“Hey, your phone is working again.”
“Yes.”
“How’s the painting coming?”
“It’s finished.”
“What do you mean?”
“I gave them all a bath in hot water.”
“Really? Then what did you do with them?”
“I threw them into the garbage.”
“What? You’re joking.”
“No, they are in with the beercans and old Racing Forms.”
“You’ve just thrown away $2,000!”
“I didn’t like the paintings.”
“Most of them were very good. Listen, when does your trashman come around?”
“Wednesday morning, about 9 A.M. This is Wednesday afternoon.”
“Listen, will you do me a favor? Go look in those garbage cans. See if they are still full.”
I got up and walked out back. The garbage cans were empty. I came back to the phone.
“The man’s been here. Everything is gone.”
“I’m sick,” said Martin, “and I’ve got to tell you I’m angry with you for doing such a thing.”
“O.K., baby,” I said and hung up. . . .
Martin got over it and came for more poems. Red Hand came back and told me more stories of the road. Others came back, men and women, and we drank.
It was a stark time, and a grand time of gamble, and those who came to that East Hollywood front court were mostly those who were supposed to come, and I was weak and strong and alcoholic, and they wasted many of my hours but they also brought me material and light; voices, faces; their fears and their evil stupidities, and sometimes the amazing inventiveness. They brought me more than I could ever have had alone, even though I felt best alone. . . .
I left East Hollywood soon after that. What happened to me was that I simply got gathered in. One loses hold, the senses waver, and one is lost. I was with a handsome woman 20 years younger than I. She was a woman that all men looked at as she walked the streets or sat in cafés or was seen anywhere at all. “Beauty and the Beast,” she described us. She had a few detracting factors: she was insane and had thick ankles which she hid in boots, and she was continually conscious of what the world considered to be her beauty. I hung around; she was trying me and I was trying her. But she was more the hunter. The dear child saw possibilities in me. She thought I had a soul of some sort and that her soul might capture mine, captivate it and slug the shit out of it. Meanwhile, while waiting for that to happen, I could entertain her and hers.
So look, what they don’t understand is that those who work within the art form usually save their best juices for that. So then, I didn’t particularly radiate for her mother or her stepfather or her sisters or her friends. “He can be charming when he wants to,” she said. “It’s just that usually he doesn’t want to.”
She had a large house and her two children slept upstairs. I liked the children better than I liked her. There was a large backyard full of bamboo stalks, thousands and thousands of them rising to the sky, spears poking out into nowhere. “We’ve got to clear those fucking things out of there,” she said. It was my private jungle. I sat in there often like some kind of asshole. I sat there the last time I can think of at 3 A.M. in the morning, naked and shivering, I sat there sucking at yet another can of beer. She came out in her nightgown, looking heavy, thick-ankled, she walked with loud feet, crashing through the small brush and brambles, frightening the small night creatures.
She stood in front of me, swaying, some of the moon showing through her gown, exposing that body that so many men wanted. What a doll of flesh, what a girl, what a thing. I could hear her breathing as she said:
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
I answered, “I don’t know.”
And I still don’t!
The Gambler
It was 4:30 A.M. when the phone rang and I picked it up and it was Stultz and he said, “It happened, they took my money.”
“Who took your money?”
“They did.”
“You mean you were robbed.”
“No, I went back to the wheel.”
“You lost it all?”
“Yes, fifteen thousand—”
“Jesus Christ, I told you to stay in bed!”
“They sent a woman up to my room!”
“So what?”
“They planned it, they do it—”
“Who?”
“Management.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, I fucked her and then I couldn’t sleep so I went downstairs.”
“All right, you can sleep now—”
“No, I can’t because I don’t have any money.”
I didn’t answer. I just sat there on the edge of the bed, the neon lights flashing on my fat ugly belly.
“You got any money?” he asked.
“I’m sitting on eight grand.”
“I’ll sell you my car. I need the action.”
“You don’t have a car.”
“I’ve got a wristwatch.”
“Listen, I’m going back to sleep; I’ll see you about ten or eleven.”
I hung up. I had a headache. I hated Vegas. Stultz had talked me into it. I had only come up with $200. I played the wheel, a simple system just using the red and the black. It seemed to be working.
I stretched out on the bed. There was a knock on the door. I was in my shorts. I walked to the door, opened it, keeping the chain on.
It was a girl.
“Honey,” she said, “I give the best head on the Strip—”
“Go suck a porcupine,” I said and closed the door.
“Pops,” she hissed through the door, “you’re a piece of living shit.”
About 5:30 A.M. the phone rang again. It was Stultz.
“Hey, a girl came by and gave me some head! It was absolutely great! Even better than that job I got in Tangiers once.”
“How’d you pay her?”
“I gave her a check.”
“Go to sleep.”
“That black-red system isn’t going to work. Each time the wheel turns it’s a fifty-fifty shot, less the house-take.”
“My system is based upon fluctuations.”
“Okay, let’s go downstairs now. I won’t even gamble. I’ll just watch you.”
“Pretend you’re watching me sleep,” I said and hung up.
In six or seven minutes the phone rang again.
“I can’t sleep,” he said.
“Get a newspaper,” I told him, “then take a shower, get in bed, and read the newspaper. Read the Help Wanted section, that will knock you out.”
“I got a better idea.”
“Yeah? What?”
“I’ll jack-off.”
“But I thought you already fucked and had head?”
“Yeah, but only jacking-off makes me sleep.”
“Well, for Christ’s sake,” I said, “get pumping!”
It was around 9:30 A.M. when there was some heavy pounding on my door. I thought it might be a fire. I ran to the door and opened it. I forgot that I was nude.
“Well, well,” said the big guy, “if it ain’t Conan the Barbarian!”
There was another big guy next to him. Looking at those guys I got the idea that they just enjoyed being big.
No, it was more than enjoyment—they were sick with it.
“Whatever you got,” I told them, “I don’t want it.”
I started to close the door but one of the big guys gave the door a tap and it flashed across my face and knocked me across the room. I got up with a bloody nose. I figured I was being busted for eight grand and that was too much money to lay down for. So I walked over, sat on the edge of the bed, wiped my nose with the sheet, reached into my shoe, came out with the blade, unsheathed it, and stood up.
“Easy, Conan,” said the biggest guy, “we’re hotel security.”
“Yeah?” I asked. “Well, you don’t make me feel too secure.”
&nb
sp; The biggest guy flashed some I.D. and the next biggest guy did too, both them smiling because they were both so big.
“You can get that stuff printed anywhere,” I said. “How do I know that you guys don’t go around boosting rooms?”
“No,” said the biggest, “we don’t. But we want you out of here!”
“Why? Because I’m winning?”
“No, because you and Stultz are buddies.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning about an hour ago we caught him trying to steal some chips.”
“And that complicates me?”
“By proxy.”
“Where is he? In jail?”
“Oh, no,” said the biggest guy, “we don’t waste jail on him.”
“Oh, no,” said the next biggest guy.
“What’d you do?”
“We had a little talk with him.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. And we want you out of this hotel in thirty minutes or we’re going to have a little talk with you!”
“I understand.”
“It’s best that you do.”
They both turned and walked out.
I got packed and went down to my car. I threw my bag into the truck, unlocked the door, and there was Stultz sitting there reading the racing results in the newspaper. I sat down next to him.
“How’d you get in?” I asked him.
“Guess you were drunk. You forgot to lock the door on the passenger side.”
“You look awful.”
“I feel worse than awful.”
Stultz had a hard time speaking through his puffed lips. He had one black eye.
“Any broken bones?”
“I don’t think so. But they said if I ever came back, they’d break both my legs. All that for three blue chips.”
“Why’d you do it?”
“I needed the action and I couldn’t get you out of bed.”
“Well,” I told him, “you got the action.”
I started the car and pointed it toward L.A.
This was some drive back and it got hot and Stultz kept reading the newspaper but just the race results and that day’s entries. There really wasn’t that much to read about.
“The harness is running right now,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
“I hit some good exactas the last meet,” Stultz said.
I wanted to get him off the subject.
“Listen, Stultz, you ever think of women?”
“Women? What do I need with a woman?”
“Something to take your mind off gambling.”
“I like to gamble. I don’t care if I win or lose, I just want to gamble.”
“It’s all so wearing and it’s really kind of dull.”
“What else is there? Everything’s dull.”
“How about the great works of art?”
“Ah, that’s just bullshit.”
“I think you’re right.”
“I’m sometimes right,” Stultz said.
“About how often?”
“About forty-two percent of the time on a fifty-fifty shot.”
“You’re an eight percent loser.”
“When I lose I feel the pain. When I win I’m no good.”
I just kept on driving. Stultz said he didn’t need women but he always seemed to have one around. And each looked a bit like the other. All young bright pretty girls. But they soon were gone. He borrowed money from them which he couldn’t pay back.
“You won eight grand, huh?” he asked me.
“Just about. It’s in my bag in the trunk.”
“Lend me five hundred.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“You’ve lost your humanity.”
“Had to.”
I mean it was a long drive. . . . I almost fell asleep at the wheel a couple of times. After almost running it off the road one time, I raised my head from the steering wheel and asked Stultz, “Listen, man, you think you can tool this thing awhile?”
“I can try, good buddy.”
We stopped, changed seats, and then started up again with Stultz at the wheel.
“Oh shit,” he said, “oh shit.”
“What is it?”
“I think my ribs are busted! I can’t steer this thing!”
The car started to dart off the road. I grabbed the wheel and righted it. I reached my foot over and jammed on the brake. The car bucked and stalled in the road.
Stultz just sat there holding his sides.
“I just can’t drive, man.”
“It’s okay, Stultz, I think I can make it back in. Let’s change seats again.”
“I really appreciate this, buddy,” he said, “and sometime you’ll know how much.”
I got out to go around to the other side of the car and take the wheel, and as I did so he took off. In a straight line.
I stood there in the road in the middle of the desert and watched Stultz and my car vanish, plus my eight grand in my bag in the trunk.
I had no idea if there was a town within a hundred miles.
I just started walking. Then I heard a car approaching. I stood in the road and tired to wave it down. It went right on past. All I saw was a fat man smoking a cigar.
I walked along some more.
As the next car approached I turned and stuck out my thumb. Same result. Only this time it was a midget eating a Sno-Kone.
I walked along thinking, I might die out here in this desert.
I didn’t particularly mind that—dying didn’t matter much. What bothered was getting there.
As I walked along I thought of the things I was going to miss, and they were very odd. Like taking a crap in a cool bathroom at 10 A.M. in the morning, or opening a can of cat food for my cat or watching a good boxing match on TV while drinking beer. Or moving deftly through traffic on the freeway, gauging speeds and distances, threading through the drivers and at the same time checking the rearview mirror for the police. Or buying a case of good wine and carrying it to my car, always remembering the days when there was nothing to drink, or to eat, for that matter.
A car pulled up. I couldn’t believe it.
Here was this cute little girl wearing a green hat over her blue eyes and smiling. . . .
“Ya out in the desert prospecting, old-timer?”
“Not really. Just kind of dehydrating and moving toward L.A. an inch at a time.”
“Climb in, pops, your problem is solved. I’m driving straight to L.A.”
I got in and the car rolled off smoothly. It was cool in there, the air conditioner worked fine, and the girl was in a neat little green dress and showing some leg.
“I can’t believe this,” I said to the girl. “Life isn’t so bad after all—”
Then I heard it from behind me. From the rear seat:
“Life is still bad, motherfucker!”
I started to turn.
“Don’t turn! Don’t look at me! You look at me and you’re dead, motherfucker!”
I looked straight forward.
“Okay,” I said, “what’s next, motherfucker?”
“Don’t go callin’ me no motherfucker! I’m holdin’ the callin’ card here!”
“I pass,” I told him.
The cute little girl just kept on driving.
Then I heard him: “Okay now, just reach nice and easy into your back pocket, no fast moves, and lift your wallet out, hold it up in the air, and I’ll take it from there!”
I did as I was told. I held the wallet up and he snatched it while almost breaking my wrist. I pulled my hand down.
“Look,” I said, “I just got my car stolen and I was ripped off for eight grand—”
“I don’t wanna hear that shit!”
He was back there, ripping through my wallet, taking my bills and my credit cards. Now he knew my address. If I ever got back there’d be nothing in my place but a roll of toilet paper.
Then I heard him laugh. “According to this here driver’s license, you�
�re sixty-three years old. Man, you look closer to seventy-three!”
“I’ve aged rapidly because of the kind of people I keep meeting. And besides, I’ve been told I’ve lost my humanity.”
“Humanity? What’s that shit?”
“Nothing.”
The cute little girl looked over at me. “Guess you thought you were going to fuck me?” she asked sarcastically.
“Fuck you? No, I was going to squirt some Elmer’s Glue-All up your pussy.”
“Hey, man! Watch your mouth!” the guy yelled.
The cute little girl jammed a cigarette she had been smoking into the car ashtray in a vicious manner.
“Why don’t we waste this old fuck, Hayward?”
“Don’t say my name, you whore! Don’t say my name! You dumb bitch whore!”
I said, “I didn’t hear your name! Honest, Hayward!”
We drove along as Hayward’s curses shook the automobile. Then he quieted down.
Then he said, “Okay, chump!”
And my wallet came flying. It landed on the floorboard. I picked it up, looked through it. Nothing. Just the leather.
Life began over and over again. Sometimes.
“Okay, bitch,” Hayward said, “stop the machine!”
She stopped the machine. We sat there.
“Okay, bitch, get out and do your thing.”
She opened the door and got out. As she did I reached out my left hand for the keys in the ignition.
I felt the gun at the back of my neck, stopped.
“Don’t think too much,” said Hayward, “because you don’t know how or else your ass wouldn’t be where it’s at now!”
Then she got back in.
“Okay,” said Hayward, “get this thing rolling!”
She dug it out and soon we were moving along nicely.
“Okay, chump,” Hayward said, “out!”
“I think I’ll stay—”
“I told you thinking wasn’t your thing! Now, pops, I’m going to count to five!”
I felt the gun at the back of my neck.
“If you ain’t bailed out by five, you got no more worries in this world!”
He started counting.
“One!”
“Two!”
“Three!”
When he got to “four,” I kicked the door open and leaned out and just as I left I kicked out and caught her in the head with my foot. Then I was out into space and rolling. I heard the car skidding as she hit the brakes. Then I stopped rolling and felt myself face down eating sand.
Absence of the Hero Page 21