The attendant nodded and agreed, vigorously repeating, “Yep, yep, know what ya mean.”
Malany got out of the car and walked past Hoss to a phone booth. Hoss paid the attendant and danced back to the car.
“Tell me something, buddy. You ever got any of that?”
Beckman was stunned, not at the blatant referral to Malany’s sexuality, but at the clear mental image of Malany in the sex act, salivating with lust, groaning with pleasure, arms enveloping, legs intertwined around an invisible lover and, why, Beckman wondered, couldn’t he see himself there.
Beckman laughed at the thought. “No, I never have, and want to know something else?”
Hoss leaned over the back of the seat close to Beckman’s ear, grinning with anticipation.
“I don’t want to, either.”
Hoss dropped back, laughing. “My God, ain’t it awful! Just thinking about it with her gives me a sharp pain right between the thighs.”
Malany was coming back from the phone. A gust of wind whipped at her clothes. She could have been mistaken for a priestess of some obscure religious cult come to deliver the world from self-service gas stations and chlorinated swimming pools.
“Did you tell him?” Malany asked, slamming the door and locking it.
Beckman half turned to Hoss. “Malany has old friends in this town whom she wants to see. What she’s trying to ask is, do you want to stick around or go on your own?”
Hoss appeared to think for a minute,
“You know, I’ve come this far and it ain’t like I got to get there on time. Know what I mean? Yeah, I’d like to meet some of Malany’s friends.”
Malany grimaced, a little too theatrically Beckman thought.
“They invited us for later.”
“But not for dinner, you mean?” Beckman asked.
“That’s right.”
“Oh Christ, more fast food hamburgers if we can afford it, or will it be garbage can salad?” Beckman asked.
“Don’t worry about a thing. Ole Hoss here has got plenty of the green stuff. Let’s go to some place and really put on a spread. What do you say?”
“It’s okay with me, but what does Malany want to do?”
“Let’s go to Overton park. It’s in the center of town. Show you the way,” Malany said. “There are a lot of places there to eat.”
“Malany, have you been here before?” Beckman asked.
“Yes, it’s a long story, long forgotten. Turn onto this road, and follow it until I tell you to turn again.”
Professor Leon Moskowski had been professor of Syrian Literature at Western State University for the past three years, and for the same period of time, an active member of the Polish-Jewish Anti-Defamation League. His wife, Honey, whom Hoss quickly dubbed “Honey Buns,” was a passionate collector of antiques, ranging from eighteenth-century whiskey bottles to Louis XIV furniture.
Professor Moskowski lamented, “She is now into antique cars, specifically a rebuilt Model A sedan. She’s already put ten thousand into it. My dear wife,” the professor said, patting Honey’s hand, “only wants to recreate the past. Don’t you, my child?”
Honey smiled. “Only what was good and grand about the past,” she said, in a voice ten years younger than she was. “I think it’s a worthwhile creation,” she said, looking toward Malany.
“Creation costs money. Malany can attest to that,” Beckman said. Malany was uncharacteristically embarrassed.
“And I still admire you for what you’ve done, Malany,” Honey said, gazing at Malany with her most sincere expression. She went on. “Deciding once and for all that you wanted to write poetry, and going out and doing it, wonderful. Have you had much published?”
Malany glowed as one unexpectedly gifted with the stigmata, and modestly acknowledged that some of her work had appeared in commercial publications and some in university publications. Honey flashed her “how nice” smile and the professor looked interested.
“Malany,” Honey continued. “If you would like to stay over for a few days . . . ” Honey waited for the effect of this to settle in. “You could go with us to Dr. Pointer’s poetry reading. He has this most marvelous little cabaret, decorated with paintings by local artists and, as I mentioned, every Saturday night, poetry readings. Oh, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.” She smiled, bearing meat-stained teeth and red gums. “I could introduce you, and probably Pierre would like to have you read sometime.”
The professor nodded in agreement. “Yes, the well of local talent is quickly running dry. They need a little invigorating mongrel blood.” He laughed uproariously, spilling ash and sparks from his pipe.
“Could we hear a sample of your work?” Honey asked.
Malany opened the ever-present copy of her book and began to read from the selections that she had used for her last public reading. The professor and Honey listened with genuine interest as Malany beat out her feelings about the complexities of love and living, and finished within a tasteful half hour. The professor applauded. Honey went straight to the phone and started dialing.
“Malany,” the professor said,“Your work shows definite promise.”
From the phone, the voice of Honey began to dominate. “Pierre, I think you would be very impressed, she’s really good. Yes, as good as that. Oh, be a dove . . . I suppose I can endure it. See you then.”
Honey’s long, feminine fingers replaced the phone gently. She self-consciously walked, with hard steps, back to the group and took her former seat on the carpet next to her husband’s chair.
“Malany, you have to stay, at least until tomorrow night. Pierre wants to meet you, so he’s invited us to a private party at the home of the head of the English department, tomorrow night. And oh,” she glanced at Beckman and Hoss, “your friends are certainly welcome to come.”
Hoss pretended to look at a non-existent watch. “Well, it’s getting pretty late, and I hate to leave you folks, but ole Hoss has had a rough day. What do you say, good buddy?” Hoss glanced at Beckman.
“Yes, we had better be finding some place to stay,” Beckman added.
“You don’t have to rush off, gentlemen. You’re more than welcome to spend the night here,” the professor said.
Hoss stood up, followed by Beckman.
“Thank you just the same, but me and Beckman here would just be in the way.” Hoss quickly started for the door. Beckman and the professor followed. Beckman turned to Malany.
“Can we borrow your car tonight?”
Malany nodded her consent, reluctantly. Beckman hated to take advantage, but events seemed to be working against him.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” He hoped she would believe him and realize also that he would not let Hoss drive the car.
“Will you be coming to the party?” Honey injected.
“Maybe,” Hoss said.
“Well, if you decide to go, we’ll leave here at eight, okay?”
The professor was shaking Hoss’s hand, and he patted Beckman on the shoulder as they passed by him.
“Why don’t you fellas come along tomorrow night? I promise you it will not be as stuffy as Honey makes it sound.”
Hoss was already out of the door and walking fast toward the car.
Beckman had the feeling that Hoss was actually running and that if he didn’t get through the door, Hoss would leave without hesitating. Beckman hurriedly brushed by the professor and said something to the effect that he and Hoss would probably see them tomorrow night.
Beckman remained quiet until he heard the front door of the house close. Hoss was waiting by the car.
“Hey, Hoss. Wait!” Hoss got into Malany’s Oldsmobile and Beckman followed, stopping just long enough to remove Malany’s bags from the trunk.
“Why did you leave like that? I thought they were very nice, considering two perfect strangers come into their home and wait for an invitation of free room and board.”
“Didn’t you see it, buddy?”
“See w
hat?”
“That professor. I couldn’t take it anymore, him staring at my cock like that. I thought he was going to start drooling all over his goddamn gray beard.”
“That’s crazy, Hoss.”
“How would you know, buddy? The way you were watching Honey Buns bounce her things around. ’Course, I don’t blame you. She’s something to watch, and I imagine she’s one good piece. It don’t make sense, her being friends with Malany.”
“Hoss, the professor has very thick glasses. Maybe it only appeared . . . ”
“Ah shit, boy. I been around long enough to know a fag when I see one. Now do us a favor, buddy, and let’s get out of here.”
Beckman started the car and drove away. “Well, suppose you’re right, so what? What difference should that make?”
“Listen, good buddy. I don’t care what anybody does. He can suck an army of dicks as far as I care, as long as mine ain’t one of them.”
“I still say you might have imagined it.”
“Okay, supposin’ I did, I wasn’t going to stick around and find out.”
“What did you expect him to do, rape you right there in front of his wife?”
Hoss laughed. “You never know, what with gay liberation and all.”
“Let’s forget about it. Nothing happened. What do we do now?”
“First thing is to stop at the first liquor store we see and pick up a bottle, then find a cheap motel room and see what we can stock it with in the way of female companionship.”
Hoss ran into the shopping center liquor store, bowlegged in his new western-style jeans. After a few minutes he ran back out, clutching under his arm a brown paper bag in the shape of a quart bottle, twisted at the neck. He leapt in the car and began peeling back the bag from the bottle neck. He wrung the cap off and, before Beckman had cleared the parking lot, began sucking from the bottle.
“Fella in there says Overton Square is the place for the choice meat, but there’s another place over near Cleveland Street for a little rougher trade in dark stuff, and maybe a butt load of penicillin afterwards.”
“Look, Hoss, I don’t go in for this sort of thing—besides, I’m broke.”
“Hey man, I got enough for both of us. When’s the last time you had a nice piece of ass?”
“Come on, Hoss. There is no need for that.”
“O-o-o-h shit, sounds like some of what’s wrong with Malany has rubbed off on you.”
“And what do you think’s wrong with Malany?” Beckman snapped.
Hoss settled back, resembling a soft, plastic, life-size cowboy in total relaxation. “Malany is dead, boy. At least she might as well be. She don’t feel nothin’.”
“Hoss, you may have the wrong impression of Malany, and me. I may not fully understand her, she may be a little eccentric to you, but she does feel, and feel deeply. How on earth could anyone write poetry and not feel? And I mean good poetry. I’ve read her work, and I like most of it.”
“Now Beckman, you’re an educated man. You should already know what it’s taken me years of fucking up to learn. I mean, the only way a person lives and knows is by feeling and, my God, you have to know it in your gut first. It’s got to tingle. Then, if you have time, you can know it in your head. Do you see what I’m driving at, boy?”
“Yes, but you’re wrong about Malany. She may not be a people’s poet, but it’s because she lives on a different plane.”
“By that you mean superior?” Hoss sneered.
“Yes, I guess that is what I mean. At least she is superior to me in many ways.”
“Man, that ain’t nothing but college jive. I tell you, just watch old Hoss tonight and learn firsthand that people are animals first, and right down to that hot core of their bodies is the soul of an animal. And boy, most people, the honest ones that is, have come to the conclusion that it ain’t so bad.
“Most people—the ones I like, that is—have come to recognize this in others, and they want to share it. They want to mingle all that good animal feeling about life with each other. Them’s my kind of people. Your Malany’s nothing but a mess of self-love. I’ll bet she wouldn’t sell one of those books of hers for any amount. She’s a zombie, boy, and she’s going to make you into one if you don’t break away.
“Besides,” Hoss said after a long hesitation. “She’s a phony, Beckman, only she don’t know it.”
“And how do you know that, Hoss.”
“I can spot ’em boy. I can always spot ’em—maybe because I’m a little bit of a phony myself.”
“Do you think I’m a phony, Hoss?”
Hoss looked a little stunned. His eyes moved rapidly from side to side as his brain searched for an answer.
“I think you’re after something you can’t get.”
Beckman was tempted to enquire further but decided he did not want to reach the conclusion of this conversation. He shifted the verbal momentum back to their earlier discussion.
“You mean you want us to just go steal the car and leave Malany there, with those people?”
“Well, they’re her friends, ain’t they? I mean, you saw how she was, right at home. I bet she’s already shit-canned you and me both.”
“I can’t do it now, Hoss. A few days ago, maybe I could have, but I can’t do it now.”
Hoss shrugged. “Okay, boy. Do it your way, but . . . ” Hoss became silent. Morose lines appeared on his face. He lifted the bottle, and Beckman watched as several air bubbles escaped up the neck. He couldn’t condemn Hoss or even criticize him. Why shouldn’t Hoss, in all of his tragic glory, not enjoy the luxury of simplification? The crying need for sex, the crying need to eat, to periodically induce mild delirium with cheap whiskey and reach, at times, swift clarity in his literal mind that reflected the surreal laments of Malany’s poetry.
Hoss had quickly lowered the level in the bottle by a third before Beckman found his way to Overton Square and had safely parked the car. They ambled down Madison Avenue, past pastel-colored boutiques offering “giveaway” specials for the young scene. Hoss peered in windows, frightening salesgirls and drawing angry looks from male escorts. He insisted on having a drink in every bar. He approached cab drivers and was ignored or laughed at. Bejeweled black pimps treated him with indifference or suspicion.
It was his manner: too loud, too obvious. Even the occasional “working girl” ducked inside at the sight of Hoss. He was simply too unbelievable. He was what others acted like. By midnight Hoss was beginning to tire and even to show signs of discouragement.
They were in a place called Pearl’s, and Hoss had decided to stay. He liked the local talent playing the progressive jazz of the fifties, and he was beginning to use the language of the sportsman to explain his lack of success. “But only for tonight. Tomorrow we hunt in a different part of the woods,” he sputtered.
The liquor seemed to hit him all at once, knocking his eyes into whirling concentric wheels, relaxing the muscles in his face until its separate parts—nose, cheeks, and chin—all seemed to hang in fleshy bags. It seemed an almost complete metamorphosis, a physical representation of the irrational. Beckman was thinking of a way to extricate Hoss, or whatever Hoss had become, without an incident when two women, ensconced in the uniform of the streetwalker, came up to the table.
“They look like the ones, Crystal.”
“Yeah,” said Crystal.
Hoss raised his swaying head and slowly, through glazed eyes, saw that his efforts were about to pay off. “See, buddy. See?”
“You the fellas who want dates?”
“Dates? Us, honey,” Hoss said.
“Let’s go outside where we can talk.” The prostitutes glanced nervously around.
Hoss rose, steadied himself, and led the way through the crowd of bar patrons. Beckman noticed that people made way for a drunk much quicker than for someone sober. He and the prostitutes, supporting Hoss between them, moved hurriedly to the car. No one spoke. Urgency propelled them. Beckman was reluctant, and they knew Hoss was about to c
ollapse. They stopped at the car. The prostitutes looked it over.
“You look real enough,” said the biggest one, in the blonde wig and imitation fur jacket. “But how do we know that you ain’t cops? So many of ’em think they’re on television these days.”
“Believe me, sweetheart, we ain’t cops. Would a cop be this damn drunk?” Hoss blurted out. “And just soes we can be nice to one another, do you two beauties have real names?”
The big blonde half smiled and said, “Yeah, she’s Crystal and I’m Chandelier. Good enough for ya?”
“Fiiine,” Hoss slurred. “Beautiful names, worthy of my friend here.” He waved his hand toward Beckman.
“I seen ’em every way, honey,” Chandelier said to Crystal while leaning over to check Hoss’s breath. “Wh-e-e-e, honey: You’ve about had it. What about him?” She nodded toward Beckman.
“He’s with me. He’s all right, but still a virgin at heart.” Hoss laughed and fell forward but was caught by the blonde and repositioned against the car.
“Okay, honey. It’s a hundred for a straight fuck, a hundred and fifty more to go down, three hundred for both, and twenty percent more for extra turn-ons. Absolutely no rough stuff, no whips, knives, or blood. Okay?”
Hoss nodded and started to fall forward again. The prostitute grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him until there were groans of protest.
“Listen,” she said to Beckman. “You fellas got a room?”
“No,” Beckman said.
“Christ, what a night. Well, we’ll have to do the best we can.”
She opened the back door of the Oldsmobile, aimed Hoss through the open door, and pushed.
“Okay, honey,” she said to Beckman. “Drive us. I know a quiet place that ain’t so well lit.”
The other prostitute, Crystal, started to get in on the passenger side.
“No,” Beckman almost shouted.
“What?”
“It’s not for me.”
“Well, Mr. Goody-Two-shoes, it’s going to cost your friend double.”
“Ish aw’rite, boy. Nubble or nothin’,” Hoss managed to say.
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