by Arty Nelson
It all started with a phone call from Jane, Ray’s last girlfriend, to Doobe, asking us to come see her. It’s a long way from the vacation hot spot of my youth—WILDWOOD, NEW JERSEY. Personally, I’m not all that keen on seeing the chick, but Doobe thinks it’ll be nice, so we’re doing it. I got a friend of a friend over there by the name of Harry Clements, who I figure I’ll look up when I get there.
I’ll go. I’m tired of London and I’m starting to catch up with myself here. Time for a new town. It’s always better when I’m coming or going, just watching it all pass by through the window.
Jackson Pollock coulda painted the sky, I think, as I turn over and look for another pillow. I’m not really one to go on about nature and its power, but I gotta cop to the fact that there are moments when I am all but brought to my knees by Big Mamma. Something about leaving makes me feel relaxed. I watch the sky, all the shades of blue and black splattered and I think about Paris and I fade….
PUIP 37
I wake up and do the chores that Doobe needs done while he works. Then I meet him down at Leicester Square. We have a short one at the pub and then we jump on the train to Heathrow.
“I hope you didn’t bring the hashish, Jimi.”
“Of course I brought it… I thought we’d need it.”
“What we DON’T need is a few years in a french prison because of a little miscommunication… Gimme it.”
Doobe breaks the chunk in half and throws a half back at me.
“Cheers,” he says and we toss the chunks in our mouths.
“Anything else I should know about?”
“Well… Yeah… I got the pipe.”
“Gimme it.”
I hand it to him, he breaks it up and throws it under the seat of the train.
The train lets us out right at Heathrow. We jump on to the plane and grab a glass of red wine, which is nice, because my throat is coated with hashish crumbs and I’m having trouble properly enunciating my vowels.
A trip to Paris—definitely some kind of justice I could have only earned in another lifetime.
“Doobe, this trip is fate… Man.”
“No… It’s about an hour and fifteen minutes,” he says and turns out his overhead light.
I look out the window… Thinking… I got no right to even think about this life anymore… I don’t know what the fuck is gonna happen… Nothing ever goes the way I THINK it’ll go… Why do I even bother… The English Channel below me… Lined with lights… France on the other side… FUCK IT… FUCK GUILT… I’m gonna let it be whatever… NO MORE GUILT… NO MORE BULLSHIT… I’M GONNA DO WHAT I CAN DO WITH WHATEVER I GOT… OR WHATEVER I CAN GET… MY SLICE OF THE PIE… THE CITY OF MOTHERFUCKIN’ LIGHTS AND LOVE… PARIS!
We land.
“Doobe, are you feeling that hashish?”
“Yahuh.”
We hurry through the airport and find our way lost outside. WAY LOST! Neither of us speaks a word of french. I mean I studied it for years, but I don’t even let Doobe in on that little piece of information, because between the hashish and my study habits in school, I’m useless. Doobe moves fast, being a New York boy, even though he’s lost. I follow with my head on a swivel, lookin’ like one of those big spring-head dolls that sits on top of a dashboard. London’s Jersey City compared to PARIS! Sculpture… The whole fuckin’ town. I think they commission artists to do the goddamn drinking fountains! Doobe hasn’t said anything yet, but from what I can tell, we’re walking in some kind of a tweaked circle. Finally, he turns.
“I don’t know where we are.”
“Did you just realize that?… We’ve passed this same fruit stand three times.”
“Why didn’t you fuckin’ say something?!”
“Doobe, I have NO idea where we are. I don’t even know where we SHOULD be going.”
“Jimi… I’m really spun from that hashish. I didn’t realize it until now.”
We walk a while, until we hear a few words of english, and ask directions. Lucky for us, all the circling we did kept us close to where we needed to be. We’re back on track. I begin to hear all the foreign tongues more as music than as a wall. It’s actually better to not know what people are saying. I like it. London is one thing but Paris… Forget about it… The trip just started. London was a warm-up. I wanna go to Africa and India, that’s the shit right there. Different clothes, and smells, and faces and teeth. It’s all just started. It makes me think that maybe there are a few things worth living for! Maybe there IS something left after your first legal drink.
“We musta walked outta the wrong side of the airport.”
“I’m glad you figured it out… I wouldn’ta even been able to dial a phone to call Jane.”
“You woulda figured it out if you had to.”
“Doobe… You’re better at this stuff, trust me.”
A little compliment and your average slob will bend over backwards for you. Just let Doobe believe that he IS the trailblazer and I’ll never even have to open a map.
Ten minutes and one train later, we’re in front of Jane’s apartment. From what Doobe tells me, her dad is like some CEO-type who got hit by the mid-life crisis and decided it was time to spend some of his money on something other than Saabs for his five daughters, so he and the old lady packed up and moved to Paree. Jane, being the middle child and naturally, the most clueless, came over to “get her shit together.” Yikes… To even put that cliché in quotes makes my herpes itch.
I met Jane for the first time at Ray’s funeral, and I gotta come clean on this one… It was bad spooky voodoo vibes right from the get-go. The chick bummed me out hard. I mean I know that it wasn’t her fault that slick-boy strung himself up in the old oak, but it being the only time I’d met her, it was hard not to associate Ray’s death with meeting Jane. Something in my gut, knotted lie detector that it is, gave me a jolt when I touched her. I never believe what my gut tells me at first but that’s probably a lot of the reason why I find myself SO WRONG all the time. As fucked up a human as I am, the animal part of me does OK.
Jane was all over the place at the funeral, blabbering and moaning and yelling, “Please don’t take him! Don’t close the door! Don’t take him away,” when they were shutting the casket, and that voice in my head was saying, “Shut the fuck up and have a yogurt or something, Jane!” I just don’t know what it was. But you know Doobe thinks she’s great, of course, like I said before, and that’s why we’re here. And forget about the rumors that Jane and Doobe have a thing going… Just forget about them.
We ring the bell. Mom answers and buzzes us in and now here we are, all gook-eyed, meeting the family.
“Doobe! Oh my God! You made it!” she says, as if it’s a miracle. “And Jimi! Oh my God! It’s so good to see you again,” as if we go way back. It’s begun already.
Mom and Dad are alright. Dad’s one of those banker guys who’s decided it’s time to get into the Arts, so he’s moved to Paris, and Mom is definitely that faded Jane Fonda-esque debutante from like Long Island or maybe, the Oranges in New Jersey. A 1980s health spa version of Holly Golightly—the pearls, the hairdo, all slipped into a yummy-mummy motif. Nice enough people, and more importantly, they’ve cooked up a beautiful spread for us. Chicken, roasted with asparagus and potatoes and greens. Out of the corner of my roving eye, I see strawberries and cream waiting on deck in the kitchen.
Doobe’s in rare form, the hashish that made me a zombie made him Jerry Lewis, so he carries the conversational ball, and tells of all our WACKY mishaps on the way to Paris. The parents love it, like they always do. I guess after a couple of decades on the couch ANYTHING can be pretty zany. I’m useless. I just have seconds and thirds, occasionally grunting or nodding my head to validate one of Doobe’s twists. He lies a little, but the story moves better that way.
Jane, of course, is all but totally enthralled by every peep Helms makes.
“Did you really?… Oh my God!… And you weren’t scared?!” The thing that bothers me the most about Jane is th
at it’s obvious she WAS perfect for Ray, and I can’t bear to see that simple truth bouncing around in front of me. Even with my iron curtain of humor, it’s painful to watch her bounce around in front of me, thinking of old purple Ray. Ray’d found the perfect playmate. All the right stuff, that earthy rich girl from the east hanging out in Aspen, hiking and skiing, waiting tables, going to Dead shows and doing bucketsful of coke—just perfect for him.
Mom and Jane finally clear the table and I watch with a broken heart as the last few potatoes escape my jaw-full death.
“You two boys shower, and then we’re going out.” I wanna tell them to go on without me so I can stay home, eat the leftovers, and make passes at Mom, but something tells me to hold back.
PUIP 38
We walk through the city, Doobe and Jane laughing while I swing in and out of insecurity. It’s either, “what a coupla assholes,” or “oh jeez, I wish they’d talk to me” the whole way.
“We’ll go to Harry’s. You guys’ll love it. They serve whiskey there and the walls are filled with pennants from american colleges.”
“That sounds cool,” Doobe says.
“Yeah, that’ll be cool,” I say, thinking, Yeah… Wow… Yippee… Great… Really… College banners and everything? The false promise of bonding with a bunch of american students over in Europe is almost too much.
We walk in and there it is. Just like Jane said. We could be in any bar on the yuppified Upper West Side of Manhattan, my only consolation being a Gold Card that Jane drops onto the bar.
“Tab please.”
I now… Love Jane.
The free-flowing booze softens my black heart towards Jane. I begin to see her in a new light—a mash-enlightened light. She’s a lush. No surprise, but always still nice to see. One shot after another, with the confidence that comes from a lifetime of spending daddy’s money. We gain, much to my chagrin, two young french idiots into our clique, both of whom make it their business to make a run on Jane. I’m tired and I could care less as long as they don’t bump my arm while I’m drinking. But after awhile, their putrid flirtations embitter me. Doobe’s trying to “get to know them,” thinking that maybe he just “doesn’t understand them,” but I’m in no mood for such cultural sluttery. I think they’re ASSHOLES! Last Call comes and goes and I finally step in.
“Jane… Ah, maybe we should go now?”
“Yeah… Jane… Jimi’s right… We are actually kinda tired from the trip… Maybe we could go home now?”
“Yeah… OK… ,” she says. “Nice meeting you guys… We’re gonna go now.”
And that’s when it happens….
“OOhhh cum onnn… Yew are nut go-ink to let theesse friennnzzz… Tell yew zwhat tu duuu… Are yuuuu?!”
She snaps and I see.
“… Ummm… Yeah… I mean no!!!” She barks, “I want to stay… Nobody tells me what to do!”
Need I write anymore? Right in front of me, in all her glory, is the ballbusting cunt who, in my mind, pushed Ray into the noose when she shoulda pulled him out of it! Like a lightning bolt of “I told you so’s!” Right in front of me. We end up staying another hour, bribing the bartender for shots and listening to these two french assholes make bogus small talk. It’s all I can do to drink the bitch’s booze! Doobe’s literally asleep. The only reason I stay awake is because I’ve become so hateful towards Jane.
In the end, Jane blows off both the swishy Paris boys, and we hail a cab home. Doobe and Jane go into her room “to talk,” and I sneak into the kitchen to eat. The potatoes are gone! There isn’t a goddamn thing in the house except for some ancient pine nuts, which I gobble down. After all the salt is licked off the bag, I tiptoe over to the couch, take off my clothes and go to bed….
“Oh Fuck!… Jimi… You gotta put those boots outside… And wash your feet!”
“What?”
“I can smell those things in Jane’s room… This whole place stinks!”
“Thanks… Buddy,” I say, getting up. “I guess they are a little ripe, aren’t they?”
“Peaches are ripe… Those things fuckin’ stink!”
PUIP 39
“Urgh… Uuuuchhhhhh… Joooook… Galoop… !” Jammed into a little white shitter, I scrape and pull at the bottom of my stomach. I got the bad pine nut flu! Every once in awhile I muster a little bile, but mostly it’s just wretching painful dry heaves. I taste the nuts with every heave. Hanging on to the edge of the cold porcelain bowl, my face thrust over the murky water, I taste the nuts, again and again. If I could just drink some ginger ale… If I could just remember what life was like before I started puking… I can’t… There was no life before this… I was born… They stamped a 9-digit number on my forehead… And I caught the bad pine nut flu… That’s what it is… That’s what happened… Now I remember… I’ve had this bad stomach from day 2… The pain… Ohhhhhhhhhh… Again… Uuuuurrrggghhh… Ssplunk… Oooooowwww… Jjjjjjaaaaa… Sswash… Over and over… I want my mom… I wanna be a baby again… I want permission to cry… Zzzzzooooowwwwww… Oooooccc-coooookkkk… And all that guttural hemming and hawing and what do I get… Two green chunks the size of rabbit turds… The only nice thing is that Jane’s parents are outta the house… I wanna scream… I wanna puke my way back to the womb… There’s no dignity… There’s no dignity when the chunks hit the bowl… Hit the bowl and splash back up in my face… Murky puke-water slime dripping off my chin… Spitting… Trying not to swallow down any of the slime… This’s HELL… This is truly HELL… Those fuckin’ pine nuts… Out the window it’s balmy… All the world’s happy but me… Everybody’s taken the day off and is playing in the park but ME… No relief… I puke until I can’t breathe… I sit back… Start to sweat… And then… I gotta do it all over again… I puke an hour for a moment’s joy… No relief… I’ll just ride it out… Think about funny things… The Marx Brothers… They’re supposed to be funny… Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooohhhh fuck… UUURRRGGGHHH… Aaaaaalllllluuu-uuupppppp… UUURRRGGGHHH… ZZZZZ OOOCCCCKKKKK… Always back to UUURRRGGGHHHH… All the world is happy… Everything is sunny… And my mom has forgotten me… Strawberries… Here it is… There’s no peace… I wanna eat a peach… Juicy… I can’t remember how long it’s been since I ate… Since I could eat… It’s chicken broth for the rest of my life.
“Jimi… Are you OK in there?”
“Yeahqq… Pretty muchqqqqq…”
No end… A day… A life… I’m in HELL! “Doober and I are gonna go out and get some juice… Do you want anything?”
“Ginger ale… Pleaseqqqq…?”
I hear the door close… I begin to cut loose… Scrapping and pulling… Wanting it to end… Looking for one of those motherfucking gods again… LOOKING AGAIN….
PUIP 40
Jane’s on the telephone in the kitchen. Doobe’s in the bathroom. I sneak into the master bedroom. It’s a small room, clean to the point that it’s got a Pine-Sol mist wafting about in the air. A small double bed with a powder-blue quilt takes up the back corner of the room. I have to stop and imagine Mom and Dad getting it on before I make another move. Jane’s mother’s quite the 40-ish looker—that air of wisdom sautéd lightly in a been-around-the-block tapenade. I can see her now, soothing poor Papa Bankerman’s woes with her tanned fingers and those knowing taut thighs.
Back to business. I’m not here to wank it in some soiled Bloomies cotton panties. THIS IS A MISSION. I spot the dresser and I make my move, listening carefully to the outside; keeping audio track of what’s going on with Jane and Doobe. Of course, there’s the required family pix on the top of the dresser. Jane’s got some nice sisters. Jane’s the petite one. All the other sisters are broad, jock-types. That’s OK, where I grew up, a girl could throw a softball or two. I’m used to that active model—the tomboy. I want a woman who can rope a cow if she has to. Anyways, the dresser’s got five drawers. I go for the top one… T-shirts… No dice… The second down… Boxers… What’s the point? My jeans are already so cruddy… The third one… BINGO… SO
CKS GALORE… Colored socks… White socks… Wool socks… Silk socks… Argyles… Plaids… This guy doesn’t fuck around! I’ve got a new respect for Jane’s father! I mean I’d seen him in some nice royal-blue tweedy socks, but who knew? The guy’s got depth! I select a pair to my liking… Nothing special… A knee-high tube… Goes a long way. I slip them on… My feet are squeaky from the shower… Yes… Better than a sauna and a rub down… My feet love me… It’s been a while… Things were bleak in London… Doobe doesn’t do enough laundry… I debate whether or not to grab a thick purple wool pair for the road, but decide against it on the grounds that I think it would show no class… Take what you need, Jimi… Not what you want… And sneak back out into the living room, flopping down with a magazine I can’t read.
Jane comes out of the kitchen.
“You look a lot better today, Jimi.”
“Feel a lot better too, Jane.”
“Doobe’s gone out to get some wine. I told him to get you some more ginger ale.”
“Jane, you’re a good woman.”
“I’ll be in the shower if anyone calls for me.”
“Ok… Jane… Is it alright if I try to get in touch with that guy, Harry, I told you about?”
“Sure… Mom put instructions for dialing out next to the phone,” she says, and closes the bedroom door behind her.
“Thanks a lot,” I yell back, and go into the kitchen. I call the school that Harry goes to, and they say that they can’t give me his number but that they’ll take a message and give it to him. I promise that I’m not a rapist but to no avail. I leave Jane’s number and hang up. Doobe returns with ginger ale and vino.
“You look a lot better today, Jimi.”
“Better than I looked when I was lapping up water out of the commode?”
“Exactly… Have some ginger ale. I got some broth I’ll heat up for you.”