by Arty Nelson
I sit back on the couch while Doobe heats up the soup. Life is good again, sipping on soda with clean thick socks on, not puking my guts up.
PUIP 41
Notre-Dame standing tall in the middle of Paris—a monument to years of Christian suffering and terrorism reduced to a stop on a guided tour. There’s a big crater in front of it where some Nazi bomb landed. The locals say it’s a miracle, the bomb that is. Burn the fucking building, and save a few million people, I say. Faith.
“Let’s go in and light a candle for Ray,” Doobe says earnestly.
“Definitely… Don’t you think so, Jimi?” Jane chirps.
“I’m not adverse to a little prayer.” Might be a good time to look for some help with my stomach virus.
We walk inside the massive wooden front doors and sit down at a bench along the wall.
“I’ll get us a candle to light.”
Jane and I sit in silence while Doobe trots over to a divinely inspired huckster and gets a candle. He comes back and sits down next to Jane. Not a word is spoken for what seems like hours until finally, Helms turns with tear-streaked eyes.
“Come on… Let’s go over to that side altar,” and takes hold of Jane’s hand.
My first impulse is to say, “Hey, if we’re gonna light one last one for our man, shouldn’t we at least go to the center altar and get a straight-on audience with the Man?” but I don’t say it. The truth is that I got the emotions flowing. I let the corniness slide. For a moment I stop being “the guy with the funny line” and I let this thing be whatever it is. I see Jane for the first time… For the pained soul that she is. The look in her eyes and the sadness in her face… Whether or not she could have helped is neither here nor there at this point. She cared about Ray. The only thing getting in the way is that she’s as fucked up as he was! We’re all as fucked up as he was! It’s no secret… THIS LIFE… Probably takes out most of us.
Doobe motions to Jane to come up and join him at the altar. I stay behind, not knowing if they want me to be RIGHT there with them. I’m here, more or less, as a witness, but that’s alright. I’m here. Doobe lights a long wooden match, bringing it up in front of him and Jane, illuminating their faces… The match ignites with a leap… The flame stretching bright… And then settles into a steady burn… Looking soft… Looking kind… Free… For just a second… Of all my fear… And my suffocating judgments… I see Doobe… I see Jane… I see Ray… And I see me… Climbing upwards… The flame… But always dying back down again… Jane puts her little-girl hand… In need of a cigarette… On Doobe’s hand… And they reach out to the candle in front of them… I watch as the wick scorches… And then accepts the fire….
RITUAL
SILENCE
What is a hero but a silly prelude to a tragedy… A victim… Built up and torn down like so many billboards on Hollywood Boulevard. A need for more and bigger, leaves no choice. Ray’s gone and we’re lighting a candle, trying to make ourselves feel better, or bring back some part of him. Sitting there watching a flame burn, wishing I wasn’t puking so much… Wishing I was drinking in a dark bar… Drinking with Ray… Drinking with anyone… But I stay… And sit… Doobe is crying… And Jane is crying… And I’m wishing… Wishing that I could cry… The tears locked behind some thing… Some wall… I can’t see… Wishing a candle could change anything… Errol Flynn was a faggot, I see… Marilyn Monroe was a junky, I hear… And JFK was a slut, I speak… My old man once asked me what I believe in and I shrugged… Thinking I’d be an asshole to say anything other than “I don’t know.” A test. I really don’t know… I just remember… Ray… Laughing… Talking… Walking… Being alive… Being my friend… He was such a doomed fool to begin with… The guy never did anything right… The last time I saw him alive he was standing in front of a group of people outside the fraternity… Impressing them… I remember thinking… Poor Ray… When’s he ever gonna get over it… I barely spoke with the guy… I just wanted out of school and as far away from all those people as I could get… HIS CHOICE… He made a choice… A BIG LAST STAND… And now here I am in Europe on some false little pilgrimage, trying to recapture some lost light….
The credits are rolling on the Ray movie and we’re walking out the door in a Day-Glo shroud of tears. The sun is going down on the ancient streets of Paris, and all the women look so kind in the streets. I want to grab them and kiss them. I grab Jane and kiss her.
“Jane, he’d be psyched about this.”
“He is.”
I start to blush. The blood inside me pumping through my face. Not caring. Seeing this world, and seeing Ray. Loving the women, and hearing the music. Not being afraid to hold a small piece of it for once. Not being afraid of losing or failing. I’m in love with the pain, and the joy, and all the in-between stuff. So much of it is in-between. Realizing my smallness and being glad I don’t really have anything to do with the outcome of a whole day on this planet. Watching the world and drinking from its filthy gold cup… Not because I can… But because I do….
PUIP 42
A figure appears across the park. I watch as the body comes into focus, zigzagging between winos and fountains—Harry Clements. Harry walks with his feet low on the ground, shuffling side to side like all hockey players walk. Feet down along the ground, pushing off to the side with hips rolling, waiting for a puck, or a pass, or a hit. I get up from my spot next to Doobe and make my way over to meet him.
“I didn’t know if you’d get that message or not.”
“Yeah, I got it right away, but I had some things I had to get done and I didn’t wanna call you until I had them outta the way.”
I pull him in with a hug.
“I kinda needed to split for a couple of days. I’m caught in this family thing and it’s driving me crazy.”
“I thought this guy, Helms, was your buddy?”
“He is… It’s just, I’ve been with him at this girl’s place with her mom and dad… And I’m getting fucking antsy… Come on over and meet them.”
We walk back over to Doobe and Jane, and I introduce Harry. I don’t know Harry all that well myself, but he goes out with an old friend. When I met him, we connected right away. I need Harry. I gotta get away from Doobe and Jane for awhile. I’m sick of the All in the Family scene with the family. I’m broke again. All the uncle’s money’s gone, and I need some new wells to tap into. I figure Harry’s lonely for some back-home companionship, and we can hang out for a couple days. Everybody will be happy. Doobe and Jane can do their thing and I’ll go do mine.
We sit down and pass the wine. Jane keeps on saying, “Ray would’ve loved this.” It’s her latest profound discovery. After Notre-Dame, Ray’s come “to love” everything that happens to the three of us. I’m beginning to get worried about her. There’s a twisted look in her eyes every time she mouths the phrase. Doobe and I’ve gotten to the point where we just look at each other and shrug when she says it. The girl needs help and I can’t pay lip service to the communal mourn. I’m out the door. Let Doobe handle it.
“So yeah… Harry knows all the same people we know,” I say, evoking a bond. “Went to U. of Maine with all your buddies from home, Doobe.”
“Do you know_____?”
“Yeah and_____.”
A network of fuck-ups looping the globe. People roaming lost and looking. Hiding out in all the most picturesque places the world has to offer, killing time. Everybody knows someone, and if they don’t, then they know someone else who does—it’s the “do you know” game. Perfect for immediate comradery. Names are tossed back and forth and the wine is passed. I sit back and listen, closing my eyes. All I can see is that little spot of red you see when you close your eyes facing the sun. Letting my friends and their friends meet, while I relax and drink. It’s nice to be in Paris. In five years, I hope I just remember the good parts. The sun and the park and the conversation and the children playing and the winos being warm on the grass. Me, just sitting back with my eyes closed and my head cupped in my ha
nds, looking at the red screens. I don’t wanna talk.
The sun goes behind the clouds and the bottles run dry. Harry wants to get going, we gotta meet some friends of his at a bar across town, so we get up to leave. I look down at Doobe and Jane and my melodramatic engines kick in. I wanna get away from them and yet, I feel like I’m abandoning them.
“I’m going back to London in two days, I gotta work this weekend.”
“Harry’ll be sick of me by then, anyways… I’ll call you.”
“Jimi, I’m glad you came and stayed with us. My parents thought you were funny.”
“I had a good time. We’ll call you tomorrow and see what you’re up to,” I tell them.
Doobe says, “No problem.” But he knows this is it. I think he gets the vibe. We say our good-byes and I start walking away with Harry.
“Don’t forget to call us!” Jane yells and I wave back. I always say I’ll call. It’s a lot easier than having to say good-bye.
PUIP 43
Harry and I walk for about two miles through the city. We gotta stop and pick up a friend of his, and then we’re meeting some other people at a place called the Crown.
“He’s a good guy,” Harry assures me. My head immediately translates that into “a guy who will have some food and beer for me and maybe a chunk of hashish.”
It ends up that the guy lives in the 7th district, not too far away from Jane’s parents. He’s not home and we wait on his stairs.
“Harry, do you ever miss the states?”
“I did for awhile… Until one day I realized that I didn’t really have anything to go back to… I mean, I flunked out of every college I went to and I’ve been away from home for so long that that’s the last place I want to be now….”
“I feel like I have everything to go back to… I just don’t wanna go back to it.”
“Paris is kind of surreal… It’s like I don’t age here or something, because everything’s so different to begin with… Back home, I’d always be thinking about what I should be doing and shit… It doesn’t fucking matter here.”
Harry sees a guy coming towards us and gets up.
“I thought you were gonna be here… We’ve been here an hour!”
“I did not say that I would be home before six o’clock, Harry.”
“Flavio, this is Jimi.”
“Hi, Flavio.”
“Nice to meet you, Jimi.”
Flavio looks spanish. He’s light-skinned, tall and skinny, dressed in natty clothes—kind of a fashionable guy, and his hair is slicked back tight on his skull, perfectly. We follow him up two flights of stairs to his apartment, a big loft with framed prints on every wall and a thin black leather couch in front of a lone onyx table.
“Nice fucking place you got here, Flav.”
“Thank you, it is my father’s but he is only here one week a year. He’s an art dealer. He travels very much.”
“That explains the prints, I guess.”
“My father is very fond of your american artists.”
“Lichtenstein?”
“Yes. He is his very favorite painter.”
“I always liked the whole cartoon thing myself.”
“Very powerful.”
“And funny too… That’s big.”
Harry returns from the fridge with some beers.
“Jimi, this is som’a the finer french lager,” and hands me an open beer. Flavio returns from the kitchen with a long-stemmed, glass, hashish pipe.
“Welcome to Paris… Please do us the honor.”
I take a swig offa my beer and hold the pipe up to my mouth as Flavio so graciously gives me a light. I take a hit. The hashish is powerful. I’m thrust back instantly to my first bong hits in junior high. Sitting behind the local church, thinking my old man was gonna walk around the corner at any minute and ground me for the decade.
“Strong… Isn’t it.”
“Strong… I’m ready to call up my parents and apologize for everything I’ve ever done… This shit makes me feel like a child molester or something.”
“It does have sort of a PERVERSE air doesn’t it, Jimi?” Harry adds. “Our friends travel quite a bit… Some of the guys we’re meeting later on just got back from Turkey with this stuff.”
“No wonder those people never make it out of their robes.”
We drink our beers and pass the pipe, listening to some sitar music that Flavio just picked up. I’m not crazy about the music but I keep my mouth shut about it. I don’t want to insult Flavio’s well-intentioned hospitality. At least not until I’ve stuck my head in the fridge. Harry’s flipping through a print book and Flavio gets on the phone to sure up plans for the evening. I start to play with a little grey kitten that’s been darting around the room. Flavio looks up from the phone.
“Her name is Zooey… Like the Salinger story.” Flavio loves to drop a name here and there.
“Come here Zooey… Come here girl,” I say, beginning to crawl on the floor. “Come here baby… Come on.”
Zooey is shy and she continues to dodge me. Flavio is on the phone and Harry is lost in his book and I start to chase this little cat. “Come on Zooey… Come on over here.”
The cat doesn’t want anything to do with me, but finally I get her in a corner and come up close to her. I lean my face down in front of her and make kissing noises.
“Come on little one… Smooch smooch… Come on.” WHAM! She catches me with a paw right across my cheek. Rage fills my face with blood. I grab her in my hands and flip her over onto the ground. I’m furious! The little slut scratched me! I look back over my shoulder. No one’s looking and I begin to squeeze her, the soft fur in between my fingers. She looks up at me, frightened, and I grab her around the throat, twisting her head to the side, pulling at her throat. I wanna kill the little fuck! I take another glance over my shoulder and still no one has looked over at me. I continue squeezing and the kitten starts to struggle with more intensity. Her eyes look away from me. I figure she’s starting to realize that maybe her life is in danger. A wave of nerve runs the length of her torso with a jolt… She’s now fighting for her life. I lean close to her. “I’m your god right now… Your life is in my fucking hands,” and continue to twist and squeeze while she desperately shows her claws and tries to scratch her way out of the mess she’s got herself into. She’s put herself in a real bad situation. Little kitty yelps sneak out from between my fingers.
“Jimi… Do you want another beer?”
“What?… Oh yeah… Yeah… Yeah, I’d love another one.”
I let go of the little cunt and she tears across the room into the closet. I turn around and Harry’s coming towards me with a beer.
“You OK?… Jimi… You look a little flushed.”
“Yeah… Oh yeah… I’m fine,” I stammer and take the cold beer from his outstretched hand. I take a sip and try to regain a little composure while Harry goes over to fill another pipe. The beer’s dark and thick—high-octane mud. I take a few more sips and I realize I’m shaking. Some kind of rush, maybe an adrenaline-shame speedball or something. Zooey’s hiding under the couch and Flavio sits back down on the couch.
PUIP 44
Everything in life seems worth the trouble as I walk through the swinging doors of the Crown. The place is so classic that my vision goes black and white the minute I set eyes on the bar. Time stops and I hear those beautiful horns again, just whispering and crying back in time. The bartender, bored, leans over on his handlebar moustache and checks his watch, ignoring us. There’s even a sad blonde at the end of the small bar with a glass of half-drunk red wine and an ashtray full of cigarettes. The barkeep straightens his black vest and asks Flavio a question in french. Flavio answers, the guy runs both hands through the week-old-looking grease in his hair, wipes his hands on a rag that he pulls from his waist, and reaches down to put three glasses down in front of him on the bar. We sit down behind the glasses and I get my first of many Calvos. It’s an apple liqueur, and we chase down the shots with es
presso. The juke box only plays french tunes.
“What are they saying in this song?” I ask.
“They’re all singing about Love and Loss.”
Down with the Calvos, and back up with the espresso, all night long, listening to songs I can’t understand the words to, only feeling them. It’s nighttime and I stir brown cubes of sugar into my espresso, sitting in the Crown. I can only hope the sun never comes up again. A bunch of other Spanish guys show up, and Flavio joins them. Harry introduces me to them but we stay off to the side on our own.
“You know, Harry… I never thought life was gonna be like this… I mean I kinda wanted it to be like this… In Europe and everything… But you know it’s different from what I THOUGHT it would be like.”
“I never thought I’d live here… But I love it now.”
“Sitting in this fucking place makes me forget everything.”
“Now you get it….”
“I could die here.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t be the first.”
“You know, Harry… I’m a little short on cash.”
“Don’t worry about it… My treat tonight… I’m glad you called me.”
“I’m glad I called you, too.”
“It’s nice to get someone over here to hang with now and then… We’ll have a good time… Just drink and enjoy yourself.”
I’m filled with forgetting… Sweet… And simple. No more cats will cry in my hands tonight.
PUIP 45
Wrapped in a thin veil of dusty cloth, with a throat of sand and a deaf nose, I roll over. I gotta go, my bladder is a pregnant balloon. Where the fuck am I? Paris… The rest is questionable. I check to make sure I don’t have some once-beautiful pig next to me that I gotta crawl over without waking up. I don’t wanna have to perform. I’m as far from sex as a chronic masturbator can be. I have to dump bad.
I get up and walk out a door. I see Harry sleeping in an alcove and I feel remotely safe. There’s a small shitter in the foyer between us. I’m definitely in the SMALLEST apartment I’ve ever seen—two closets fused together, walkway and a toilet. We’re high up, many stories. There’s a window in the bathroom that looks out over a whole side of the city. At least fifteen stories, no broken neck on the landing of that jump. I imagine it’d be clean. What a view.