The Fan Man (2 page)

Horse Badorties waking up again, man. Man, what planet am I on? I seem to be contained in some weird primeval hideous grease. Wait a second, man, that is my Horse Badorties pillowcase. I am alive and well in my own Horse Badorties abominable life.

Time to get up, to get up. Get up, man, you’ve got to get up and go out into the day and bring fifteen-year-old chicks into your life.

I’m moving my Horse Badorties feet, man, getting my stuff together, collecting the various precious contents of my pad, man, which I MUST take along with me. I have the Japanese fan in my hand, man, and I am marching forward through my rubbish heap. Cooling myself, man, on a hot summer morning or afternoon, one of the two.

Over to the window, man, which looks far out over the rooftops to a distant tower, where the time is showing four o’clock in the afternoon. Late, man. I’ve got to get out of the pad or I will circle around again in it, uncovering lost treasures of ancient civilizations, and I will get hung-up and stuck here all day.

Here is my satchel, man. Now I must stuff it with essential items for survival on the street: sheet music, fan, alarm clock, tape recorder. The only final and further object which must be packed in my survival satchel is the Commander Schmuck Korean earflap cap in case I happen to hear Puerto Rican music along the way.

There are countless thousands of other things in these rooms, man, I should take along with me, in case of emergency, and since it is summertime, I MUST take my overcoat. I have a powerful intuition it will come in handy.

Many other things, man, would I like to jam in my satchel. All of it, man, I want to take it all with me, and that is why I must, after getting a last drink of water, get out of here.

Roaches scurrying over the gigantic pile of caked and stuck-together greasy dishes in my Horse Badorties sink. The water is not yet cold enough. I’m going to let the water run here, man, for a second, while it gets cold. Don’t let me forget to turn it off.

I’ve got everything I need, man. Everything I could possibly want for a few hours on the street is already irrevocably contained in my satchel. If it gets much heavier, man, I won’t be able to carry it.

“I’m turning on the tape recorder, man, to record the sound of the door closing as I go out of my pad. That long strung-out creaking noise, man, is the wonderful sound of freedom for Horse Badorties. It is the sound of liberation, man, from my compulsion to delay over and over again my departure … wait just a second, man, I forgot to make sure if there’s one last thing I wanted to take.”

Back into pad once more, man, goes the insane one in his folly. Did I forget to do anything, take anything? There is just one thing and that is to change my shoes, man, removing these plastic Japanese shoes which kill my feet, because here, man, is a Chinese gum-rubber canvas shoe for easy Horse Badorties walking. Where is the other one, man? Here it is, man, with some kind of soggy wet beans, man, sprouting inside it. I can’t disturb nature’s harmony, man, I’ll have to wear two different shoes, one yellow plastic Japanese, the other red canvas Chinese, and my walking, man, will be hopelessly unbalanced. I’d better not go out at all, man.

Look, man, you have to go out. Once you go outside, man, you can always buy a fresh pair of Lower-East-Side-Ukrainian cardboard bedroom slippers which fall apart after walking half a block. Of course, man, it’s quite simple when looked at rationally. Let’s go, man, out the door; everything is cool.

Out the door again, man, and down the steps, down the steps, down … one … two … three flights of stairs…

Jesus, man, I forgot my walkie-talkies. I’ve gone down three flights of steps, man. And I am turning around and going back up them again.

I am climbing back up the stairs because, though I am tired and falling-apart, I cannot be without my walkie-talkies, man. Common sense, man, must rule over bodily fatigue.

“It is miraculous, man. I am making a special tape recorded announcement of this miracle, man, so that I will never forget this moment of superb unconscious intuition. Ostensibly, man, I returned for my walkie-talkies, but actually it was my unconscious mind luring me back, man, because I left the door to my pad wide fucking open. Anyone might have stepped in and carried away the valuable precious contents of my pad, man. And so I am back in the scrap-heap, man, the wretched tumbled-down strewn-about fucked-up-everything of my pad, man, and I am seeing a further miracle, man. It is the miracle of the water in the sink, man, which I left running. Man, do you realize that if I had not returned here for my walkie-talkies, I would have flooded the pad, creating tidal waves among my roaches, and also on the roaches who live downstairs with the twenty-six Puerto Rican chickens? A catastrophe has been averted, man. And what is more, now the water is almost cold, man. It just needs to run a few more minutes, man, and I can have my drink of water.”

But first, man, I see that I forgot to take my sweet little moon-lute, man, hanging here inside the stove. The moon-lute, man, the weirdest fucking instrument on earth, man. Looks like a Chinese frying pan, man, and I am the only one in the occidental world who would dare to play it, man, as it sounds like a Chinaman falling down a flight of stairs. Which reminds me, man, I’d better get out of this pad, man, and down the stairs. I’m going, man, I’m on the way, out of the door. I am closing up the pad, man, without further notice.

The street, man, dig the street. I’m free of my pad, man. I’m out here in a summer day walking along carrying satchel and overcoat. Man, why did I bring this overcoat I must take it back to my Horse Badorties pad immediately.

“This is Horse Badorties turning on the tape recorder, man, collecting more valuable sounds. Dig, man, the hum in the background. Horse Badorties is flaked out in the Clear White Grease, man, standing in front of the great Con Edison power transformer. Dig, man, the loud humming dragon, man, listen to it. I wish I could stay and listen to it, man, but I’ve got to recruit fifteen-year-old chicks for the Love Chorus, man, IMMEDIATELY!”

Horse Badorties turning onto Avenue A, man, what a wonderful street. Look at the filth, man, everywhere. It’s my pad, man, Avenue A is merely an extension of my ever-shifting shitpile. Why, man, did I bring this overcoat with me? It must be ninety degrees in the shade of a New York TREE!

“Tree, man … this is Horse Badorties, man, turning on the tape recorder, to announce The Plan, man. It is this, I am remembering a certain tree, man, in Van Cortlandt Park where I grew up as a child. And that, man, THAT is where we are going, man, on a holy pilgrimage to Van Cortlandt Park, where as a little kid, I spaced myself out. Let’s go, man, IMMEDIATELY!”

The thought of this forgotten childhood park is now acting upon my Horse Badorties mind. There are some five hundred other things I must do in the meantime–hustle fans, hustle chicks, hustle music–and all these things are imperative and not to be set aside for a moment. But think of it, man, in spite of all the things you have to do, the trees of Van Cortlandt Park, growing free and green and covered with soot. I must go there at once.

First, however, I must go to Tompkins Square Park, where run-away fifteen-year-old chicks are undoubtedly congregating. First, however, I must fan myself, cool myself with my hand-held battery-driven fan before I drop of heat prostration carrying this motherfucking overcoat. Cool breezes, man, across my brow.

The reason I haven’t gone into Chinese paper fans, man, is because I haven’t been to Chinatown lately, but I must go there TONIGHT. Put it on tape, man, so you don’t forget it. “We’re going to Chinatown for dinner, man. It’s in The Plan. Don’t let me forget it, will you?” The Plan is now formulated on my Horse Badorties tape recorder. Later on, when I have forgotten who I am, I can always turn on the tape recorder and find out that I am Horse Badorties, going to Chinatown. And now man, I must get out of this doorway and walk along the street.

There is a Horse Badorties footstep, man, and there is another one. I am crossing the street successfully, man, but hold everything, STOP! I hear Puerto Rican music, man.

Quickly digging out of the Horse Badorties survival satchel the Commander Schmuck Imperial Red Chinese Army hat, man, I am putting it on my head, and lowering the thick pile-stuffed earflaps over my ears, man, closing off the sound of Puerto Rican gourd players singing

muy bonita

mi corazon

I can still hear faint strains of it, man, but I am walking away fast. The Commander Schmuck hat has saved my eardrums again, man, from an onslaught worse than Ukrainian folk-songs. My Commander Schmuck hat is a winter hat, and though it is summertime, I am wearing it into Tompkins Square Park, and now, man, NOW I see why.

At last, man, I know why I brought this overcoat with me. In order not to draw attention to the unusual presence of the Commander Schmuck Imperial Winter Hat with anti-Puerto-Rican-music earflaps, man, which might attract the eye of a wandering policeman, I am putting on the winter overcoat, man, so that the cop, seeing me in winter hat and overcoat will notice only that my wardrobe is complete. And by the time he realizes something is amiss, man, I will have completely melted out of sight into a small puddle of sweat on the sidewalk. And now, man, I see chicks walking around in Tompkins Square Park.

“Hey, baby, here’s a piece of sheet music for you. Hang onto it all day and bring it with you tonight to St. Nancy’s Church on the Bowery. Sing this music, baby, and be filled with thrill-vibrations.”

“Oh, I can’t read music.”

“This music is waiting for you, baby, just below the surface of your waking mind. By coming to St. Nancy’s Church tonight at eight o’clock you will be taking the rapid upward path to instant musicianship. After rehearsal, Maestro Badorties will give you a private lesson at his Fourth Street Music Academy, above the Puerto Rican grocery store where, with unlimited credit he and his staff have purchased party sandwiches and will be brewing select teas from brightly painted tins in the Academy kitchen. Look at this music all day, baby … I’ll see you tonight… .”

“Can I bring a friend?”

“The Academy opens its arms to all students under the age of sixteen, who are given special scholarships, including her own room. We are presently negotiating with the landlord for the entire top floor of the building. Sing it tonight, baby, and bring your friends.”

I feel like I’m passing out, man. Too much exertion of the precious contents of my energies inside this fifty pound black overcoat. I’ve got to get some food, man, or I will pass out. Get out of this park, man, and go to a grocery store, QUICK, and get a bottle of piña-colada soft drink. As a four-star general in the Puerto Rican Liberation Forces, man, Commander Schmuck is entitled to one bottle a day.

But first I had better stop in the drugstore, man, and buy an astrology book for this month, to find out what’s happening to me, man. Because something must be happening, man.

“What’s happening, man.” Smack fifty cents down on drugstore counter and walk off with my Horse Badorties genuine Aries natal program starbook, for today, let’s see:

A mixed or muddled order

and chaos threatens

Another wonderful average Horse Badorties day, man. I’m mixed, muddled, and don’t know where I’m going. I’d better rewind my tape recorder, man, and find out where I’m going. Because right now I’m standing on a street corner, going nowhere.

Little wheels of tape recorder spinning around. Click
on
button, hear:

“Chinatown for dinner, man. It’s in The Plan.”

“Right, man, I dig.” Horse Badorties is completely oriented now. Chinatown. The only question is: Chinatown in San Francisco or New York City? I could catch a plane to Frisco and be there by morning. Here is a chick, man, another chick who wants to sing.

“Hey, baby, dig this music … tonight … St. Nancy’s on the Bowery
… .
”

The thing, man, that holds me together is my MISSION, man, for chicks and music. Without that, man, I am an empty bottle of piña-colada, which is what I must do immediately, man, enter my local Puerto Rican grocery store and empty a bottle of piña-colada.