Chapter Eleven
“Don’t struggle.”
I struggled.
“Don’t struggle, Guy. I’m giving you an injection. I want you to relax.”
“What the hell is what’s why who are you what.…”
That’s as far as I could go with that one. I dropped back off the cliff.
***
I came to again inside the ambulance. The young man in green pajamas was taking my blood pressure. Gracie had her hand on my head. I opened my mouth.
“Don’t struggle,” the man said.
“Where are you taking me?” I squeaked.
“Emergency room, Cottage Hospital.”
“Gracie?”
“I’m here, Guy. You’re going to be all right.”
“I’m already all right,” I said.
“No you’re not.”
The young man in green pajamas said, “You’ll live. You’ll be back on the tennis courts in no time.”
I rolled my eyes and saw that I was connected by a tube to a plastic sack of fluid. “What is that?” I asked, but I didn’t stay awake long enough to hear the answer.
***
I don’t know how long I was in the emergency room or how I got moved into a private room. They told me later I had a few hours in Intensive Care, but I don’t remember that. I do remember a nurse in my private room asking me if I wanted to watch television. I told her I was in enough pain already, so she gave me another pill and left. There were other nurses, other pills. There was a catheter. There was an IV tube. I had enough pain in my body for a very large man. Another pill. I slept.
***
A doctor visited me the next morning. She looked at me and frowned, then looked at the paperwork on her clipboard. She tapped her clipboard with her ball-point pen, looked at me again, and smiled. “Buried alive, I understand,” she said.
“So they tell me.”
“And you feel—?”
“Like shit, but I expect I look okay?”
She chuckled. “Nope. You look a lot worse than you feel. But you’re going to be okay.”
“Lot you know about it,” I mumbled.
“I’m a doctor, and I’m telling you you’re going to be okay. Okay?”
“Tell me this, will I be able to tap-dance?”
“I’ve heard that one before,” she said. “For now I just want you to practice walking. We have a PT coming in at ten o’clock. You’re going to walk the halls. Go slowly at first.”
“I can’t walk.”
“Yes, you can. How’s your vision?”
“You look good to me,” I said. “How long will I be here?”
“A couple more days,” she said. “I want to make sure all your vitals are stable. You had a concussion, but no broken bones. Lab work indicates there’s been no damage to any vital organs, and all your internal hemorrhaging has been at the surface level. I’ll have you on Vicodin for a few days. You’re going to be just fine. Stay away from mirrors; they’re bad luck.”
“That ugly?”
“Actually, it’s quite lovely. Looks like you got in a paint fight with Paul Cézanne.”
***
The physical therapist came in and marched me around the halls, one step at a time, me slowly flashing my bruised butt through that peekaboo hospital gown. I used a walker and she strolled alongside me pushing the IV stand. She did not seem very friendly, but maybe she just didn’t like little purple people. When we got back to my room I was exhausted. I stole a glance at the mirror over my sink. Lon Chaney’s grandmother looked back at me and scowled.
***
My next visitors were Gracie and Kitty, who brought roses and M&Ms.
Kitty started to tear up, but Gracie was all business. “I gave them your insurance card and Visa out of your wallet. I hope that’s okay.”
“Whatever.”
“How did it happen, Guy?”
“Bunch of books fell on me.”
“I know that much. I’m the one who called nine-one-one.”
“Thanks. I suppose I owe you my life.”
“Fuck that. How did it happen? Somebody pushed those books over on you, huh? Huh?”
I said, “Where’s Carol? Why isn’t she here?”
Kitty reached onto the bed and held my hand gently. “We can’t find her, Guy. Nobody answers at your home or your office, and both places are locked up tight.” She kissed my forehead, my raw purple cheek.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.”
“Do it again.”
She did.
***
I took three more walks around the hospital halls that day, and I was able to walk without a walker, and then without crutches, and then without a cane. The next day I was walking without the IV or the PT. And the day after that, Thursday, I was wheeled to the lobby and set free to walk out the door on Gracie’s arm, a bottle of painkillers in my pocket.
She drove me to the warehouse, where my car was still parked. She opened up the door and we both walked in, all the way to the back, where the lethal boxes were still strewn all over the floor. “Kitty and I are going to stack these up again,” Gracie said. “But I thought maybe you’d like to see the scene of the crime. Maybe take a few pictures. Maybe call the police. Maybe tell me exactly what happened, Guy.”
“I’ll take care of all this,” I said.
“Yeah right.”
“I may not get to it for a couple of days. I’ll get some help. I have friends.”
“Me and Kitty are your friends. Get a couple more friends in and we’ll have this mess cleaned up in no time. But Guy, come on. Tell me. Who did this to you?” She put her hand on my shoulder. That hurt but it felt good.
“Your boyfriend,” I said. “The charming Commander Worsham.”
“I’ll kill that asshole.”
“I’ve got to get home,” I said.
“You sure you’re okay to drive?”
“I’m in no condition to walk.”
***
The house felt cold and smelled stale. Was this still my home? It would have to be my home for a few days at least, until I was strong enough to pack a suitcase and find another place. For now I had to rest and heal, doctor’s orders.
I walked into the kitchen and found the note:
Guy,
I’ve had it. I’m going for a drive. I’m going north, as far as I can get from this stupid city, this stupid business, and you. I love you, you little shmuck, but this time you really fucked up big.
C
I went to the refrigerator and took out a beer, then the ice pack from the freezer. I checked the phone messages: two from Gracie, both for Carol, telling her that I’d been in an accident, that I was at Cottage Hospital. That’s all. I popped a pill and swigged my beer and phoned Arthur Summers, then Max Black. They both agreed to help me restore order in the universe, and we agreed to meet at the warehouse the next morning at nine. The beer tasted bitter, like tin, so I poured the rest of it out and opened a ginger ale.
***
The Vicodin made me sleep better than I expected, and it was almost seven-thirty by the time I woke up on Friday morning. It took me an hour to shower, shave, and dress. Every movement reminded me of my achy bones, my sore muscles, and fiery skin. My clothes felt like sandpaper. My head throbbed and every now and then I stopped moving and just stared into nowhere, thinking nothing. I had Vicodin and coffee for breakfast.
The poets were waiting for me at the warehouse when I arrived, which was about nine-thirty.
“Holy shit!” Arthur Summers said. “What in the hell happened to you?”
I shrugged. “A little accident,” I explained.
“What ran over you, is what I want to know.”
Max added, “That must hurt, huh?”
“Pain,” I said, “is what connects my toe bone to my head bone.”
“Any of those bones broken?” Art asked
“Ju
st my funny bone.”
The looks they gave me were more about frustration than sympathy. Max said, “I reckon we should go in and check out the damage.” So we walked into the warehouse and went straight to the back.
“Mother of God,” Art whispered. “Sweet Jesus. You got hit by all these?”
“Not all of them. Some of them missed me.”
Max said, “Pal, I ain’t lifting a finger till you tell us what this is all about. Did somebody do this to you? If so, who was it and what’s his address?”
By this time I was feeling tired, so I sat on a box and said, “An angry author. I don’t know if he knew what he was doing. But I had it coming.”
“You’re full of shit,” Arthur Summers said. “What angry author, Guy? This certainly doesn’t look like the work of a poet, especially now that Bukowski’s dead.”
“Not one of my authors,” I said. “One of Herndon’s.”
“You keep strange company, dude,” Max said. “I never did trust that old boy.”
“I know,” I said. “He’s a slime bag, and the slime was rubbing off on me. That’s what went wrong, see. I decided to pull a Roger Herndon on my newest author. Incidentally, Carol left me. The ironic thing is, I had come to the warehouse to tell Gracie the deal was off. I wasn’t going to print that book on demand after all. Carol was right. I had decided to sell my poetry collection, fuck it. I didn’t want to lose Carol, and I didn’t want to be a creep like Roger, but the damage was already done, and so I got hit with a ton of bricks and Carol’s gone and I’m a wreck and I haven’t had breakfast, and I’m tired of whining. Okay?”
Art nodded. “Let’s go to the Cajun Kitchen,” he said. “I haven’t eaten breakfast either. Max?”
“Yeah, I ate already, but I can always eat.”
***
After breakfast I tried to help the boys lift some of the boxes, but it hurt me to bend over and my arms couldn’t hold the weight of a single box. “Just sit down,” Max told me. “We know how to do this. We put these books here in the first place, remember?”
So I pulled Gracie’s chair around from her desk and sat down and talked to my friends while they did my work for me. I told them the whole story. I rambled and ranted and confessed for a solid hour until Art said, “That’s enough, Guy. You’re starting to repeat yourself.”
“Yeah, I know, but—”
“But enough already. I’d like to tell you that Carol’s just a woman and women aren’t worth it, but women are worth it and Carol’s not just a woman. You’re in pain. I get it. Max gets it. But the self-pity thing is getting really, really old.”
I looked from Art’s face to Max’s, and Max was nodding.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh shut up,” Art answered. “You got a few problems, such as blue balls up to your forehead. But problems pass. Even women problems. Where do you want these three boxes of Charles Gullans? There’s not enough for a stack.”
“Hey, guys!”
Max and Art both turned and stood a little straighter and taller as we watched Gracie and Kitty stroll back into our work area. Gracie was in sweats, dressed down as usual, but she actually wore a bit of makeup on her face for a change. Kitty was, as usual, drop-dead gorgeous, wearing a tee shirt that looked like one coat of Day-Glo paint, her lavender-streaked platinum hair teased into a cloud around her face.
“Reinforcements,” I said.
Art said, “Hello, ladies.”
Max looked as if he wished he had a hat he could take off and hold over his heart.
Gracie and Kitty both kissed my cheeks, one on either side. “There,” Kitty said. “Feel better?”
Gracie said, “Leave some of that work for us. We want to help.”
“There’s enough to keep us all busy for a couple of days,” Max said. “If we wanted to drag it out a bit. How you gals doing?”
“Guy, you’ll never guess who came to the club last night,” Gracie said. “Knocked my socks off, except I didn’t have any socks on, much less anything else. Shit. You’ll never guess. Go ahead, guess.”
“I give up. Samuel Welch?”
“I wish,” Kitty said. “I hear he’s a sight to behold. I’d like to give him a private.”
I asked Gracie, “Who?”
“I’ll give you a hint,” she said. “Famous author, right-wing Christian, sailor boy.”
“Bob Worsham? The Commander?”
She giggled. They both giggled. “Whoopin’ and hollerin’,” Kitty said. “He hired me for a personal, but I let Gracie take my place.”
Gracie laughed. “Asshole didn’t even recognize me. He wanted a private, but I wouldn’t do that, not with that scum bag piece of shit. I gave him a quick personal and he tipped me ten bucks. Ten bucks! What a cheap dickhead.”
“What are you people talking about,” Max asked. “What club?”
“Gracie and Kitty both dance at the Kountry Klub,” I explained. “Commander Worsham is the one who dropped the Berlin Wall on me. As for the rest of it, I don’t know what they’re talking about. What’s the difference between a private and a personal, Gracie?”
“They’re both lap dances,” Kitty explained. “But a personal’s out in the main room, and the G-string stays on. A private’s in a private room, just the girl and the customer, and the girl’s nude. Like anything can happen, right? You guys should come by the club some night. I’ll give you a demonstration.”
***
The two porn stars and the two poets worked all morning. I went out and brought back sandwiches and soda for lunch. Then I went home to take a nap. In the late afternoon I went back to the warehouse and got there just as the crew was finishing the job.
“Can I take everybody out to dinner?” I offered. “And Gracie and Kitty, I want to pay you for your time.”
“That’s okay,” Gracie said. “We’re just doing you a favor. And we have other plans for dinner. We gotta be at the club by seven. Friday and Saturday are our big nights. So we’ll see you guys tomorrow night, right?”
“What’s this?” I asked.
Arthur Summers said, “I won’t turn down a free dinner. Max?”
“Shoot I reckon,” he said. “Where we goin’?”
***
My poets and I ate dinner at Arnoldi’s, a neighborhood bar and chophouse on the East Side. I didn’t feel like drinking, and my jaw was still too sore to tackle their famous pork chops, but I made do with split pea soup and ravioli, while the boys wolfed down thick steaks.
“So what’s this about tomorrow night?” I asked. “Are you two really going to the Kountry Klub?”
“All three of us,” Art said. “You too, my friend. We’re picking you up at nine o’clock.”
“No way.”
“Yes indeed. We don’t like you feeling so small and looking so blue.”
“Gracie and Miss Kitty are gonna fix you up,” Max said.
“Can’t do it,” I insisted. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m a happily married man.”
“You’re not either one,” Art pointed out.
“But what if Carol were to—”
“She won’t. It’ll be our secret. And the girls have already agreed to that.”
I thought about it. “Max, you told me you can’t keep a secret.”
He grinned back. “This kind of a secret I can keep. We’re buying you a private with both girls. They do this number with handcuffs.”
“Please,” I said. “My body can’t handle the rough stuff these days.”
“Okay,” Art said. “We’ll tell them to hold the handcuffs. This dinner’s on me, by the way. Waiter!”
***
For some reason Gracie didn’t show up the next night, but Kitty was the star of the show. Her stage name, I found out, was “Pussy Katz.” A lot of the customers knew her well. Enchanted, they pounded their tables and chanted, “Puss-ee! Puss-ee! Puss-ee!” while she writhed on the stage like a boa in heat. My friends made
me sit right up by the edge of the runway, my face inches from the action. She danced only for me. I still missed Carol, even in the midst of this undulating display, I still missed Carol, but I was hypnotized by the sight and the scent of someone who had been a small person, a friend, only the day before and now bloomed like a giant, fragrant, flower.
I refused to accept a private or even a personal, but there in the throbbing music, in the glistening pink light, I did get an up-close, in-depth look at home plate, the home of the brave, the holy grail, the pearly gates, the center of the universe, and what makes the world go ’round.
Yes, I felt guilty about it the minute we left the building and laughed our way across the Kountry Klub parking lot. But not during. Not one bit guilty, during. I was happy, high on Coca-Cola and Vicodin and testosterone and laughter.
***
I drove home and went to bed. Not long thereafter—at 3:07 a.m.—I received a phone call that took care of all my problems and handed me a whole new set. The old DiClemente Warehouse had burned to the ground.
Part II
Chapter Twelve
Yellow tape kept me from entering the lot, so I parked on the street. I had to park two blocks away, because of all the cars that had come to the scene, and I had to weave my way through a throng of people in the parking lot to get close enough to see the damage. The scene was illuminated by klieg lights and flashing yellow warnings, which added a pulsating touch of green to the bluish glare.
What a mess. A few wooden beams still stood around the perimeter of what was once a warehouse, but most of what I could see and smell was a smoking, steaming mountain of soggy ashes and trash. I knew that underneath all that rubbish, what was left of my inventory of books still sat on the concrete foundation, but I also knew that whatever hadn’t been consumed by fire had been ruined by water. Some of the best poetry books ever published, not to mention over fifteen thousand copies of a new hardback novel that had cost us a lot more money than we had in the bank.
Another barrier of yellow tape kept the crowd about twenty feet back from the action. I got down on all fours to crawl under the tape.
“Hey! You can’t come in here!”
I stood up on the forbidden side and faced a cop a whole lot taller and at least a hundred pounds heavier than I. He pointed down to the asphalt. “Out.”
Vanity Fire Page 9