“what the fuck for? my old man, he was from Jersey, he worked all his damn life and after we buried him with his own money, ya know what he had left?”
“what?”
“15 cents and the end of a drab dull life.”
“but don’t you want a wife, a family, a home, respectability? a new car every 3 years?”
“I don’t want no grind, daddy-o. don’t put me in no flip-out cage. I just want to laze around. what the shit.”
“Danforth, run this bastard through the wringer and make those screws tight!”
Danforth grabbed the subject but not before Telleman yelled “up your old mother’s bunghole …”
“and squeeze ALL THE GUTS OUT OF HIM, ALL OF THE GUTS! do you hear me?”
“aw right, aw right!” answered Danforth. “shit. sometimes I think you got the easy end of the stick!”
“forget sticks! squeeze the guts out of him. Nixon might end the war …”
“there you go talking that nonsense again! I don’t think you been sleeping good, Bagley. something wrong with you.”
“yeah, yeah, you’re right. insomnia. I keep thinking we should be making soldiers! I toss all night! what a business that would be!”
“Bag, we do the best with what we can, that’s all.”
“aw right, aw right, you run him through the wringer yet?”
“TWICE yet! I got all the guts out. you’ll see.”
“aw right, trot him over. let’s try him.”
Danforth brought Herman Telleman back. he did look a bit different. all the color was gone from his eyes and he had on this utterly false smile. it was beautiful.
“Herman?” asked Bagley.
“yes, sir?”
“what do you feel? or how do you feel?”
“I don’t feel anything, sir.”
“you like cops?”
“not cops, sir — policemen. they are the victims of our viciousness even though they at times protect us by shooting us, jailing us, beating us and fining us. There is no such thing as a bad cop. Policeman, pardon me. do you realize that if there were no policemen, we’d have to take the law into our own hands?”
“and then what would happen?”
“I never thought of that, sir.”
“excellent. do you believe in God?”
“oh, yes sir, in God and Family and State and Country and honest labor.”
“jesus christ!”
“what, sir?”
“sorry. now, here, do you like overtime on a job?”
“oh, yes sir! I would like to work 7 days a week if possible, and 2 jobs if possible.”
“why?”
“money, sir. money for color tv, new autos, down payment on a home, silk pajamas, 2 dogs, an electric shave, life insurance, medical insurance, oh all kinds of insurance and college educations for my children if I have children and automatic doors on the garage and fine clothes and 45 dollar shoes, and cameras, wrist watches, rings, washers, refrigerators, new chairs, new beds, wall-to-wall carpeting, donations to the church, thermostat heating and .. .”
“all right. stop. now when are you going to use all this stuff?”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“I mean, when you are working night and day and overtime, when are you going to enjoy these luxuries?”
“oh, there’ll be a day, there’ll be a day, sir!”
“and you don’t think your kids will grow up some day and just think of you as an asshole?”
“after I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for them, sir! of course not!”
“excellent. now just a few more questions.”
“yes, sir.”
“don’t you think that all this constant drudgery is harmful to the health and the spirit, the soul, if you will…?”
“oh hell, if I weren’t working all the time I’d just be sitting around drinking or making oil paintings or fucking or going to the circus or sitting in the park watching the ducks. things like that.”
“don’t you think sitting around in the park watching the ducks is nice?”
“I can’t make any money that way, sir.”
“o.k., fuck-off.
“sir?”
“I mean, I’m through talking to you.”
“o.k., this one’s ready, Dan. fine job. give him the contract, make him sign it, he won’t read the fine print. he thinks we’re nice. trot him down to the address. they’ll take him. I ain’t sent out a better cost accountant in months.”
Danforth had Herman sign the contract, checked his eyes again to make sure that they were dead, put the contract and the address in his hand, led him to the door and gave him a gentle push down the stairway.
Bagley just leaned back with an easy smile of success and watched Danforth run the other 18 through the wringer. where their guts went it was hard to see but almost every man lost his guts somewhere along the line. the ones labeled “married with family” or “over 40” lost their guts easiest. Bagley leaned back as Danforth ran them through the wringer, he heard them talking:
“it’s hard for a man as old as I am to get a job, oh, it’s so hard!”
another one said:
“oh, baby, it’s cold outside.”
another:
“I get tired of booking and pimping, getting busted, busted, busted. I need something secure, secure, secure, secure, secure …”
another:
“all right, I’ve had my fun. now …”
another:
“I don’t have a trade. every man should have a trade. I don’t have a trade. what am I going to do?”
another:
“I’ve been all over the world — in the army — I know things.”
another:
“if I had it to do all over again, I’d be a dentist or a barber.”
another:
“all my novels and short stories and poems keep coming back. Shit, I can’t go to New York and shake the hands of the publishers! I have more talent than anybody but you’ve got to have the inside! I’ll take any kind of job but I am better than any kind of job that I take because I am a genius.”
another:
“see how pretty I am? look at my nose? look at my ears? look at my hair? my skin? the way I act! see how pretty I am? see how pretty I am? see how pretty I am? why doesn’t anybody like me? because I’m so pretty. they’re jealous, jealous, jealous …”
the phone rang again.
“SATISFACTORY HELP AGENCY. Bagley speaking. you what? you need a deep-sea diver? motherfuck! what? oh, pardon. sure, sure, we got dozens of unemployed deep-sea divers. his first 2 weeks’ pay is ours. 500 a week. dangerous, you know, really dangerous — barnacles, crabs, all that.. . seaweed, maidens on rocks. octupi. bends. head-colds. fuck, yes. first 2 weeks’ pay is ours. if you fire him after 2 weeks we give you $200. why? why? if a robin laid an egg of gold in your front room chair would you ask WHY? would you? we’ll send you a deep-sea diver in 45 minutes! the address? fine, fine, ah, yes, fine, that’s near the Richfield Building. yes, I know. 45 minutes. thank you. goodbye.”
Bagley hung up. he was tired already and the day was just beginning.
“Dan?”
“yeah, mother?”
“bring me a deep-sea diver type. bit fat around the belly. blue eyes, medium hair on chest, balding before his time, slightly stoical, slightly stooped, bad eyesight and the unknown beginning of the cancer of the throat. that’s a deep-sea diver. anybody knows what a deep-sea diver is. now bring one, mother.”
“o.k., shithead.”
Bagley yawned. Danforth unclamped one. brought him forth, stood him before the desk. his tag said, “Barney Anderson.”
“hello, Barney,” said Bag.
“where am I?” asked Barney.
“SATISFACTORY HELP AGENCY.”
“boy, if you two ain’t a couple of greasy-looking motherfuckers, I ain’t never ever seen none!”
“what the fuck, Dan!”
“I ran him through 4 times.
”
“I told you to tighten those screws!”
“and I told you some men have more guts than others!”
“it’s all a myth, you damn fool!”
“who’s a damn fool?”
“you’re both damn fools,” said Barney Anderson.
“I want you to run his ass through the wringer three times,” said Bagley.
“o.k., o.k., but first let’s you and me get straight.”
“aw right, for instance … ast this Barney guy who his heroes are.”
“Barney, hoose yr herows?”
“well, lemme see — Cleaver, Dillinger, Che, Malcolm X., Gandhi, Jersey Joe Walcott, Grandma Barker, Castro, Van Gogh, Villon, Hemingway.”
“ya see, he i-dentifies with all LOSERS. that makes him feel good. he’s getting ready to lose. we’re going to help him. he’s been conned on this soul-shit and that’s how we get their asses. there ain’t no soul. it’s all con. there ain’t no heroes. it’s all con. there ain’t no winners — it’s all con and horseshit. there ain’t no saints, there ain’t no genius — that’s all con and fairytale, it makes the game go. each man just tries to hang on and be lucky — if he can. all else is bullshit.”
“aw right, aw right, I dig your losers! but what about Castro? he looked pretty fat, last photo I saw of him.”
“he subsists because the U.S. and Russia have decided to leave him in the middle. but suppose they really put the pack on the deck? what can he draw to? man, he don’t hold enough chips to get into a decaying Egyptian whorehouse.”
“fuck you two guys! I like who I like!” said Barney Anderson.
“Barney, when a man gets old enough, trapped enough, hungry enough, weary enough — he’ll suck dick, tit, eat shit to stay alive; either that or suicide. the human race ain’t got it, man. it’s a bad crowd.”
“so we’re gonna change it, man. that’s the trick. if we can make it to the moon we can clean the shit out of the shitbowl. we just been concentrating on the wrong things.”
“you’re sick, kid. and a little fat around the belly. and balding. Dan, shape him up.”
Danforth took Barney Anderson and rang and wrung and screamed him through the wringer three times, then brought him back.
“Barney?” asked Bagley.
“yes sir!”
“who are your heroes?”
“George Washington, Bob Hope, Mae West. Richard Nixon, the bones of Clark Gable and all the nice people I’ve seen at Disneyland. Joe Louis, Dinah Shore, Frank Sinatra, Babe Ruth, the Green Berets, hell the whole United States Army and Navy and especially the Marine Corps, and even the Treasury Dept., the CIA, the FBI, United Fruit, the highway Patrol, the whole god damned L.A. Police Dept., and the County Cops too. and I don’t mean ‘cops,’ I mean ‘policemen.’ then there’s Marlene Dietrich, with this slit up the side of her dress, she must be near 70 now? — dancing up at Vegas, my dick got big, what a wonderful woman. the good American life and the good American money can keep us young forever, don’t you see?”
“Dan?”
“yeah, Bag?”
“this one’s really ready! I ain’t got much feeling left, but he even makes me sick. make him sign his little contract and send him out. they’ll love him. god, what a man’s gotta do to just stay alive? sometimes I even hate my own job. that’s bad, ain’t it, Dan?”
“sure, Bag. and as soon as I send this asshole on his way, I got just the little thing for you — a touch of the good ol’ tonic.”
“ah, fine, fine … what is it?”
“just a little quarter-turn through the wringer.”
“WHAT?”
“oh, it’s fine for the blues or for extemporaneous thinking. stuff like that.”
“will it work?”
“it beats aspirin.”
“o.k., get rid of the asshole.”
Barney Anderson was sent down the stairway. Bagley got up and walked toward the nearest wringer. “these old gals — West and Dietrich, still flashing tits and legs, hell it don’t make sense, they were doing that when I was 6 years old. what makes it work?”
“nuttin’. stretchers, girdles, powder, lights, false flesh coverings, padding, pudding, straw, horseshit. they could make your grandmother look like a 16 year old.”
“my grandmother’s dead.”
“they could still do it.”
“yeah, yeah, I guess you’re right.” Bagley walked toward the wringer.
“just a quarter turn now. can I trust you?”
“you’re my partner, ain’t you, Bag?”
“sure, Dan.”
“how long we been in business together?”
“25 years.”
“so, o.k., when I say a QUARTER-TURN, I mean a QUARTER-TURN.”
“whatta I do?”
“just slip your hands in the rollers, it’s like a washing machine.”
“in there?”
“yeah. here we go! whoopee!”
“hey, man, remember, just a quarter of a turn.”
“sure, Bag, don’t you trust me?”
“I gotta now.”
“you know, I been fucking your wife on the sly.”
“you rotten son of a bitch! I’ll kill you!”
Danforth left the machine running, sat down behind Bagley’s desk, lit a cigarette. he hummed a little tune, “lucky lucky me, I can live in luxury, because I’ve got a pocket full of dreams … I got an empty purse, but I own the universe, because I’ve got a pocketful of dreams…”
he got up and walked over to the machine and Bagley.
“you said a quarter-turn,” said Bagley. “it’s been a turn and a half.”
“don’t you trust me?”
“more than ever, somehow.”
“still, I been fucking your wife on the sly.”
“well, I guess it’s all right. I get tired of fucking her. every man gets tired of fucking his own wife.”
“but I want you to want me to fuck your wife.”
“well, I don’t care but I don’t know if I exactly want you to.”
“I’ll be back in about 5 minutes.”
Danforth went back, sat in Bagley’s swivel chair, put his feet up on the desk and waited. he liked to sing. he sang songs: “I got plenty of nuthin’ and nuthin’s plenty for me. I got the stars, I got the sun, I got the shining sea . ..”
Danforth smoked two cigarettes and went back to the machine.
“Bag, I been fucking your wife on the sly.”
“oh, I want you to, man! I want you to! and ya know what?”
“what?”
“I’d kinda like ta watch.”
“sure, that’d be o.k.”
Danforth went to the phone, dialed a number.
“Minnie? yeah, Dan. I’m comin’ over ta fuck ya again. Bag? oh, he’s comin’ too. he wants ta watch. no, we’re not drunk. I just decided to close shop for the day. we’ve made it already. with the Israel-Arab thing and all the African wars, there’s nothing to worry about. Biafra is a beautiful word. anyhow, we’re coming over. I want to bunghole you. you got those big cheeks, jesus. I might even bunghole Bag. I think his cheeks are bigger than yours. keep tight, sweetie, we’re on our way!”
Dan hung up. another phone rang. he picked it up. “jam it you rotten motherfucker, even the points of your tits smell like wet dogturds in a Westerly wind.” he hung up and smiled. walked over and took Bagley out of the machine. they locked the office door and walked down the steps together. when they walked outside the sun was up and looking good. you could see through the thin skirts of the women. you could almost see their bones. death and rot was everywhere. it was Los Angeles, near 7th and Broadway, the intersection where the dead snubbed the dead and didn’t even know why. it was a taught game like jumprope or dissecting frogs or pissing in the mailbox or jacking-off your pet dog.
“we got plenty a nuthin’,” they sang, “and nuthin’s plenty for we …”
arm and arm they made the underground garage, found Bag’s 69 Caddy, got
in, each lit a dollar cigar, Dan driving, got it out of there, almost hit a bum coming out of Pershing Square, turned West toward the freeway, toward freedom, Vietnam, the army, fucking, large areas of grass and nude statues and French wine, Beverly Hills…
Bagley leaned over and ran down Danforth’s zipper as he drove.
I hope he leaves some for his wife, Danforth thought.
it was a warm Los Angeles morning, or maybe it was afternoon, he checked the dashboard clock — it read 11:37 a.m. just as he came. he ran the Caddy up to 80. the asphalt slipped underneath like the graves of the dead. he turned on the dash t.v., then reached for the telephone, then remembered to zip up. “Minnie, I love you.”
“I love you too, Dan,” she answered. “is that slob with you?”
“right beside me. he just caught a mouthful.”
“oh, Dan, don’t waste it!”
he laughed and hung up. they almost hit a nigger in a pickup truck. he wasn’t black at all, he was a nigger, that’s all he was. there wasn’t a nicer city in the world when you had it made, and only one worse when you didn’t have it made—the Big A. Danforth hit it up to 85. a motorcop smiled at him as he drove by. maybe he’d call Bob later that night. Bob was always so funny. his 12 writers always gave him those good lines. and Bob was just as natural as horseshit. it was wonderful.
he threw out the dollar cigar, lit another, ran the Caddy up to 90, straight at the sun like an arrow, business was good and life, and the tires whirled over the dead and the dying and the dying-to-be.
ZYAAAAAUUUUM!
3 WOMEN
we lived right across from McArthur park, Linda and I, and one night while drinking we saw a man’s body fall past our window. It was an odd sight, something like a joke, but it wasn’t any joke when his body hit the pavement. “jesus christ,” I told Linda, “he plopped right apart like an old tomato! we are just made of guts and shit and slimy stuff! come ‘ere! come ’ere! look at ’im!” Linda came to the window, then ran to the bathroom and vomited. she came out. I turned and looked at her. “honest ta christ, baby, he’s just like a big spilled bowl of rotten meat and spaghetti, dressed in a ripped suit and shirt!” Linda ran back in and heaved again.
I sat and drank the wine. soon I heard the siren. what they really needed was the Sanitation Dept. well, what the fuck, we all had our troubles. I never knew where our rent was coming from and we were too sick from drinking to look for work. everytime we worried, all we could do about our worries was to fuck. that made us forget for a while. we fucked a lot, and lucky for me, Linda was a good lay. that whole hotel was full of people like us, drinking wine and fucking and not knowing what next. now and then one of them jumped out of the window. but the money always seemed to arrive for us from somewhere, just when all seemed like we’d have to eat our own shit, once $300 from a dead uncle, another time, a delayed income tax refund. another time I was riding on a bus and on the seat in front of me where these 50 cent pieces. what it meant or who had done it, I didn’t know, still don’t understand. I moved one seat up and began stuffing the half bucks into my pockets. when the pockets got full, I pulled the cord and got off at the next stop. nobody said anything or tried to stop me. I mean, when you’re drunk, you’ve got to be lucky, even if you’re not one, you’ve got to be lucky.
The Most Beautiful Woman in Town Page 6