Hot Water Music (11 page)

The problem with an 11 a.m. arrival and an 8 p.m. poetry reading is that it sometimes reduces a man to something they lead on stage only to be looked at, jibed at, knocked down, which is what they want—not enlightenment, but entertainment.

Professor Kragmatz met me at the airport, I met his two dogs in the car, and I met Pulholtz (who had been reading my work for years) and two young students—one a karate expert and the other with a broken leg—back at Howard’s house. (Howard was the professor who had issued the invitation for me to read.)

I sat glum and pious, drinking beer, and then almost everyone but Howard had a class to go to. Doors slammed and the dogs barked and left and the clouds darkened and Howard and I and his wife and a young male student sat around. Jacqueline, Howie’s wife, played chess with the student.

“I got a new supply,” said Howard. He opened his hand on a palm-full of pills. “No. It’s my stomach,” I said. “Bad shape lately.”

At 8 p.m. I got up there. “He’s drunk, he’s drunk,” I could hear the voices from the audience. I had my vodka and orange juice. I gave them an opening swallow to stir up their distaste. I read for an hour.

The applause was fair enough. A young boy came up, trembling. “Mr. Chinaski, I have got to tell you this: you are a beautiful man!” I shook his hand. “It’s all right, kid, just keep buying my books.” A few had some of my books and I made drawings in them. It was over. I had hustled my ass.

The post-reading party was the same as always, professors and students, bland and dim. Professor Kragmatz got me in the breakfast nook, began asking questions as the groupies slithered about. No, I told him, no, well, yes, parts of T. S. Eliot
were
good. We were too rough on Eliot. Pound, yes, well, we were finding out that Pound was not quite what we thought. No, I couldn’t think of any outstanding contemporary American poets, sorry. Concrete poetry? Well, yes, concrete poetry was just like concrete anything else. What, Céline? An old crank with withered testicles. Only one good book, the first one. What? Yes, of course, it’s enough. I mean, you haven’t written even one have you? Why do I pick on Creeley? I don’t anymore. Creeley’s built a body of work, that’s more than most of his critics have done. Yes, I drink, doesn’t everybody? How the hell you going to make it otherwise? Women? Oh yes, women, oh yes, of course. You can’t write about fireplugs and empty India ink bottles. Yes, I know about the red wheelbarrow in the rain. Look, Kragmatz, I don’t want you to hog me entirely. I better move around…

I stayed and slept in the bottom half of a bunk bed under the boy who was the karate expert. I awakened him about 6 a.m. by scratching my hemorrhoids. A stink arose and the female dog who had slept with me all night began nuzzling. I turned on my back and went to sleep again.

When I awakened everybody was gone but Howie. I got up, took a bath, dressed, walked out to see him. He was very sick.

“My god, you’re resilient,” he said. “You’ve got the body of a 20-year-old.”

“No speed, no bennies, very little hard stuff last night…only beer and grass. I lucked it,” I told him.

I suggested some soft-boiled eggs. Howard put them on. It began to get dark. It seemed like midnight. Jacqueline phoned and said there was a tornado approaching from the north. It began hailing. We ate our eggs.

Then the poet for the next night’s reading arrived with his girl friend and Kragmatz. Howard ran out into the yard and vomited up his eggs. The new poet, Blanding Edwards, began talking. He meant well. He talked about Ginsberg, Corso, Kerouac. Then Blanding Edwards and his girlfriend, Betty (who also wrote poetry),
began talking to each other in rapid French.

It got darker, there was lightning, more hail, and the wind, the wind was awful. The beer came out. Kragmatz reminded Edwards to be careful, he had to read that night. Howard got onto his bicycle and pedaled off in the storm to go teach freshman English at the university. Jacqueline arrived. “Where’s Howie?”

“He took his two wheels out into the tornado,” I said.

“Is he all right?”

“He looked like a 17-year-old boy when he left. He took a couple of aspirin.”

The remainder of the afternoon was waiting and trying to avoid literary talk. I got a ride to the airport. I had my $500 check and my satchel of poems. I told them to stay in the car and that someday I would send all of them a picture postcard.

I walked into the waiting room and I heard one guy say to another, “Look at
that
guy!” The natives all had the same hairstyle, the same buckles on their high-heeled shoes, lightweight overcoats, single-breasted suits with brass buttons, striped shirts, neckties that ran the gamut from gold to green. Even their faces were alike: the noses and ears and mouths and expressions were alike. Shallow lakes coated with thin ice. Our plane was late. I stood behind a coffee machine, drank two dark coffees and ate some crackers. Then I went out and stood in the rain.

We left after an hour and a half. The plane rocked and bucked. There was no
New Yorker
magazine. I asked the stewardess for a drink. She said there wasn’t any ice. The pilot told us there would be a delay landing in Chicago. They couldn’t get clearance. He was a man of truth. We reached Chicago and there was the airport and we circled and circled and circled and I said, “Well, I guess there’s nothing to do.” I ordered my third drink. The others began to get into the swing of it. Especially after both engines sputtered out at once. They started again and somebody laughed. We drank and we drank and we drank. After we were potted out of our lighttowers they told us they were going to land.

O’Hare again. The thin ice broke. People hustled about, asking obvious questions and getting obvious answers. I saw my flight had no departure time listed. It was 8:30 p.m. I phoned Ann. She said she’d keep calling L.A. International for the arrival time. She asked me how the reading had gone. I told her that it was very hard
to fool a college poetry audience. I had only fooled about half of them. “Fine,” she said. “Never trust a man who wears a jump suit,” I told her.

I stood looking at the legs of a Japanese woman for 15 minutes. Then I found a bar. There was a black man in there dressed in a red leather outfit with a fur collar. They were giving it to him, laughing as if he was a bug crawling on the bar. They did it very well. It took centuries of practice. The black man was trying to be cool, but his back was rigid.

When I went to check the flight board again one-third of the airport was drunk. Hairstyles were coming undone. One man was walking backwards, very drunk, trying to fall on the back of his head and get himself a skull fracture. We all lit cigarettes and waited, watching, hoping he would give his head a damned good whack. I wondered which one of us would get his wallet. I watched him fall, then the horde swooped in to strip him. He was too far away to do me any good. I went back to the bar. The black man was gone. Two guys to my left were arguing. One of them turned to me. “What do you think of war?”

“There’s nothing wrong with war,” I said.

“Oh, yeah? Yeah?”

“Yeah. When you get into a taxi, that’s war. When you buy a loaf of bread, that’s war. When you buy a whore, that’s war. Sometimes I need bread, taxis and whores.”

“Hey, you guys,” said the man, “here’s a guy who
likes
war.”

Another guy came down from the end of the bar. He was dressed like the others. “You like war?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it; it’s a natural extension of our society.”

“How many years you been in?”

“None.”

“Where you from?”

“L.A.”

“Well, I lost my best buddy to a land mine. BAM! And he was gone.”

“But for the grace of God it might have been you.”

“Don’t get funny.”

“I’ve been drinking. Got a light?”

He put the lighter to the end of my cigarette with obvious distaste. Then he went back down to the end of the bar.

We left on the 7:15 at 11:15. We flew through the air. The poetry hustle was winding down. I’d hit Santa Anita on Friday and score a hundred, get back to the novel. The New York Philharmonic was featuring Ives on Sunday. There was a chance. I ordered another drink.

The lights went out. Nobody could sleep, but they all pretended. I didn’t bother. I had a window seat and stared out at the wing and the lights below. Everything was arranged down there in nice straight lines. Ant nests.

We floated into L.A. International. Ann, I love you. I hope my car starts. I hope the sink isn’t plugged up. I’m glad I didn’t fuck a groupie. I’m glad I’m not very good at getting into bed with strange females. I’m glad I’m an idiot. I’m glad I don’t know anything. I’m glad I haven’t been murdered. When I look at my hands and they are still on my wrists, I think to myself, I am lucky.

I climbed out of the plane dragging my father’s overcoat and my stash of poems. Ann came up to me. I saw her face and I thought, shit, I love her. What am I going to do? The best I could do was to act indifferent, then proceed with her to the parking lot. You must never let them know that you care or they will kill you. I leaned over, pecked her on the cheek. “Damned nice of you to come.” “It’s all right,” she said.

We drove out of L.A. International. I’d done my dirty gig. The poetry hustle. I never solicited. They wanted their whore: they had him. “Kid,” I told her, “I sure missed your ass.” “I’m hungry,” said Ann.

We got to the Chicano place at Alvarado and Sunset. We had green chili burritos. It was over. I still had a woman, a woman I cared for. Such magic is not to be taken casually. I looked at her hair and her face as we drove back home. I stole glances at her when I felt she was not looking.

“How’d the reading go?” she asked.

“The reading went all right,” I said.

We drove north up Alvarado. Then to Glendale Boulevard. Everything was good. What I hated was that someday everything would dwindle to zero, the loves, the poems, the gladiolas. Finally we’d be stuffed with dirt like a cheap taco.

Ann pulled into the driveway. We got up, went up the steps,
opened the door and the dog leaped all over us. The moon stood up, the house smelled of lint and roses, the dog leaped upon me. I pulled his ears, punched him in the belly, his eyes opened wide and he grinned.

Louie was sitting in the Red Peacock with a hangover. When the bartender brought him his drink he said, “There’s only one other person I’ve seen in this town who’s as crazy as you are.” “Yeh?” said Louie, “that’s nice. That’s damned nice.” “And she’s here right now,” continued the barkeep. “Yeh?” said Louie. “She’s the one down there in the blue dress with the beautiful body. But nobody will go near her because she’s crazy.” “Yeh?” said Louie.

Louie picked up his drink and walked over and sat on the stool next to the girl. “Hello,” said Louie. “Hello,” she said. Then they sat there side by side for quite a while without saying another word to each other.

Myra (that was her name) suddenly reached behind the bar and came up with a full mix bottle. She raised it over her head and made as if to throw it into the mirror behind the bar. Louie grabbed her arm and said, “No, no, no, no, my dear!” After that the bartender suggested that Myra leave and when she did Louie left with her.

Myra and Louie picked up three fifths of cheap whiskey and got on the bus going to Louie’s place, The Delsey Arms Apartments. Myra took off one of her shoes (high-heeled) and attempted to murder the bus driver. Louie restrained Myra with one arm and clutched the three fifths of whiskey with the other. They got off the bus and walked toward Louie’s place.

They got in the elevator and Myra began pressing the buttons. The elevator went up, it went down, it went up, it stopped, and Myra kept asking, “Where do you live?” And Louie kept repeating, “Fourth floor, apartment number four.”

Myra kept pushing buttons while the elevator went up and down. “Listen,” she finally said, “we’ve been on this thing for years. I’m sorry but I’ve got to piss.” “O.K.,” said Louie, “let’s make a deal. You let me work the buttons and I’ll let you piss.”

“Done,” she said, and she pulled her panties down, squatted and did the deed. As he watched it trickle across the floor Louie punched the “4” button. They arrived. By then Myra had straightened, pulled up her panties, and was ready to exit.

They went inside Louie’s place and began opening bottles. Myra was best at that. They sat facing each other across 10 or 12 feet of space. Louie sat in the chair by the window and Myra sat on the couch. Myra had a fifth and Louie had a fifth and they began.

Fifteen or 20 minutes passed and then Myra noticed some empty bottles on the floor near the couch. She began picking them up, squinting her eyes and throwing the empty bottles at Louie’s head. She missed with all of them. Some of them went out the open window behind Louie’s head; some of them hit the wall and broke; others bounced off the wall, miraculously not breaking. These Myra retrieved and winged at him again. Soon Myra was out of bottles.

Louie got out of his chair and climbed onto the roof outside his window. He walked about gathering up the bottles. When he had an armload he climbed back through the window and brought them to Myra, set them at her feet. Then he sat down, lifted his fifth and continued to drink. The bottles began coming at him again. He had another drink, then another drink, then he remembered no more…

In the morning Myra awakened first, climbed out of bed, put on coffee, and brought Louie a coffee royal. “Come on,” she told him, “I want you to meet my friend Albert. Albert is a very special person.”

Louie drank his coffee royal, then they made love. It was good. Louie had a very large knot over his left eye. He got out of bed and dressed. “O.K.,” he said, “let’s go.”

They took the elevator down, walked to Alvarado Street and caught the bus running north. They rode along quietly for five minutes and then Myra reached up and pulled the cord. They got off, walked half a block, then entered an old brown apartment house. They walked up one flight of stairs, around a bend in the
the hall, and Myra stopped at Room 203. She knocked. Footsteps could be heard and the door opened. “Hello, Albert.” “Hello, Myra.” “Albert, I want you to meet Louie. Louie, this is Albert.” They shook hands.

Albert had four hands. He also had four arms to go with them. The top two arms had sleeves and the bottom two arms hung out of holes cut in the shirt.

“Come on in,” said Albert. In one of his hands Albert held a drink, a scotch and water. In another hand he held a cigarette. In the third hand he held a newspaper. The fourth hand, the one that had shook Louie’s hand, was not occupied with anything. Myra went to the kitchen, got a glass, poured Louie a shot from the bottle in her purse. Then she sat down and began to drink out of the bottle.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“Sometimes you just hit the bottom of terror, you give up, and you still don’t die,” said Louie.

“Albert raped the fat lady,” Myra explained. “You should have seen him with all those arms around her. You were a sight, Albert.”

Albert groaned and looked depressed.

“Albert drank himself out of the circus, raped and drank himself right out of the god-damned circus. Now he’s on relief.”

“Somehow I could never fit into society. I am unfond of humanity. I have no desire to conform, no sense of loyalty, no real purpose.”

Albert walked over to the telephone. He held the telephone in one hand, the Daily Racing Form in the second hand, a cigarette in the third and a drink in the fourth.

“Jack? Yeh. This is Albert. Listen, I want Crunchy Main, two win in the first. Give me Blazing Lord, two across in the fourth. Hammerhead Justice, five win in the seventh. And give me Noble Flake, five win and five place in the ninth.”

Albert hung up. “My body gnaws at me from one side and my spirit gnaws at me from the other.”

“How you doing at the track, Albert?” asked Myra.

“I’m 40 bucks ahead. I got a new play. I figured it out one night when I couldn’t sleep. The whole thing opened up to me like a book. If I get any better they won’t take my action. Of course I could always go to the track and place my bets there, but…”

“But what, Albert?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake…”

“What do you mean, Albert?”

“I MEAN PEOPLE STARE! FOR CHRIST’S SAKE DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?”

“Sorry, Albert.”

“Don’t be sorry. I don’t want your pity!”

“All right. No pity.”

“I oughta slap the shit out of you for being so dumb.”

“I’ll bet you could slap the shit out of me. All those hands.”

“Don’t tempt me,” said Albert.

He finished his drink and walked over and mixed himself another. Then he sat down. Louie hadn’t said anything. He felt that he should say something.

“You oughta get into boxing, Albert. Those two extra hands—you’d be a terror.”

“Don’t be funny, asshole.”

Myra poured Louie another drink. They sat around not talking for a while. Then Albert looked up. He looked at Myra. “You fucking this guy?”

“No, I’m not, Albert. I love you, you know that.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“You know I love you, Albert.” Myra walked over and sat on Albert’s lap. “You’re so touchy. I don’t pity you, Albert, I love you.”

She kissed him.

“I love you, too, baby,” said Albert.

“More than any other woman?”

“More than
all
the other women!”

They kissed again. It was a terribly long kiss. That is, it was a terribly long kiss for Louie who sat there with his drink. He reached up and touched the large knot above his left eye. Then his bowels twisted a bit and he went to the bathroom and had a long slow crap.

When he came out Myra and Albert were standing in the center of the room, kissing. Louie sat down and picked up Myra’s bottle and watched. While the two top arms held Myra in an embrace the bottom two hands lifted Myra’s dress up to her waist and then worked inside her panties. As the panties came down Louie took another drag from the bottle, set it on the floor, got up, walked to the door, and walked out.

Back at the Red Peacock Louie went to his favorite stool and sat down. The barkeep walked up.

“Well, Louie, how did you make out?”

“Make out?”

“With the lady.”

“With the lady?”

“You left together, man. Did you get her?”

“No, not really…

“What went wrong?”

“What went wrong?”

“Yes, what went wrong?”

“Give me a whiskey sour, Billy.”

Billy walked over and fixed the drink. He brought it back to Louie. Neither of them spoke. Billy walked down to the other end of the bar and stood there. Louie lifted his drink and drank half of it. It was a good drink. He lit a cigarette and held it in one hand. He held the drink in the other hand. The sun was coming in through the door from the street. There was no smog outside. It was going to be a nice day. It was going to be a nicer day than yesterday.