by Arty Nelson
“It’s OK to work shitty jobs as long as you’re not living at home. I’d be a waitress anywhere but back home in Sydney.”
“Nothing’s OK when you’re living at home… Living at home IS FAILURE!”
We watch the talking heads on TV for awhile. News about dead babies and burning houses and raped women and sick men and all the things that make up reality. Finally, the girls lose interest and go to bed. I stay up and watch TV, figuring all the bad news in the world’s got to be better than laying alone in bed, until finally my eyes shut themselves.
The speed, the loudness, I don’t have control over any of it anymore. The voices begin to speak their own minds. I’m just watching now while the voices come out of the shadows to dance… Watching.
PUIP 25
“You know… I just never even imagined him all grown up. It’s like he wasn’t supposed to.”
I open my eyes, not quite aware of where I am, then realizing I’m peeling my face off yet another vinyl leisure product. True love again.
“Did you ever see this?” Helms produces a picture from his pocket—Ray sitting in a dried creek bed with his girlfriend, Jane, in what looked to be Colorado. The sun’s setting behind them, casting a pair of beam halos over their heads. I’d never seen Ray look the way he looks in the picture. No life, like an empty closet. The only things familiar were the stupid tie-dye socks he always wore for big events. I look at the picture, rubbing eyes, for a minute, and then Doobe hands me a bowl of steaming hashish. I take a hit off the bowl and exhale, thinking that I gotta take a piss. I look up, and Doobe has pulled out a pair of socks. THOSE SAME STUPID SOCKS. I wince at the sight of them, like Doobe’s a grave robber or something. Helms looks at me, looks back at the socks, and starts to laugh. “Perfectly good socks,” and goes up to bed leaving me with the burning bowl in my hand.
The sky’s a thick light blue. The sun’s climbing back up above, with tiny beam legs on the edge of the horizon. Another day. I look up at the clock on the wall and its hands tell me it’s 5:52. I lay back down, safe in the shadow of the couch, and stare out the window. I watch the sunlight tiptoe up the street, one brick at a time. Time to sleep….
PUIP 26
I look into the mirror at the two Xs I call eyes. The thrill of being bloated and green with red blotches is long gone. Living out this cliché and it’s killing me. I got a beard that would make Paul Bunyan blush, and I think I’m cool because of a pair of fake Beatle boots. I wear a motorcycle jacket because I had an old jap cycle for about ten minutes. On my arm is a custom-made silver armband that I claim is the sure sign of any “Glamourboy Caveman.” I used to be a Little League catcher. And here I am 15 years later looking like one of the extras in Road Warrior. I’m living a lie and it’s killing me… A NEW DAY HAS ARRIVED.
My vision fades in long enough for me to look down and see an uninvited guest—the dreaded boyish nuisance that is THE HERPES. Three small white bubbles have surfaced along the right side of the shaft of my cock. A discovery, musically accompanied by a deep sinking feeling, not totally unlike swallowing a broken Coke bottle. A feeling nurtured and groomed with every careless selfish passing of the virus. Yeah… It ain’t AIDS… But it still sucks! An Eternal Scar. One slip and young lust jumps out a window. The reality of virus, more concrete than love.
Having the herpes after awhile is NO BIG DEAL. Giving the herpes will always suck. In some of my more mock courageous moments, I see it as yet another testament to my beautiful and halfhearted self-destruction. Just another Purple Heart to pin on a suburban grown combat suit. There have even been twisted moments when I envision a whole tribe of gorgeous thirtyish women, frolicking on the beach playing with their newborns, bearing full-length C-section scars—a testimony to OUR passion. Yeah, that’s right, brand ‘em like cattle then sit back and wait for the Oh-So daunting Judgment Day. The perversion of knowing that a child has to be cut from its mother’s body. The tunnel being closed due to disease. Unable to feel, to laugh, to ever be a child again. To ever skip through a supermarket, tagging along mom’s shopping cart, singing “Puff the Magic Dragon,” to smell a forest, all the trees and flowers, and feel free. Growing up sucks! Lovers marked like a lecherous deck of cards and me… Me… Me… Me… Me… Me… Me.
I pull out a dull razor from behind the mirror. I begin to scrape the stubble from my face, slowly, with cold water, stopping often to rinse the blade. It hurts. My first pathetic test of the day. A damp towel and one last look. The face looks better. The dick still looks bad. Like a walking Ying-Yang, broken and grooved at the waist.
PUIP 27
“Hullo?”
“Cheers, Jimi!”
“Diane, howya doin’?”
“I wasn’t so sure you’d make it over here!” It’s too early to be so upbeat but it’s good to hear her voice. Immediately, I’m reminded by a squirmy itch that there’ll be more lesions sprouting on my penis. Just like a burn, always worse before it gets better.
“Yeah, well I had a few months to kill before I could call it a life and I thought I better see Europe so I have something to yak about at the retirement home.”
“Still playing the young old man I see… Jimi?”
“How’ve you been?”
“Great! We’re shooting a movie over here and I’m in charge of interviewing all the actors… American ones! I’ll even get to talk to Mickey Rourke!”
“Great, great, so you’re pretty busy?”
“There’ll be time to chat a bit. I’m staying at my friend William’s house in Mayfair near Hyde Park.”
I’ve heard the name William before, some TV whiz kid, invented the game show in London or something groundbreaking like that. Diane’s probably fucking him and she, in turn, is getting all the right assignments but I don’t know… We never get too deep into other relationships. Ours is too tenuous. I’m the mutt in heat begging for some pussy. It’s important that I don’t give a fuck or at least, that I appear that way—all James Deany, very american.
“Well… Yeah… You know… Whatever… I’m here, so call me.”
“No, I want to see you RIGHT AWAY. I’ve got the flat to myself this weekend. I’ve got to run but I’ll call back later and if you’re not there I’ll leave a meeting place. Is tonight OK?”
“Sure.”
“I just need to find out the name of this new place in Soho.”
“Sounds good, Diane… I’m glad you called.”
“Cheers!” and hangs up the phone.
The bottom line is that I’d do anything to get Diane on my arm for a night or a minute or a lifetime. Not that I think it’s really possible, because I don’t, but these are the kinds of things that keep my dream-state rolling. Diane accepts all the things that make Lindsey gag. Something about the european vibe, they’re amused by things the american girls cringe over, like smelly armpits, dirty teeth and greasy hair, bedwetting, no job, no money. It’s more of a game to them. Not a Wall Street proposal. I mean I feel kind of out of place when I’m with Diane unless we’re on my terms, but that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to throw my phallic hat in the ring. She’s all the status I ever wanted to pooh-pooh. Some displaced nymphomaniac duchess looking to round out her sexual calendar with a struggling whatever—me. She seems to see some sort of hope in me. Potential. I’m all about the future. I’m a regular forecast. Every success story claims they were once as bleak as me. Eating potato chips, drinking a beer, sitting on the couch, knowing destiny is hiding behind that next Lucky Charms box. Could I be that guy? Could I fill that role? Could I be that snow-white Mandingo? Is it twenty pounds away or is it twenty years away? Or is it just another brick in my outhouse of delusion? I’m on a cloud, a cloud of invisible pillows—my ego. Caught somewhere between love and hate, only ever feeling one or the other. My mood a by-product of my weakness, my genius, my vanity and my lack of true vision. Dime store, all dime store. A tender moment, a moment of total exception. I’m the exception to the rule for a brief moment and I love it. I’m the hero of my own epic.
A GIRL LIKES ME AND SHE’S HOT!
Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, the water’s boiling up over the rim of the pot. I turn off the flame and divide the scalding water, what’s left of it, into two cups. Lost in my Ben-Hur sequence, almost all the water’s boiled away. I stroll over to the spigot and top off the cups. The water out of the tap is a tad rusty, but it doesn’t matter, since I’m making tea. Doobe’ll never know the difference. I toss a couple of bags in and watch the water as it takes on more color.
Everyone else is running around the flat, hurrying to get somewhere or another. The air is on the chilly side and I’m hurled on into more “young guy’s thoughts.” All those, Who am I? What am I? What do I? Where do I? When do I do? Does anybody really know what time it is? kind of thoughts. I don’t know. I just don’t know! I just want it to be all over! I wanna be somewhere warm looking back on it all, laughing about it. I wanna be rich and slovenly, hiding out on an island, sitting in a bar with dirty khakis telling funny stories about it all. I don’t wanna have to GO THROUGH WITH IT ALL. I just want it to be over and I wanna be back on the beach with a drink in my hand, telling whoppers about it all to a Cajun silicon queen who thinks it’s all JUST SO CUTE. Right now, I’m knee-deep in the middle of it all and I don’t think I like it. It isn’t fun. There’s too much pressure knowing that I’ll have to scrub pots again soon. I wanna be retired and lazy. No ambition. I want that idea or that woman who’s gonna change me to come along soon and take care of all this. I want… I want… I want and I don’t have. I don’t want the “young guy’s thoughts.” I want it to be fun. I wanna know the final score of the game so that I can go ahead and start to bet. I want it to be about fucking and I want, I want, I want!
I take hold of the cups and start climbing the steps. Half way up, I spill scorching tea on my right foot. My foot tingles and I jolt, spilling liquid on both my hands. My hands hurt more than my foot now and I got no choice but to forge on ahead up the stairs, half skipping and half crawling. Christ! All I want to do is make a cup of tea for Doobe and I… And look what happens! Finally reaching the top, I kick open the door with my unburnt foot. Helms is still sleeping with his fake victorian night-blinders on.
“Wake up, Doober!”
I see a slight quiver of the hand and a toe stretch or two. He’s tired. He’s been running plates of food by night and being my drinking buddy by day for weeks now. It takes a toll on a guy. It makes morning into afternoon proposition.
“Come on! Wake up, pal! I got some tea I made, almost killed me getting it to ya! We gotta be in good form tonight. That chick Diane’s calling me back and we’re meeting her tonight in Soho.”
“Diane?” I hear from under the pillow.
“You know, that fine royal-type who thinks I’m some kinna thing waiting to happen.”
“You are SOME KIND OF THING. A HASSLE.”
“Trip to Rio, buddy. Remember that trip to Rio…”
“You’re getting more mileage outta that far off promise than I thought possible.”
“I’m serious. She thinks um like intense like Bobby DeNiro or something….”
“You are… Raging Bull. You coulda been his double in Raging Bull. They coulda used you to focus the lens on… You BIG HOUSE.”
“Ooch… Last time I bring you your cup of morning tea.”
“Um just kidding, gimme that tea,” pulls off his blinders and reaches for the mug. He takes a sip. I try to suss out by the look on his face whether or not I’m getting on his nerves. It isn’t like I add that much to the european skyline. I’m more or less a thorn in his side that needs constant iodine, and that’s on my happy days. If I was Doobe, I’d have kicked me out a long time ago. He’s still asleep, I figure. The mild disgust on his face, the subtle frown, the squinty eyes are more fatigue than anything I coulda brought about.
“No, um serious though… She said she’s gonna call back about some marbley kind of new martini bar in Soho.”
“Yeah… I know the place.” Pulls the blinders down over his eyes and flops back down in bed, “Gimme another couple hours… Write some HAIKU or something and talk with the girls.”
I sit watching TV for a couple hours with the aid of a small chunk of hashish I pirate off the kitchen table. I break small pieces off every twenty minutes and cook them up under glass. No waste, like a crazed scientist. I can feel Diane Rowan on my celestial bicycle path. She is near. Sanctuary is just around the corner. Solace. To be wrapped in the arms of a rich hot british girl is to be OK in the eyes of an ego that’s pushed me around the world. To be warm and yet, wrapped in a blanket of ice. Swept away by my fantasy… High on top that cliff one more time. Sunbeams shooting off beads of sweat on her shoulders. She’s the reason men become losers and villains. Fuck Lindsey! I hate that bitch and all her problems! Even if I did give her a few new ones! Got to get over the curse! The curse of love gone sour! A New Mission. I’m in search of the almighty pink. Diane is the CURE and London’s the place! She wants to see me and drink martinis, shaken not fucking stirred!
PUIP 28
“Boys, boys, boys… Little american boys drinking man’s drinks!” Miss Diane gives me a decent hug. I say “decent,” which is like getting a blow job from an american girl. The british are cold, so cold that physical contact in public is almost indecent.
“How ya doin’, Diane… How ya been?” I hug her back, weighing the response, searching the embrace for some sign of where I stand on the “guys I wanna fuck” list.
“This is my buddy, Doobe, I’ve been tellin’ you about.”
“Hi Diane. It’s a pleasure… Jimi’s told me a lot about you as well.”
“Well, cheers to you, Dink! Jimi said that you were just so sweet and wasn’t he JUST so right!”
“It’s Doobe, Diane. D-O-O-B-E… DOOBE.”
“Well I’m sorry Doobe,” she flutters, “I meant no harm!” and sits down.
A delicate hand through her hair and she orders a glass of chablis. Christ, I could just LOOK at the bitch. The kind of chick that you look at even when they’re with huge muscle-butt steroid guys because it just doesn’t matter. It’s out of your hands! You just look at them! They strike… They appear… They vanish… And there’s nothing left to do but loop your mule in memory of them. They stop you in the middle of a sentence. You look at them right in front of the fat bitch sitting next to you. Diane becomes the face on all your average-looking fucks. The kind of woman you think you’re willing to pay the price for. Class… A blue french miniskirted suit… Black leather go-go boots… Dirty-blond hair with still a bit of sun on her pale freckly skin. It’s hard for me to believe I boned this woman! No…. She isn’t a woman… She’s a young lady. I wanna lean over and tell this young thing, this vision, this 900 number sound-alike look-doll, this stroke of luck that she can be my adultress forever. I want to lean over and tell this 3-D fantasy that she can just go ahead and destroy any relationship I’m ever gonna have. I don’t wanna even TRY to be her steady man. Too many social events. I just wanna be that token vagabond fuck. She takes a sip of wine and I’m sure the way she drinks that wine… The way it dances across her tongue and the way she follows it with that magnificent cashmere lick of the lips and finally, that smile… I’m sure that’s just the way Grace Kelly used to do it, and Grace Kelly was the most beautiful woman ever. I mean I respect Cary Grant solely for the fact that I once saw him slap Grace Kelly, regardless of how many young nubile boys he chased around his house in maids’ outfits. She’s so prim and proper and yet I’ll bet she’s never stayed up a single night worrying about her moral code. Morals are for the masses. I worry about morals! I try to have morals because somewhere along the line I was tricked into thinking that it fucking mattered! Like there’s a right way to do things! It’s all just a dirty little spin-the-bottle game to Diane.
We spend the better part of the afternoon drinking at the bar. The martinis flow endlessly like they’re being pissed out of little cupid-statue-fountains. I snort down half a dozen before I get up
to take my first leak. I do a lot of listening, nodding my head, and dreaming. Diane and Doobe do a lot of yakking. I soak it ALL in, wondering if I’ll get a chance to hole up, like a pair of deviant Tinker toys, with the duchess in sugar-boy William’s flat near Hyde Park. I make eye contact. I give a slurry smile and get a little play—a couple of brief pauses in her head as it turns past me and that’s enough for me. Enough to make me think good thoughts, my only hurdle being the viral uproar I got south of the navel. Time has been oh so cruel. My rod’s bloomed, looking like a twisted bouquet of O’Keeffe lilies from the FTD of hell, leaving me highly contagious. You might catch it standing downwind of me in the johns. I’ve never told Diane that I got the herpes but I figure as long as I’m honest about it, she’ll be cool. She’s a big girl. I just gotta be honest! In the meantime, I gotta sneak out the door like I’m going to the head and score a pack of King James version Trojans to wrap my piece in. I got a lucky feeling tonight and I wanna have protection with me as long as my groin still looks like bad pop art.
Doobe and Diane are going on about some political shit and I make like I’m going to the bathroom, turn a quick hard left and scoot out the door. I spot a variety store across the street and cop a trusty three-pack at the counter. Still embarrassed after all these years, I buy a candy bar. I sneak back across the street and duck in next to the two chatterboxes at the bar.
Another couple rounds and a whole lotta laughs later, Diane’s grabbing me.
“Dizzy, I’m taking your friend with me! Is that OK? I’ve got to talk to him a little bit alone but you’re very nice too! We just haven’t seen each other for awhile!”
“That’s OK with me… I could use a night alone. I need to do some laundry I think,” and he waves. I’m an object.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get him back!” and drags me away.
Boy Wonder Willi’s flat is a sick sort of turn-of-the-century swanky Gatsby pad, nestled in the heart of Mayfair, which I guess is as good as it gets in Fog Town. The place’s got high, high ceilings and a spiral staircase built only for the likes of Vivien Leigh, big billowy curtains and all the things that a place like this is supposed to have inside of it. I’m peeking around every corner, waiting for David Niven to come out and hand me a glass of sherry. Candlelight. Candles going everywhere, like a Buddhist temple. It’s beyond wealth! Sets of knights’ armor, family crests, the works.