. When the door opened, he stepped out. The door closed behind him and the elevator was gone.
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