And then this totally wild thing happened. She put her arm around me and said, “How ‘bout starting with me? Lie down with me a while, I give you fi’ dollars.”
So I just threw back my head and laughed and laughed. Said I thought she had the best sense of humor of anybody I’d ever met in my entire life. I managed to get off the bed by pretending the joke was so tremendous I had to stand up to finish laughing. By the time I’d worked my way over to the other side of the room, sides splitting all the way, I thought it was safe to look at her and check her reaction.
Loretta was not smiling. Not a flicker. Her face was as dark as a well, and at the bottom of it her eyes were peering up at me, steady as a cat’s.
She said, “You think I’m funny?”
I said, “No! Oh, no! You and I are sisters, I don’t think you’re funny at all. But I thought you were joking. Honestly I did.”
Next thing I knew I was launched into this big routine about how fabulous lesbianism is. There was a lot of truth in what I said, too. I just know the right woman (Cecilia, for instance) could turn me on to making love. But that room and that woman and that moment— Oh, God, I wanted out of there with all my heart.
Loretta wasn’t buying all my fancy talk either. When I ran out of wind, she was still sitting there with that same expression on her face, and I was scared to death.
She stood up and came over to me. “You been playing with me, honey. You nothing but a big phony.”
I admitted to being a phony, but I swore I hadn’t been playing with her. I told her I loved her like a sister or a friend, and that I’d been trying to be worldly and clever. I apologized, I took vows, I rapped on and on. But she didn’t believe a word I said.
She slapped me. Hard. On the cheek. She said she ought to tear me apart. And she slapped me again. Even harder.
Then she said, “I find you in this hotel tonight, I turn y’pretty white face into a mess of spare ribs.” She wasn’t kidding either. Her eyes told me she was just the kind of chick who could come up with the necessary kitchen equipment to get the job done, too. My mind saw cleavers and paring knives and can openers, all being used in ghastly ingenious ways. For a while I think she was considering getting at it immediately instead of waiting till night came. But then all of a sudden she left the room.
It took me no more than 30 seconds to get Roy’s and my things together. I hated my cowardice and I loathed my fear, but violence is just unbearable to me.
I stood on the street and waited for Roy. I thought he’d never come, but he did. He was discouraged, too, and trying to hide it. I didn’t tell him what had happened in detail. I just said there’d been some trouble up there and I thought the spirits we’d prayed to at noon probably felt it was time for us to relocate.
He was tired, so we went to Tompkins Square Park and did the bench scene until the sun had set. No sleep, of course, but we held hands while we rested and told our days to each other.
Roy has never failed to give me the feeling that he loves me, ever since the first moment we became friends in the seventh grade. No matter how scared or worried he is, I always get some kind of a Zap from being with him. Even now, sitting here wondering if he’s dead or alive and knowing that whatever has happened to him it can’t be good, not in the least, I still feel this Zap coming at me. If only I knew from where! If only it was a ray of light I could see and follow and go to the end of and find him. But it’s not. I’ll just have to sit here until he comes, even if I wither up and die or get hauled off to a hospital or an asylum.
It is now Friday, September 5, 1969. Three hours ago (was that all?) Roy and I were sitting on a bench in Tompkins Square Park having the following conversation:
WITCH: I’ve been thinking.
ROY: Me, too.
WITCH: Money?
ROY: Yeah.
WITCH: How much is left?
ROY: Nineteen and some change.
WITCH: I’ve got an idea.
ROY: What?
WITCH: A swindle.
ROY: Really?
WITCH: Really.
ROY: Go on.
WITCH: I send a wire to Mother.
ROY: And tell her what?
WITCH: I’m coming home and have to have bus fare.
ROY: Wow.
WITCH: They can afford it. Do you know how much they were willing to spend on sending me to Radcliffe?
ROY: How much?
WITCH: I don’t know. But plenty. And do you know where they get it? Stocks. General Dynamics, General Motors, every general you can think of.
ROY: Bombers, jeeps, rockets, flame throwers, napalm.
WITCH: That’s the picture! So why shouldn’t I promote a measly hundred dollars to help the revolution? Can you name me one good reason?
ROY: Well, it’s . . .
WITCH: Dishonest?
ROY: Yeah.
WITCH: Shit.
ROY: I know. But still . . .
WITCH: Come on. Let’s go.
The Western Union man told us it would probably take a number of hours, at least four or five, even if Mother wired the money immediately.
Roy was hungry, so we went to the Paradox, this macrobiotic restaurant Delano had marked on the map. My stomach was having post-Dexedrine anxiety fits, but I had a couple of bites of Roy’s fish and drank some tea.
Then Roy got this perfectly awful idea, which at the time sounded like sheer genius.
He said, “Look, if we’re getting all this money, why don’t we score some grass?”
The very thought of it undid me.
So we went flying up 7th Street, hoping to find a dealer hanging around in front of the Gem Spa on St. Mark’s Place.
Something happened on the way that might have saved us a lot of hell, if we’d used our heads. But we didn’t. We were too interested in getting them stoked! An Indian boy was sitting on some steps talking to a fabulous cat who looked like Prince Valiant. They both smiled even before I did, so we stopped and talked. The Indian boy’s name was Carl, he came from Quebec. His friend was Danny, from Key West. We told them where we were at—waiting for money, looking for grass, no place to stay, etc. Carl said he was in exactly the same situation. But it didn’t seem to worry him. He was into a craft called “macrome,” making things out of rope, and while we talked he was working on a belt. He said he was at peace because he followed the wisdom of the I Ching and went along with whatever the oracle said.
Roy’s ears perked up. He’d been wanting to throw a change anyway, so Carl got out his copy and helped. Roy borrowed my journal to make notes in. I wasn’t paying much attention because I was too busy falling in love with Danny. By the time I realized what was happening, I found myself in full seduction gear. Much witchcraft on 7th Street. I emanated. I Secret Zapped, my gaze lingered and darkened, I wove dreams of gossamer into a little net and just as it was falling about his 14th-century head, along came this let’s face it beautiful Hungarian chick named Sandie and plucked him out from under me. Turns out he’d been waiting for her all along. Ah, well. I watched them walk away, watched them all the way up to First Avenue and watched them turn the corner. I wasn’t sad, but I was depleted. I’ve had dozens of these spiritual quickies and I’m usually fairly philosophical about them when they end. But after putting out all that magic and then watching it disappear up the street, I felt the barrel was getting pretty empty.
So when Roy told me about throwing these trigrams and hexagrams and coming up with something called “The Darkening of the Light,” I just nodded and said it sounded pretty accurate. But I wasn’t really listening. He said the gist of the I Ching’s wisdom—and Carl seemed to agree—was that we were supposed to persevere. So we said goodbye to Carl and started right in persevering on the trail of some grass.
Neither of us were surprised to see Winston again.
He was leaning on a mailbox at the next corner, right across from Fillmore East.
The negotiations were endless. Winston didn’t like doing small quantities, but
he said ten of our nineteen dollars would get us a fat gram of some truly righteous hash, and because we were brothers, he didn’t mind going to the trouble. Then he said we’d have to walk with him clear over to the West Village, where the stuff was, because of course he wasn’t carrying. (“No, mon, never carry. Never.”) So we started walking toward Third Avenue, and I remember wondering why Winston seemed to be thinking so hard. He walked with his eyes straight ahead and I don’t think he blinked once the whole time. At the corner he said he’d had some second thoughts about taking two people with him at once. The reason he gave was “too much traffic.” I was too tired to protest, so he and Roy left me at the Western Union office and went off together toward the West Village.
And here I sit. He’s been gone an hour and a half. And there’s nothing left to think about.
Except Roy’s I Ching notes. I just looked at them, and I’m terrified. It says, “A man of dark nature is in a position of authority and brings harm to the wise and able man.”
CANAL STREET, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1969
Hare Krishna!
Roy and I have our highs back. Obviously we lead enchanted lives. The most hideous adventures imaginable turn into miracles before our very eyes. Life is too rich to bear. Everywhere we go, angels precede us and light our way with love.
Must never ever lose faith again, even for a second. I hereby vow not to.
At this moment I am sitting at a real kitchen table, watching over an enormous pot of vegetable soup, and my beloved Roy is downstairs cleaning out the fireplace. We have become part of a beautiful family. There are about ten of us altogether, and we live in a terrific haunted ramshackle house just a block from the Hudson River. It looks like I’m becoming co-housemother, because out of four chicks, only two of us can really get our heads into a cooking trip. I’m a little edgy about it. They’re on a macrobiotic diet and the kitchen’s full of stuff I’ve never seen before. For instance, what do you do with dried lotus root? Smoke it?
Who would have thought on Friday, when we were in hell, that by Sunday we’d be comfortably established in the Kingdom of Heaven? Comfortably isn’t quite the word. I suppose compactly would be more accurate. Roy and I sleep on the floor in the hall. But we have a mattress all to ourselves, and it’s right under the stairwell, which makes it super-cozy. At first we thought the cockroaches would be a problem, but we’ve already dealt with them superbly. Roy drew a magic circle around our part of the hall and so far not one of them has trespassed. Also, I have lots of ideas for turning our alcove into a darling little gypsy cave. Roy has already tacked up our Desiderata poster. He put it upside down on the slant above us, so we can read it lying down just before we go to sleep. It’s our good-night prayer. When I get done with this entry, I’ll copy it down in my notebook as a spiritual discipline. Ever since we got off the bus I’ve been speeding, and I’ve simply got to slow myself down to normal. I’m almost afraid to get weighed. I must have lost five pounds at least. But I look marvelous, very cheek-bony and low-key luscious. I suppose it’s tacky of me to be so pleased about that, but looking pretty helps my high, and anything that helps a high can’t be all bad.
This morning I read over everything I’d written since Roy and I got off the bus and I can hardly believe how much has happened. It seems to me absolutely urgent that I keep the record up to date.
Therefore, between stirrings of the soup, I will lure my mind back to the Western Union office:
While I was sitting there trying to think of things to write, I heard a sudden frantic knock on the window right behind me. It was John. I mean Roy (still haven’t gotten used to his new name), and he was motioning for me to come outside. As a rule I’m not a screamer, but I must have let out some audible sound because the telegraph clerk came running up to see what was the matter. I told him everything was fine and ran out to the sidewalk.
Roy was all sweaty and out of breath, but I was so busy hugging him I hardly noticed the condition he was in. Also, his pants were missing. He had some old jacket thing tied to his waist by the arms, covering him like a skirt. It only came to his knees, so there was this long stretch of skinny legs coming out of his combat boots. He looked so funny and pathetic, I was afraid I was going to do something awful, like laugh or cry. But I didn’t.
“Get me some pants out of my suitcase,” he said. “I just got ripped off.”
I suddenly felt wonderful. I’d been sitting there getting such a strong steady blast of horrible vibes, I hardly expected to see him alive again. And now, hearing he’d only been robbed, it was like getting good news.
At first Roy didn’t want to come inside, but I assured him the Western Union clerk was a brother, and it’d be much better than putting on his pants in the street.
By this time, all we had left was 90 cents. But that was enough for coffee, so we went to a delicatessen on Second Avenue and sat in a back booth while Roy told me what had happened to him. I’d like to record the conversation exactly, but it was terribly disjointed and I had to ask a hundred questions. Still I think I’ll try to put it down the way Roy would have told it if he could have gotten it all together without me interrupting every three seconds.
ROY’S ROBBERY
as told to
Witch Gliz
Winston and I left you there at Western Union and started walking across 8th Street toward Greenwich Village, rapping all the way. I thought he was really a great guy. He told me all about life on the Islands and how he and his buddies stayed stoned all day and did nothing but swim and dive and pick bananas and mangoes off the trees. I asked him how come he was in New York, and he said it was just to make money. He’s got a connection in the Islands that ships him this fabulous grass and hash. Of course I don’t know how much of this is true, because if a guy lies, he lies, and you just never know. Anyway, Winston was talking all this great-sounding shit, and I bought it all. In fact, I was taking a big interest in his whole trip. I was wondering how long he’d have to be selling dope in New York to make enough bread to get back to his paradise. He said a few more deals and he’d have it made. He said he usually dealt grass in kilos only and hash in ounces or more, so the profits came in good-sized chunks. I told him I felt bad about wasting his time on our little dime of hash, but he said it was okay, Wednesday was an off night anyway. Then we stopped at a magazine store because Winston had to make this phone call. He said he had to make sure it was cool to take me where we were going. I didn’t know how these things were done, so I didn’t see anything suspicious about it. Besides, by now I loved the guy. When he came out of the phone booth I asked him if everything was okay. I remember now he didn’t look at me. He just gave me a sign with his hand. So I followed him out to the street and we kept walking. Then he told me about the wild life he’s got going here in New York. He said he had this roommate and each of them had a chick and sometimes all four of them went to bed together. It all sounded pretty groovy to me. When we got to Macdougal Street he stopped in a cigar store to make another phone call. All of a sudden, I started getting this scared feeling. So when he came out of the cigar store I thought what the hell, I’ll level with him. I said, “Winston, I don’t know why, but I’m feeling kind of uptight. Is everything okay?” He put his arm on my shoulder and said, “My friend, it’s natural to be uptight in this city. Never trust anybody until you know them as well as you and I know each other. Then you’re safe.” He went into this big rap about how careful you’ve got to be. And Witch, I’ve got to admit I really thought he was being straight with me. I kept on feeling scared, but I figured it was just my paranoia. So I followed him up this side street, I think it was 3rd or 4th, but I’d never be able to find it again because my mind was kind of scrambled from being scared. He stopped in front of this cruddy-looking building, then he picked up a couple of stones and threw them at a dark window on the third floor. I figured this was some kind of a signal. After all, what do I know about dealing in Manhattan, right? Then we went across the street and I followed him into this oth
er tenement building that was just like the first one. I thought we’d be going upstairs, but he passed the steps and led the way down this long hall to another door that opened on some shitty little back yard. It wasn’t like any back yard I’d ever seen either. It stunk like hell and there was nothing growing in it. It was full of junk, old furniture, torn-up mattresses, broken glass, every kind of crap you can think of. And it was dark. The only light was whatever came out of these high windows all around. I told Winston I thought this yard was a pretty lousy place to wait, but he said he’d picked it especially so I could try the hash and nobody would smell the smoke. In a way that sounded reasonable, but in another way it didn’t make any sense at all. My mouth got dry and I started shaking. Remember how it used to be when we’d get caught for something at school and have to wait outside Miss Alley’s office? Well, that’s how I felt. My heart was going so hard you could see my entire shirt moving. Finally I couldn’t stand it. I said, “Winston, I don’t want to be here. I’m gonna split.” But by the time I got to the door it was too late. Because there were two spade cats coming down the hall. I tried to get past them but they were in the way. One of them asked me where I was going. I said I had a friend waiting for me, and he said, “Oh, no, man, you don’t need a friend,” and the two of them hustled me into the yard again and shoved me against the wall. They had their knives out. One of them was at my throat. I could feel the blade pushing really hard against my skin, but it didn’t cut me. Winston had his knife out too and it was pushing against my stomach. Then this third cat stood to one side and started giving orders. He told me to take off my shoes and all my clothes and throw them to him, one article at a time. He searched everything, even my T-shirt, like he thought I might have something sewed in it, I guess, and he even ripped the linings out of my boots. Then the fucker took all my clothes except for my pants and threw them over this goddam high fence. All he found was the nineteen dollars because that’s all I had. So he flashed his knife in my face and asked me where the rest of it was. I was standing there stark naked and they’d been through all my clothes, so it must have been pretty obvious I wasn’t holding out on them. But I guess Winston had given these guys the impression they were going to get a lot more than nineteen dollars, because they started having this argument. Then the other guy, the one that was holding the knife at my throat, said it was time to get out. So they started to leave. I said, “Hey, what about my pants?” This one guy had them rolled up and tucked under his arm. But he didn’t even answer me. The three of them just walked out and left me there bare ass. Obviously I couldn’t chase them with my butt hanging out. So I thought, Well, I guess I’m fucked. And I tried to figure out how to get over the wall where the rest of my stuff was. Witch, it was really hell. I kept slipping and once I even fell. I don’t know on what, but I scraped my balls practically off. They still hurt in fact. Also, I cut my goddam knee. Anyway, I finally propped up this rickety old table with only three legs and made it over the fence, and there was this big-ass rat sniffing my boots. I swear, Witch, he was the size of a fucking Easter rabbit. Anyway, I must have scared him because he ran like hell. So I grabbed my jockeys and put them on and then I put on my T-shirt. But I knew I couldn’t make it over the fence in these combat boots, so I threw them over the fence ahead of me. This turned out to be a really dumb stunt, because just as they hit, I realized this other building, the one I was in the yard of, had an unlocked door too, and I could have got out to the street again without climbing the fence. However, it’s a good thing I was stupid, because just as I got over the fence again and was tying my boots, Winston came back and gave me a joint. I could hardly believe it, Witch, but it’s true. I’ve got the joint right here in this jacket. What happened was he just came walking back into the yard with this joint in his hand, holding it out to me. He said, “Here, mon.” At first I didn’t want to take it, because I thought I ought to be too pissed off at him. But I wasn’t. I really wasn’t pissed off at all. In fact, I liked him. I still do. I figured he was just doing his thing. I mean, after all, he’s a thief, right? And a thief doesn’t have to come back and give you a joint or anything, unless he happens to be a pretty decent cat in some ways. I don’t know, I’m not saying I’m right about this. I’m just telling you all that went through my head. And for all I know, maybe I am right. After all, there is a goddam revolution going on, and these things can be very complicated to think about. So I took the joint. Not only that, I said thanks. Winston stood there for a second, just looking at me, and I felt this kind of a sad little Zap coming out of his eyes. It was the first and only time he ever really looked at me straight on. Then he waved his hand around this crummy yard and he said, “This thing here, it’s nothing personal.” And then he left. If I’d had a match, I’d have smoked that joint right away. Not all of it though. Naturally, I’d have saved half for you. But my mind was really messed up. I didn’t know how I was going to get back here in my jockeys, and there was nothing in that yard to cover up with. And I mean not a goddam thing. I got so panicky, I even tore apart this old window screen and tried to make a half-ass skirt out of it, but it looked like I’d freaked out. Anyway, I held it in front of me and went through the hall and out to the street and looked around. I thought, What the hell am I going to do? I was even tempted to find some cop, for godsake, so you can imagine how confused I was getting. I saw a garbage can at the curb, but there was nothing in it, so I tried to figure out how to hide behind the lid. All of a sudden, a woman’s voice came from out of nowhere. “Whatsa matter, kid?” I looked up and there’s this fat lady sticking out of a window, leaning there with her titties on a bed pillow. I tried to think up some lie. Force of habit, I guess. But I ended up telling her the truth. I said, “I been robbed, they took my pants.” She said, “How much did they get?” I told her and she said, “The sonsabitches.” Then she said, “You look pretty cute. How you going to get home?” I asked her if she could give me something to cover up with, so she told me to come inside. It was a typical poor person’s pad, like the slums you see on TV. She had her clothes hanging on a pole right there in the kitchen. I stood there and watched her go through it all. She pushed each hanger aside, one by one, and each time she said, “I can’t give you this,” and “I can’t give you this,” until finally she came up with this jacket. I said, “I can’t wear that for pants.” She said, “Sure you can. Just put your legs through the arms and wear it upside down.” I said, “It’d look pretty weird,” and she said, “Aw, c’mon, you beatniks don’t mind lookin’ weird. It’s a new style. Try it.” Naturally it didn’t work. I couldn’t even get my goddam feet through. Then it finally dawned on me, this old broad was just having a good time for herself. She didn’t give a shit what I did. So I said thanks for the jacket. Then I tied it around my waist and split. On the street, I figured there was nothing to do but make a run for it. I looked pretty freaky, but at least I was covered up. I ran through Washington Square Park, and you know what? Hardly anybody even noticed me. And the ones that did just kind of looked. They didn’t even laugh, for godsake!
Season of the Witch Page 6