by Ron Padgett
Back in Tulsa Again
Back in Tulsa again, by way of free ride from Ron’s father: Ron being a Columbia University student, also poet, and Ron’s father being a John Wayne with $80 cowboy boots. I wear desert boots. Pat usually wears very basic black flats, tho she looks better in high heels. They complement her legs. Very nice. Yes, Pat too made the big move back to Tulsa. The three stooges make the big move back to Tulsa. The three fuckados make the big move back to Tulsa. The big move back to Tulsa was made by Pat, Ron, and myself.
The trip back was as normal as possible considering John Wayne drove (in $80 cowboy boots) and we, the three “Tulsans in New York” were his passengers. Yes, even Ron was a passenger, as I am now a guest in my own home. In my own home I am a guest. We three “passengers” made the big move back to Tulsa. Three people: a strange number of members for a relationship. We three: one girl and two boys. Or should I say woman and men? Both embarrass me, and seem “not quite right.” Three people, a poet, a woman, and a painter. I being the painter, Pat naturally the woman, and Ron obviously the poet. But Ron is obviously a Columbia University student. We three, Pat being my favorite next to myself, made the big move back to Tulsa for lunch; a fantastically voluptuous lunch with entertainment.
“Lunch,” Ron said again to his father with $80 cowboy boots driving like a madman directly aiming at Tulsa with serious convictions of direction. Yes, Ron’s father was anxious to get home, home to Tulsa. Home to space and lightness, white square gas stations and shining car lots. Ron’s father is obviously from Oklahoma. We Marx brothers minus one are obviously only flounderers. Floundering because we are neither New Yorkers nor Oklahomans. But I am a painter. Not a man without a country, but a man (or should I say boy) with a country too too big. A country too too big, and with no secret hiding place or club house. The dues are simply too high: too too high. The sky is higher in Tulsa. The sky is higher in Tulsa than in New York.
“Lunch,” Ron repeated again and again. Ron was obviously hungry; which made Pat and me very envious. Envious because Ron had at least momentarily found some positive and alive state of being, some identity to desire which actually was. We were envious, enormously envious. Pat even more than I, she being a woman and all. Women are much more susceptible to such emotions: those of envy, or pity, or jealousy: all unconstructive emotions. Yes, Pat was envious. Ron was hungry. And I too was envious, but not too envious, for I was constipated.
A List for the Sake of a List
1. Pat Mitchell
(a) envious
(b) looks better in high heels
(c) woman
(d) or girl
(e) flounderer
(f) not hungry
(g) my favorite
(h) usually wears black flats
2. Ron Padgett
(a) John Wayne’s son
(b) flounderer
(c) student of Columbia University
(d) hungry
(e) poet
(f) heir to a pair of $80 cowboy boots
(g) a “passenger” in his own family car
3. Me
(a) constipated
(b) envious, but not too much
(c) author of “Back in Tulsa Again”
(d) painter
(e) flounderer
(f) embarrassed as to terminology; man or boy
“Lunch,” Pat cried: Pat was getting in the spirit of things.
“Lunch,” I cried, so as not to be a wet blanket. Also, I had hopes of finding a restroom in the chosen cafe.
“Three to one, ha! ha!, we win!” we sang over and over to the tune of “Love Me Tender” (originally recorded by Elvis Presley) while Ron poked Pat in the eyes with his two fingers next to his thumb (spread wide apart) and me jokingly biting Ron’s big toe. His big toe is big, you know. Yes, we truly were, at that moment, the Three Stooges. Or even the Marx brothers minus one. But we each realized that soon the spell would be broken and Pat would become a woman, Ron a poet and student, and me a painter. My name is Joe Brainard.
Pat was suddenly on top of me as Ron’s father, John Wayne, swang off the road heading straight toward a small, very small, cafe. The sudden turning of the car at a very high speed, yes very high (like the sky in Tulsa) was quite spontaneous on Ron’s father’s part, and quite a surprise to us. Yes, it shook us up a little. Resulting in Pat suddenly being thrown in my lap, which appeared physically impossible. As I said, Pat was in my lap, which felt very good. It felt good to have Pat in my lap. In fact, it felt too good, for I’m afraid I embarrassed her. Pat became a woman. The spell was broken.
I smiled when my eye hit the small 7-Up sign dangling from a string attached to the light fixture. It was used as a pull to turn on the lights. I smiled. I felt good. I ate lunch. It was just I. We all three ate lunch, but I was the only one that ordered a ham sandwich without mustard: a dry sandwich so as to make my Pepsi more useful and satisfying. I smiled again, almost laughing, as I slowly eyed the cafe, having just taken an enormous swig of my cold Pepsi, and enjoying its tingling, almost burning, effect on my throat. I felt it all the way to my tummy; which had been previously relieved by “going straight ahead, turning right, and entering the second door painted a light green.” The cafe had one bathroom, for men and women, so you had to hook the door. And if you were employed there, you had to wash your hands before leaving. That’s the law. The sign said so. Not being employed, I took advantage of my liberty. I continued eyeing the cafe, the cafe with no name just out of Joplin, Missouri: small, very small, with a large white sign saying “Cafe.” Large simple white block letters on blue, a true blue. I saw the whole cafe very clearly, its beauty and its reason. I felt good that I had eyes. I wished I’d hurry and finish my sandwich so I could have a cigarette; a Tareyton Dual Cigarette with two phallic red stripes on the package. Two red stripes very close together. And with a white ring around the filter. Thirty cents a pack, twenty to a package, one and one half cents each, and soon it would disappear into smoke. And soon I would be in Tulsa. I tried to imagine it. I couldn’t. I realized that this exact moment was all that was real and certain. I felt good because I felt good.
“A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose, etc.” (or something to that effect).
—Gertrude Stein
I sang “Going for a Ride in a Car-Car” because we were. Yes, we were once again going for a ride in a car-car, a car-car driven by John Wayne headed toward Tulsa, Tulsa Oklahoma: John Wayne driving to Tulsa Oklahoma in $80 cowboy boots.
It was my turn to be by the window: goody. It was open, with my arm and head stuck out, and the wind stinging my face making it even hard to breathe. I sang louder, but no one could hear me: the wind blew the volume back down vibratingly into my throat. I sang the worst songs in the world not knowing why; not knowing why I sang the worstest songs in the world: “The Tennessee Waltz,” “Tell Me Why,” “Dancing Matilda,” and “The Thing.” Others too, yes, many others. And more others. Many many etc.’s.
We slept. Ron’s father drove. We smelled the dry grass: bad at first then heaven. We entered Tulsa. Ugh!
“Ugh! Ugh!” we sang, “Ugh! Ugh!” as we entered Tulsa. Ugh! John Wayne smiled and we three sang, “Ugh! Ugh!”
An undescribable farce began, simply undescribable, quite simply unbelievable. A farce which could only possibly occur between a woman and two men, a girl and two boys, in a car driven by John Wayne wearing $80 cowboy boots driving from New York to Tulsa, Tulsa Oklahoma.
We sang “Oklahoma.”
“O-O-O-Oklahoma,” we began.
“O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A, Oklahoma, O.K.” We ended. We laughed. Ron giggled and I snorted. Pat was choking on a Spanish peanut.
Thus it began. Thus the farce began: the farce began as thus.
Pat, by this time quite green, was still choking, still choking to death on her fifth Spanish peanut of the day. Ron and I were rolling on the (a very tight squeeze) floor of the Ford in tears: tears from pity or excitement we knew not which. We cared even
less, for the “spirit” was in us, the spirit which we never doubted. Ron and I were red from laughter. Pat was green from lack of air. The Ford was light yellow. The sky was blue, a sky blue: a high sky blue, like the sky in Tulsa it was. Ron stuck out his tongue for no reason. I laughed at him for the same reason. Pat tried to laugh for the same reason, but found it difficult. She found it quite difficult to laugh while choking on a Spanish peanut, especially for the same reason. I did a flamenco dance: it was not well done, but very voluptuously stimulating and meatily exciting, that is, for me. Pat joined in, tho she found it very difficult to flamenco in a yellow Ford going 95 miles an hour while choking on a Spanish peanut: and with a partner too. But Pat had the spirit. Ron had the spirit as he hurriedly undressed. I undressed. I winked at Ron and said go: we violently attacked Pat. It worked, Pat swallowed her 5th Spanish peanut of the day. We were happy. Pat was especially happy. We celebrated in a happy way: we stopped for a Dairy Queen, a $.25 cone. Joy! Joy! Joy! Happy Day!