by Arty Nelson
“Oh… The one with the funny name… I’m William.”
“How Willi… How ya doin’? Diane tells us you’re a real kingfish in these parts,” Doobe says in his best Appalachian drawl. I want to lean over and kiss Doobe for such poignant icebreaking. Diane, etiquette metronome that she is, clears her throat and beckons the waiter.
“Scotch, the best you’ve got… A pair of them,” I call with a certain Doobe-goaded cockiness. I don’t know how long the civility will last, so I figure I should order the good stuff right outta the shoot.
“So Jimi… Diane tells me you’re traveling through Europe.”
“Yeah… That’s about it… America’s getting to be a bit MUCH for me.”
“What is it… Exactly… That you do?”
“Nothing… Really… Exactly.”
“How interesting.”
“I guess…” taking a long swig of scotch. Doobe and Diane are back into one of their friendly raps across the table. It looks like it’s me and Willi-boy doing the sophisticated “get to know you” convo.
“Do you like our city?”
“Yeah… I mean… It’s not like I’ve worked or anything since I got here… So of course it seems GREAT.”
I take another gulp of scotch. I’m beginning to hate this guy, William. He’s like a linen version of all the assholes I went to college with. Diane and Doobe are chatting away still, and I’m stuck at this end of the table, playing 40 QUESTIONS WITH TV EXEC MAN for free booze.
“How do your parents feel about the life you lead?”
“Well actually, Willi, I think that as long as I stay out of jail… They just sort of stay quietly disappointed.”
“What do you tell them you want to do?”
“I guess be an actor mostly… I tell them I yearn for the stage… Oh yeah… And lately I’ve been telling them that I wanna be a rock star. How ‘bout you? What do you do?”
“I create TV shows.”
“Now there’s a field that I could take home with me and throw out on the Christmas table.”
“Excuse me?”
“What I mean is, that’s the kind of thing Moms just love to hear… I mean as long as you’re good at it, I guess… You know… Doing your part to keep the network ball rolling and everything.”
“My Mum’s dead.”
“You know… Isn’t it always that way.”
I’m through with this one. I don’t even care what the guy thinks. I’m not talking any longer. I figure the best thing to do is to just start looking around the room, just act really distracted and I can escape from this pinstriped diatribe. There are so many fine women in the room—all tall bitches. I’ve never been somewhere where Diane looked almost below average. But in this room, she’s borderline spinster. Every time I turn my head, I get the feeling I’m drowning on the Vogue cutting-room floor. So tall! I figure there must be a little wooden clown in the ladies room that all the women have to be taller than, like next to the roller-coaster rides back home. Most of the women are with short goofy-looking guys, too. Some kind of justice bestowed on all the dweebs of the world, that they grow up to lasso a few tall bitches. Sweet revenge for all the years of being picked last in the kickball draft at recess.
Diane ends up catching a nice little gin buzz, bless her soul, and takes control of the table, keeping us all laughing and light. She’s the link. It’s a title she holds with relish, I’m sure. Doobe’s eyes have begun to take on the mist of lechery I can’t help but notice. I think his little tête-à-têtes with Diane have sprung a rod in his slacks as well. She has us all under her spell.
The rounds of scotch never stop coming. I’m almost starting to like Willi. Every drop of scotch that tickles his throat jars loose another standard kind of, “You guys live the life… Bumming around… I’m trapped in my world… I wanna take up the travelers’ life.” It’s a pretty common ailment amongst the ridiculously established; they tend to wax nostalgic about that one month when they didn’t get a haircut and ate a handful of mushrooms.
“When I was in university… They called me ‘Wild Willi’ ‘cause on the weekends I became a bloody beast. I miss those feelings. I miss that reputation, heehee.”
“I’ll bet ya do, Willi… Ya seem to have a little bit of a madman in you.” Anything to keep the tab soaring. These guys love it when you tell ‘em that they really should be poets and thieves. That they have the goods to go underground.
“Oh boys… Let’s go dancing now. I’m absolutely DYING to dance at the WAG!”
We all agree, and get up to leave. Willi’s left to handle the tab, and Doobe and I make for the door. I’m walking alongside Doobe, slaloming After Six wear, when my eyes zoom in on what appears to be a cart, filled with the most lavish desserts my Dairy Queen nigger-rich eyes have ever beheld. Forget about it! Unparalleled! Desserts like I’ve only dreamed of! And I hadn’t really eaten much of anything in a coupla days. Life is only SO beautiful when you’re frying up spuds three times a day! Oh lord. Oh my, oh my… To savor that sugar on my palate if only but for a second… Better than a night out with Ann-Margret and Ursula Andress mainlining oyster oil… I can taste it… I want it… I can’t believe I didn’t squeeze a meal out of Willi, what was I thinking?… It woulda gone so well with that top-shelf scotch… There’s tarte Tatin I’d murder for… Oh my… All flat and luscious with scalloped apples floating in pools of goo… The sugar gleaming off the meaty fruit… The juice running off over the crust rim… Little whipped cream flowerettes poised on top… Jewels on the crown… Chocolate cake so rich and thick… Chunks… Floating across the tray… Stray cocoa icebergs of joy… Nuts on top the size of prewar brick… I see a cheesecake as big as a mattress… Held hostage under swollen blueberries and strawberries… Yelling to me… Jimi… It’s worth the gamble… Begging to be devoured… Pudding in baby-poolish bowls… It isn’t fair… I want it… And I’m walking away meekly… Some rich jerk’s gonna leave half of it on his plate… It just isn’t fair… I want it.
“Jump on it, Jimi… It’s yours, pal… I got ya covered!”
What I don’t realize is that Doobe’s been laughing at me the whole time, watching my eyes drool, and he knows what I want. He can feel my granulated yearning.
“Do you think I can get away with it?”
“I KNOW you can!” Doobe says it, and I wanna hear it, so it must be true! I want it! I know I can do it, he’s right! I just gotta make a clean sweep of it, that’s all! It would be easier if I could just shrink and stay for a day, but I can’t, I gotta go for it now!
“Come on, now! Get on it!”
My heart speeds up and I look around one last time. No one cares. All these people are having fun. They don’t care if I take a few for the road. It looks good… I can do it… One quick swoop of the hand catches a chunk of goo from off the cheesecake and I jam it into my pocket… I can’t leave the mangled remnants down on the cart and I go back down once again… Jam into the squishy pocket and give the culprit fingers a quick licking to hide the evidence… I look up at the crowd… All heads are pointed at me… I remember the EF Hutton commercials of my youth… It would be hard to get as much attention as I’m getting without brandishing a .357 wildly in the air… The blank faces indicate it wasn’t a very good grab… I look back at the tray… It’s quite clear I destroyed the better part of almost EVERY dessert on the cart… In my mind… I blame it on the scotch.
“You got it, buddy! Don’t let their looks deceive you! You got it good!”
We get outside and Doobe gives me a bittersweet patting on the back.
“Took a lotta guts in there, Jimi… I’m prouda ya!”
We look back inside to see a beet-faced William, talking to the maître d’, peeling bills off a huge roll, all under a shadowing Diane trying desperately to salvage some face. I look back, shrug, hand some cheese goo to Doobe, and we both stuff our mouths. It’s clear to me… Someone’s always watching.
PUIP 32
The WAG reminds me of too many r
oller-skating rinks I hung out in as a delinquent tyke. Old chipped red wood, that stale smell, scratchy music, old posters suggesting that THIS had once been a happening place. I can’t figure out why we’re here. It’s so un-Diane. Either she’s trying to hide out while she’s with a couple losers like us, or maybe she lost a cherry here and always comes home. It’s below a coffee shop that’s only open when the club isn’t—a gimmick. Anyways, little Willi’s still ticked despite my snickering apologies. He’s turned his focus completely on Diane. It’s US and THEM. Diane’s taken on the beauty that only rears its ugly head in the terminal stages of a binge. Even if she were plain, she’d look ravishing. I look at her while she dances with Willi. Legs up to her ears, dancing more goofy than sexy, with Willi, that little tuba-eared fuck.
To see me losing once again… I love her… I know that I do… Vulgar… My actions… My mind… All vulgar… Something about a jar of Vaseline… A bullwhip… A stack of old comics… She’s my girl. Doobe’s busy dancing with some local tarts—bad makeup, the gap-tooth, the whole bit. I wanna dance with Diane but my legs are frozen. I wanna run over to her and tell her that I love her. I wanna be in a fifties movie with a butthead pal named Bronco who could start a fight and clear the bar, and I can run away with Diane. I want everyone to stay in my little world… But they’re leaving me… I want Diane… I wanna kiss again… I’m teeming… I have to act… I need a plan… OH FUCK IT… I run out onto the dance floor… Hands and arms flail at me.
“Diane… I love you… I can’t watch you dance with this geek anymore… Come back to America with me… I do… I really love you!”
I might as well have pulled down my pants and pissed all over the dance floor. Diane starts to laugh.
“Jimi… You must be KIDDING… I’m sorry for all of this, William.”
Red seas will part and relationships will all close, as did the crowd around Diane and Willi. She won’t look at me. I know this. I know that whatever it was, it’s over. I never understood it. I wouldn’t even care, if I had just known for a second what it was. I don’t want it back. I know I can’t have it. I just wanna know what it ever even was. I stand out on the dance floor for as long as I can, trying not to feel like I’m reacting to Diane, and then I go back to my beer. I look for Diane ten minutes later and she’s gone. Doobe’s dancing with the tarts and I hit him up for money for another beer. Watch the crowd, all dance without rhythm, but having a good time. I muster a smile.
“This’ll all be so fucking funny in ten years,” I tell myself. “I’ll look back and maybe she will too.”
Another sip and Doobe finishes dancing and joins me.
“What happened to Diane and Waldo?”
“They said they had to go… Something about getting up for work.”
“That guy was a fucking dweeb.”
“He was alright, Doobe… Actually… I think he was just Diane’s type.”
“Yeah… I guess you’re right… He was OK.”
PUIP 33
Daylight creeps into the room with feet of lead. My eyes, or rather, the sockets that once housed my eyes, burn in welcome. Instinct thrusts my hand into my pants and comes up barren. NO WALLET. There’s no reason for confusion, I’M IN A BIND. Things were bleak in the past, but time has been good to the ugliness, and things have gotten bleaker. The hangover is a nice aside. If I was at all spiritual, now would be the time to walk into the ocean with flowers in my hand. Instead, I walk downstairs to hunt for stray hashish crumbs and a hot cup of tea. The pain born in my eye sockets is welting my toes now—COMPLETE COVERAGE.
“It’s all been a huge mistake… Things’ve managed to get worse.” It’s all kind of GROOVY with a polluted head but the pillow cushions of the comfort zone are wearing thin now. Nothing left but fucking reality. BUTT-FUCKING REALITY.
A stroll to the bathroom for a leak. I look into the mirror and spy a rancid melon glaring me down. Fuck the eyes being the window into the soul, my seething cheeks alone are reason enough to call for an exorcism. I thought I left all my troubles behind in America. Wasn’t I the same guy who wanted to lose it all? Who wanted to cleanse? To have nothing to lose? Fuck… That shit sounds good until the music stops and the lights go up! This is it… THE END OF MY LINE. I’m waiting for Doobe to wake me up and kick me out into the streets! Homeless in London, that would be lower, yeah, that would definitely be lower. This shit is bad. I can’t even find my toothbrush. Being at that point in life where people you know say things with a wince like, “Yeah… Things haven’t worked out too well for Jimi… He’s havin’ a tough time of it… Tough goin’ kiddo.” You’ve laughed at it in the movies and now… IT’S MY LIFE. It’s all someone else’s funny story in a bar, that’s it. It’s not my life! This is someone else’s bad joke! I’m not a part of this! How long do I have to be somebody else’s tragedy? Five years? Ten? Fifty? A lifetime? That’s a long time to come up short! I close the bathroom door and sit down with my face… and the dreaded mirror.
I cry. It begins as an exercise and ends as a twisted ballet. Writhing on the floor, bleeding a sad clown face. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I cried. I cry for Ray… I cry for Lindsey… I cry for my mom… I cry for the old man… For Diane… For Doobe… For London… I cry for rain… I cry for summers that I had when I was little… I cry for memories… For the world… For MY world… I cry and I cry and I bury my face in my hands… Grinding my fists into my eyes… I’m ashamed… Ashamed because I cry like a baby… Because I don’t know… Because I don’t have any answers… Because I don’t have any money… Because I’m afraid… I cry for me… Most of all… I CRY FOR ME….
PUIP 34
For two days, I sit around the house and drink whatever I can find short of Sterno. Start off the day with a double NyQuil on the rocks. The pattern is set. Wake up, smoke hashish with the girls, they leave and I get on the booze-full train of sorrow and hiding. By noon every day, I get the pen out and I’m trying to write letters to Lindsey. It’s either that or call Diane, and I don’t particularly want to hear what anyone else has to say. I start out every time with lots of poetic bullshit, all passionate and violiny and by the second paragraph, my hand’s making lines across the page—shut down. Nothing to do but drink more and pray for 80-proof rain. Finally, the booze runs out and I decide to take a walk.
The sun’s gone down and I can see the air in front of me. I walk for an hour before I even realize that I’m walking. I walk and I walk. I start to wake up early in the morning and I take walks through all the neighborhoods. I take the tube across town and I walk. Get up, fry potatoes, drink a pot of tea and walk. Looking, smelling, thinking, and dreaming. I walk until it gets dark, and then I catch a train and go home and eat a few more potatoes. The potatoes fill me up but I’m still always hungry. I watch the traffic, and the lights, and the people, and the trees, until I’m so hungry that everything begins to vibrate. At that point, I’m just coasting through a Cézanne painting, everything jagged and vibrating, jumping into my fourth dimension. I begin to lose weight and all the boys start taking notice. Jeans hanging off my hips and all those fickle boys loving me. I’m bony. I got cheekbones! No longer the suave stepson of the Elephant Man.
I hit a piazza one day in the middle of town and I get a load of this statue. The usual—tall, stoic, uniform, big chin, the works… When a slight detail catches my eye… ONE ARM. The motherfucker’s got one arm! Turns out, as I skim the plaque at his boot, that it’s Admiral Nelson. Apparently this guy beat the whole Spanish Armada with not only one arm… BUT ONE EYE! Talk about making me feel like a weasel! I got the herpes and my buddy offed himself and I’m broke… This guy, Nelson, beat a whole fleet of the world’s baddest ships with like rowboats and cap guns. It’s all I can do not to skip home followed by a band of admiring Liberace look-alikes. I’m happy this motherfucker beat the odds. It gives me hope. Hope and an idea—A DIME STORE KIND OF BRAINSTORM.
PUIP 35
JIMI IS CALLING FROM LONDON… WILL YOU ACCEPT THE C
HARGES?
“Yes… I’ll accept the charges.”
“Unc?”
“Jimi?”
“Hey… How ya doin’?”
“Good, Jimi… I think the question is… How are you doin’?”
“Actually… Somethin’ went down.”
“What a surprise.”
“I lost my wallet with all my money.”
“And your passport?”
“No, I didn’t have my passport with me.”
“Where’d you lose it?”
“You know?… I’m not quite sure. It’s all a little hazy that night.”
“So now you need money?”
“I do, Unc.”
“You know you coulda come up with a better one if you were going to call me collect from London and ask me for dough.”
“The weirdest thing is that it’s actually true… I swear, Unc.”
“Yeah, well… I’ll drop you some cash at Western Union… It oughta be there by tomorrow since it’s already so late in London.”
“Unc… I owe you one.”
“No… If you owed me ONE… Then you’d owe me A COUPLE… But you don’t owe me anything… I gotta go to work… I’ll see you later.”
I’ve never been a big fan of holidays with the family or even THE FAMILY PERIOD… But times like this make it GOOD to have a group of people who feel at least MILDLY obligated to give a fuck! It’s the little victories, the small triumphs that keep the Kool-Aid Smile on my face.
PUIP 36
Memories are a big hassle. They weigh more than any pile of gravel I ever shoveled. I’m a slave to my past… I’m a slave to the pussy… I’m a slave to the car… The land… The desire to be something I’m not… I’m a slave to everything that weighs.
Lying in bed with a pocket full of someone else’s money, desperately needing a new pair of socks. PARIS. What two-bit dreamer didn’t go there and talk about how rude the waiters were? A song sung a million times by ten million different mooks like me.