by Arty Nelson
I sit down and the valve that is my sphincter opens. Buckets of glass squirting sour. I’m pissing out my ass. It’s painful but not as bad as the pain of holding back. Every once in awhile, some kind of metal peanut flies out and tears at the wall of my butt. All the buildings are wet, the city looks rested. I can’t see any people from where I sit, just windows, stone, and some brick. I let out some gas. A long balloon-on-the-loose kind of fart, and another pocket in my bowels cuts loose. PURE JOY. It smells bad. Am I getting rid of the bad stuff? Or is this an indication that there’s MUCH bad stuff inside? My head goes back to the Crown, something about a faded lily of a bleach-blonde, telling me the story of her life, while I try to gauge whether or not she likes me. Does she tell everyone the story of her being raped by her brother, or does she trust me? Flavio appears in my mind, briefly, handing me another Calvos, toasting Lichtenstein’s cartoons. It’s the first real triumph of my alleged college education—a free shot of booze for some rudimentary art history facts. It was all worth it, Dad. A few more farts and then what feels like swollen sand pellets begin to squeeze out of my butt in sequence—grainy strands of pearls. After a couple of minutes, the strings get shorter and the pebbles get smaller, until they pop out one at a time, and it ends. I look around to see, much to my chagrin, that there isn’t any papier du toilette. The injustice calls tears to my ducts. It isn’t fair! This shit is not fair! I can take a lot of things, but this is just too much! What the hell did I do that’s so wrong! Am I just a bad person or what?! There’s nothing in the room! Not even a piece of cardboard! I look up next to the tiny sink, off to the left, and see a soiled glimmer of salvation—A single threadbare sock in desperate need of a good darn and wash. Such a precious commodity in the life of a young man like Harry or I, there’s almost a factor of guilt, but I erase it immediately out of what I deem an ABSOLUTE NECESSITY. I gotta do it! It has to go! I take a long stern swipe and pull the rag up to my face. Brown, not bloody—A good sign. A few small seed-like remnants from an old meal. The smell is much more intense face to face. When I smell shit in the air, it smells bad because I’m expecting to smell air. When I smell it on a piece of toilet paper, it’s more like a medical checkup or something, and it’s not as bad, it’s intense. The sock is a little stiff, so as I wipe, there’s a certain amount of scraping involved to what is already a ravaged bung-scape. Yeah… It hurts! My face muscles turn stoic on me as I power through the last wipes, and then I follow it with a couple handfuls of water. Someday… I’ll be able to fart again without whimpering. The sock… Now that’s another story altogether. That baby’s got no place to go but out the window. I open the latch and let it go… Watching as it flutters and rolls down past the other windows and buildings, until at last the angle is too severe and I can’t see it anymore. I pull up my pants, wash my hands, splash cold water on my face, and take a gulp. I’ve done as much as I can to get rid of yesterday.
PUIP 46
“This shit isn’t all that smooth but it will wake a guy up.”
“It’s just what we need, Jimi… I don’t think that standard american stuff will get us through this one.”
Sitting in a cafe around the corner from Harry’s place, next to about a dozen old men with no place to go. None of us are vagrants, we just don’t have any place to go. Gagging down some espresso. Last night’s Calvos shook me harder than I thought, and Harry’s in worse shape than I am. It hurts to think. I felt better earlier this morning. This hangover just keeps growing. Noon might be unbearable! One of those sugar hangovers like from drinking those rummy foo-foo drinks all night long. The umbrellas are fun to twirl and everything, but the next-day price is way too high. Anyways, my head hurts in a particularly excruciating way. It longs for the days of Kool-Aid and posies. I don’t think there’s a coffee in the world that can pull me and Harry out of this one. The sun is out… And out… And out… And out! I could fry potatoes at my temples. Harry looks as miserable as I am, but takes it a lot better. He doesn’t get all dramatic. When I’m in pain, I’m like a jewish chick from Long Island. I think the wincing and rolling around in my seat is making him feel better. We only stay for a single refill, and then we go back to the apartment and watch dubbed american soaps. I fall in and out of sleep curled up around a pillow….
“I don’t think we can shake this one, Jimi. We gotta go hair of the dog.”
“The thought of that first Calvos makes me gag… But I’ll gag it down and puke it up to get to the second one.”
We run back around the corner and sit down again. The first shot crawls down my throat. I chase it down with sugary espresso. The magic cure’s just around the bend. A couple of hours of artificial joy and then we’re on our own again. The same group of men, all four cigarettes older, sits in the cafe.
“You know, Harry… I try to act as cool as possible … But the truth is… I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do with my life beyond the next round of Calvos.”
“I don’t either… Are we supposed to?”
“No… I mean… Maybe not… But I’m starting to get real scared… Everything’s like a symbol of my lost-ness… I sit down at a table… See a knife and a spoon crossed and I begin to sweat… Doom everywhere.”
“Jimi… I came to Paris ‘cause I got sick of answering all the same questions when I talked to my parents… You don’t have to tell me… No one asks over here… That’s why I love it here now… People over here know that everybody’s clueless… It’s like THE SECRET THAT NEVER CROSSED THE ATLANTIC.”
“I think… Therefore I’m not.”
Afternoon sets in and so does the crowd. I find myself staring deliciously at a set of young college breasts wrapped snug in one of those India-print hippy T-shirts. I can see the contour of the breast perfectly. Smooth, every bump around the nipple shows through. Breasts are so wonderful.
“Why don’t you put your eyes back in your head, Pervert!”
I look up at her face, she looks at me with an almost angelic glow. It isn’t until I spot ruddycheeked bull-dyke next to her that I trace the voice.
“My apologies… I didn’t mean anything rude by it… They showed up in my line of vision and I lost myself.”
“Yeah… Well… Maybe this’ll help you find yourself.” SWISH. I catch a face full of beer from the retarded girl-son of Martina Navratilova. I’m blinded for a second by the sting of the alcohol, then I freeze, wondering if I should be a total nonsexist, and break something over this bitch’s head. When I open my eyes, all I find is Harry’s laughing face. No breasts. No nothing. I shoulda smacked the brute when I had the chance to.
Harry goes up to the counter and comes back with a dishrag.
“Get cleaned up… You’re in no shape to fight.”
“Did you see what that dyke did to me?”
“Yeah… And I think you got away relatively unscathed… She had arms the size of your legs.”
“I coulda taken her.”
“Maybe… But you wouldn’t have gotten the girl anyways.”
PUIP 47
A friend of Harry’s father has a daughter staying on the île Saint-Louis. We jump on a bus into the middle of the city, and then walk across a bridge to the isle.
“Yeah… Her dad is the Donut King of Chicago… My dad tells me that she’s worth a lot of money… She could be my ticket, Jimi… A lifetime of highly stylized worker’s compensation!”
The île Saint-Louis is beyond my wildest quaint old-world fantasies. I don’t know any french history, but I’m sure like half of it happened on the very cobblestone streets we walk. We find the address and ring the bell.
“Hello?” We look up and see two heads pop out the window above us. My first thought is, “Fat… I knew it!” Both girls leaning out the window have heads that are so fat, I only can imagine what their asses look like.
“How ya doin’?… My name’s Harry Clements… Our dads are friends.”
“Oh yeah… My dad said he’d given somebody my number, hold on a second, I’ll come
down!” says the homelier of the two.
“I guess it’s too late to run now, Harry.”
“I wish we knew that was their window… We coulda thrown rocks at it and got a look at’m before we rang the bell.”
The doors open and all of a sudden, Harry and I are at the state fair. TWO HEIFERS.
“Hi, Harry… My name’s Jenny… And this is my friend from school, Lisa.”
“This’s a friend of mine, Jimi.”
We all shake hands and go up to the apartment—an amazing exposed-brick loft with a big fireplace. We sit down and the girls get us beers.
It turns out the girls are pretty nice. TYPICAL. It’s that classic “fat girl with TONS of personality” scenario times two. The girls make us some pasta and we drink all night long. They’ve got a stocked fridge of good beer and wine. They’re happy to have the company and Harry breaks out the hashish pipe. We smoke a few bowls and watch the street, under the loft. I make runs to the fridge while Harry keeps the pipe full. The night goes on and we all get pretty trashed and, of course, being in the company of students on drugs, a bogus artsy conversation erupts. Jenny, I guess the more literate of the two, starts in on this whole thing about how there aren’t any great living poets. Over and over again, she shrieks, “There haven’t been any great poets since the 60s!” “FUCK THE SIXTIES,” Harry screams. “… A bunch of upper-middle-class white kids blowing their parents’ money and not showering… Having lots of sex and thinking they’re changing the world… THE WORLD HAS ALWAYS CHANGED BY FUCKING!… IT’S NO BIG DEAL… IF THE 60S CHANGED THINGS SO MUCH… HOW COME THE WORLD IS MORE FUCKED THAN EVER?… And anyways… Peter, Paul and Mary are playing the Vegas strip now if you wanna go hear 60s poetry.” Good going, Harry. “Well… They tried at least,” she pouts. “Yeah… You’re right I guess,” I say, not wanting to bite the hand that feeds me, too hard. Cheering inside and riding the fence on the outside. There’s plenty more beer in that fridge and I’m pretty much void of political opinions any-ways. Jenny continues on a whole tangent about how poetry is dead and everything else. Harry’s off, deep into the fridge at this point, and starting to make some moves on Lisa. I watch outta the corner of my eye while he lays kisses on Lisa. The natural move for me is to make a move on big Jenny, out of respect for my boy. That way, Jenny won’t be pulling Harry off Lisa when it gets late. I scoot over next to her big rump, stick an arm around her waist, pointing down at the street.
“That’s poetry down there, baby,” and give her a smooch on her cheek. She turns and looks at me with eyes of appreciation that only a fat, undersexed gal could have, and gives me a big wet one on the lips. My lips are waltzing with a couple sticky inner tubes, but I cling to that feeling, knowing and terrified that the tongue is next. I try to turn her around to face me but to no avail. I don’t have the arms for it. Jenny realizes what I’m trying to do and rotates herself. It’s ugly… But… I get into it. ALL FLESH. I’ve never played with flab like this in my life. Every part of her body is a maze of mush and folds. At one point, I’m actually pulling on a zit thinking I’ve found the nipple. We push back the coffee table and start to wrestle around by the window. Harry and Lisa are going at it hard over on the couch. The moans alone have my penis rigid and desperate. I start to maul Jenny… Or try to, at least, but she pulls a reversal and pancakes me with her gargantuan torso. I’m nothing compared to Jenny. She can swallow me whole and still want dessert. I got no say in the matter whatsoever. She grabs me by the hair and starts to lap at my face with a tongue, the likes I haven’t seen since the old Wild Kingdom days. Marlin Perkins would kill for this footage! Jenny’s no ordinary girl. She’s got the tongue strength of a rabid St. Bernard. Her presence is so overpowering that I can’t even work a substitution fantasy. I’M HERE WITH JENNY AND THAT’S THAT!
The rape of Jimi goes on for another forty-five minutes, until the tension has mounted and it’s time to get down to it. I’m ready! Whatever this is, I’m in! She’s a woman… I’m a man… Height… Weight… And shoe size don’t matter… I’m breathing heavy… And ready to pull my rig out, when all of a sudden… The fleshy blanket is lifted and I see swollen fingers run through messy hair… The axe falls…
“We better not go any further than this tonight…”
“OK…” I say, thinking to myself, “Why is there gonna be ANOTHER NIGHT LIKE THIS!” But I refrain, looking for my jacket and boots. Harry’s already by the door. I hop over next to him while trying to put my second boot on. Lisa comes back from the bathroom and gives Harry a long kiss. Jenny walks up to me and grabs my face, squeezing my cheeks together in a single hand and plants a final tongue-slap on me, and we more or less get pushed out the door.
Out in the street, I give Harry a shell-shocked look.
“Did you get laid?”
“No… Did you?”
“No… I got manhandled like no man has ever handled me… I was into it and then… Boom… The rug got pulled!”
“We probably shoulda ran while we still had a chance,” he says, and pulls two beers out of his coat.
PUIP 48
Champs Élysées, 2 A.M. Harry and I walk into a nice italian place and sit down.
“Do we have enough money to do this?”
“Jimi, I’m not sure we have enough money to do anything at this point.”
“I’m fucking starved… Maybe we can just have a couple of appetizers… An antipasto or something?”
“Whatta ya got on you?”
“Harry… I don’t have two pieces of change to rub and make noise with even.”
“I got a couple bucks,” counts, “enough for maybe a side plate of spaghetti and a small salad… That’ll have to do.”
A thin moustached waiter comes over, smiling.
“Can I get you gentlemen something to drink to start with?”
“Yeah… How about a couple Heinekens?”
“Merci,” and leaves.
“Harry… What, did ya find another roll of francs in your sock?”
“No, Jimi… But I think we might have to wing this one… I’m fuckin’ hungry.”
“Chew and screw… I haven’t done that since I was 12.”
“I actually did it like last year… Sometimes that phone call home from France takes a coupla days to pay off… I was so hungry for like a week that I just started doing it.”
“Well… I guess I’m up for it… I haven’t had a good meal in a long time… That meal at the girls’ place just stretched my stomach out and made me fuckin’ hungrier… I almost passed on it for that reason, but it just smelled so good.”
The waiter returns with the beers. “Are yu ready tu ordaire?”
“No actually,… Could you give us a minute?”
“Surely,” and leaves again.
“Well… Whatta ya think, Jimi… Do we do it… Are you ready to do some running?”
“I’m hungry… I know that.”
“Enough said,” and gives the waiter the high sign.
The waiter returns, pen in hand, and Harry orders a full meal: minestrone soup, clams on the half, and ravioli. At that point, the food becomes free. We now, definitely, don’t even have the money to cover Harry’s meal. I order soup, marinated artichoke salad, fettuccine Alfredo with salmon and a bottle of modest red wine with the meal. I mean… If we’re gonna do it… I might as well make it worth the consequences. The meal arrives and we eat like bulimic wolves. I’m swallowing the fettuccine in whole bunches, barely even chewing it after I spin it up in my big spoon. I steal a few clams from Harry and then offer him some artichokes. The wine tastes fine swishing around on my naive palate. I ordered the midrange stuff because I figure it’s more believable coming from two young guys. The meal… Is excellent… A feast. We finally push our chairs back and make room for our expanding stomachs.
“Can I get yu tu anything else… Coffee… Dessert?”
“Ah… Yeah actually… Could we have some coffee?”
“No dessert?”
“Not right
now, thanks… Maybe in a bit.”
“Very well,” he says, and disappears into the back of the restaurant.
“Well… Now’s our chance Harr… I say we drink a cup of coffee, ask for a refill and to maybe see the dessert menu… As soon as he goes back for more menus we make our break.”
“Sounds like a plan, Jimbo… You call the shots and I’ll be right behind you.”
“Yeah… Well, get in front of me once we get outside, because I won’t know where to run.”
We leisurely sip on our coffee while the waiter sits in the back of the restaurant at a table with the cook.
“I hope the cook doesn’t get all excited and join in on the chase.”
“Jimi… It’ll all happen quick… The Champs Élysées is packed right now… All we gotta do is get in the crowd and we’re home free.”
We finish our coffee and I signal to the waiter to come up again with more coffee. He gets a fresh pot and refills us.
“We thought that maybe we’d like to see about a little dessert… Do you still have anything left this late?”
“Oh oui… We still have everything left… Let me get yu our dessert menu,” the waiter says happily, thinking he’s got some hearty eaters at his table.
“That would be great, thanks,” I say.
The waiter starts walking back towards the kitchen through the aisle and Harry, the inside man, pushes out his chair… Just as it looks like he’ll disappear into the kitchen, he stops and talks to his other table. Harry jerks back and the waiter turns his head our way. There’s a frozen moment… Where it’s like… We don’t know if he’s hip to what we’re doing… Or if he’s just looking back ‘cause he heard a noise… My heart skips and butterflies rush into my stomach and start churning around the salmon and pasta I’ve just inhaled… The waiter then looks back at the table, continues talking, and then walks into the back. The cook is sitting at the last table near the kitchen but it’s now or never.