The Fan Man (3 page)

“May I halp you?” On a shelf over the head of the grocery lady, man, is a radio, and even through the Commander Schmuck earflaps, man, I hear the insufferable chicken-rhythms of Puerto Rican music. It’s too much, man. I’ll have to get out of here and skip the bottle of piña-colada.

I am going downtown toward Chinatown, man. What a lovely day for a long walk twenty or thirty blocks down to Chinatown. I better take a subway, man.

Going down the subway steps the oh no man dark subway steps down into the subway. Why, man, am I going down into the subway when I could be up in the fresh air? Here comes the Japanese No-play again, man: I’m moving in the slowest possible way, man, like a slow-motion dream, on the landing between the sidewalk above and the subway below, wondering, man, in my own hopelessly compulsive Horse Badorties way, what is the best thing to do with the day? I know of only one solution, man, and that is my fan.

Digging into satchel and withdrawing fan. Turning on the little blades, man, and the warm air is blown against my face and I am alive again, man, in the humming breezes.

Blue-haired old lady going down the steps. She needs a fan, man. Walk down beside her and cool her with gentle air currents.

“What a lovely breeze.”

“Yes, ma’m. Everyone needs a Horse Badorties fan. Take it with you on the subway and never be oppressed. Special buy-of-a-lifetime today, only $1.95. I wish I could sell you this one, but it’s my only sample. Pick one up sometime.”

“I must do that. It’s so cool.”

Going through the turnstile, man, clak-a-cruntcha through the turnstile, and into the dark tunnel. Lunatics everywhere. Happily I am fanning myself and wearing an overcoat so as not to be mistaken for a lunatic. I’m in the subway, man. What, man, am I doing in the subway? Here comes the train, I can feel the wind against my face, the great vacuum fan, pushing the air along ahead of it, rippling my beard. There is the subway driver, man, in his little control room, looking out the window. I salute him with my fan, man, and now I am getting in the subway car and am actually going to Chinatown when I should be going to Van Cortlandt Park to climb through the bushes. I was born up there, man. And soon I will return there to walk in the grass and have dreams, man!

Directly across from me, man, is the subway window. And since it is dark in the tunnel and lighted in the subway car, I can see my Horse Badorties head reflected with hair sticking out in ninety different directions. Weird-looking Horse Badorties. Horse Badorties making demon little ratty face, crawling eyeballs into corners, wrinkling nose up rodentlike, pulling gums back, sticking teeth out, making slow chewing movements. Freaking myself out, man, and several other people in the car.

Fanning myself with plastic breezes, making weird faces, what else, man, is needed? Only one other thing, man, and that is a tremendously deep and resonant Horse Badorties Tibetan lama bass note which he is now going to make:

‘‘Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmnnnnnnnnnn.”

Mothers with their children look at me, man, and then explain to their kiddies that if you don’t learn to blow silent farts in church you will turn out like that awful man. But the kids know, man, they know it is better to freely release the energies.

However, while other passengers are sweltering in the summer heat, Horse Badorties swelters twice as much because he is wearing an overcoat. Subway doors opening see sign says

CANAL STREET

I must get satchel closed this is my Horse Badorties stop.

“HOLD THE DOORS, MAN!” Putting away fan, trying to stand up, trying to get moving in gigantic overcoat, moving toward doors, which are closing on my Horse Badorties beard, entrapping the hairs and forcing me to stand here, man, without moving lest I receive the exquisite pain, man, of tearing out my beard by the roots.

I am going an extra stop, man, with my beard caught in the door, so I can approach Chinatown from ten or fifteen blocks below. To stimulate the appetite, man.

Here is the next stop, man, my beard is released and I am going out of the car and up the steps, man, coming out among the many warehouses below Chinatown. Streets are empty. The workday is over. Horse Badorties is completely alone, man, and in that case, it is time to step into a doorway.

Open satchel take out special Montgomery Ward mail-order glass-enclosed water-filled wire-screened rubber-hosed lung-preserving mother-fucking hookah. And out of my moisture-proof herbalist’s pouch I am removing a generous pinch of Mexican papaya leaf, man, to get my enzymes flowing, sprinkling the leaves into the bowl of the hookah. And then I dig out the World’s Fair award-winning best-design Japanese perpetual match–a small square metal container filled with lighter fluid, in which a slender steel-supported wick of flint and cotton is immersed. By simply pulling out this match of cotton-steel and striking it along the abrasive face of the container, I shall have fire with which to light my health-food pipe.

Scratch …scratch

It doesn’t seem to be working, man. The Japanese perpetual match is temporarily on the blink, man, and I am reverting back to old-style book-matches, and have ignition. I have lift-off, man, I am inhaling the smoke and rising, man, all four burners on in my brain. The big bird is afloat, man.

Yes, man, there is nothing like health-food smoke from herbs grown by Mexican monks in their jungle monasteries. Good for bent mind, scaly elbows, and the purple dorkies.

The big bird is floating toward Chinatown, man, to the mysterious land of tree ears and fried rice. Good wholesome macrobiotic vegetarian food. But first, man, I must buy a HOT DOG from this hot dog wagon on the street.

But first, man, I must buy the hot dog seller’s gigantic umbrella.

“How much you want for the umbrella, man?”

“Umbrella not for sale. You want hot dog, mustard, sauerkraut?”

“I want this umbrella, man, this enormous red white and blue umbrella with the hot dog pictured on the side of it, man, how much do you want for it?”

“Not for sale.”

“Ten bucks, man, cash.”

“It don’t belong to me, it belongs the company.”

“Dig, man, you tell the motherfucking company that the wind blew it down the street and a Puerto Rican kid grabbed it and ran off into a doorway and you couldn’t follow him or his gang would steal your little truck too. What’s a hot dog salesman supposed to do for the company, man, beat off attackers with a rubber hot dog? Come on, man, don’t be a sap.”

Hippie wise guy takin hold of the umbrella, why not let him steal it. He gives me ten bucks, he steals it. Somebody stole the umbrella, just like he said. Right, he stole, yeah. “All right, gimme the ten.”

“You’re a true corporate structure man, man. Help me roll this thing up.”

Rolling up the red white and blue umbrella along the shaft.

“OK, scram outa here.”

“If it rains, man, if it rains.” I’m covered, man, all the way. Walking along, man, carrying an incredible umbrella, man, big as a fucking flag pole. It’s heavy, man. Practically breaking my arm to carry. I’m so happy, man, to have this umbrella with my insignia on it of crossed hot dogs on a bun.

Many fifteen-year-old chicks in a rainstorm can fit under this umbrella with Horse Badorties. An auspicious purchase, man, I’d better check my horoscope.

A journey will turn out more expensive than you bargained for.

Right, man, I bought a fucking ten dollar umbrella, and am carrying it up through the backstreets into Chinatown, man, where all the stoned-out Chinamen are sitting on their doorsteps, man, tripping on ginseng root and salt-plums.

“This is Horse Badorties, man, tape recording a message for the great time capsule to be buried in concrete and dug up tomorrow. I’m in Chinatown, man, and I am receiving brain flashes from previous lifetimes as a Chinaman, man. Used to play Chinese flute, man, a thousand years ago, under a doorstep. Yes, man, I used to be in the court of the Paper Dragon, and speaking of dragging, man, my right arm is scraping along the ground from all the satchel, fan, and heavy umbrella I’m carrying around. It is time, man, to go into this little Chinese store and buy more stuff, man, to make my trip even heavier.”

Chinese toys, man. Little wooden people in a rowboat, a miniature tea-set, a toy drum, buy, buy, buy…

Thank goodness I am out of that little store, man, having bought only fifteen precious valuable worthless objects. And dig, man, here comes a fifteen-year-old Chinese chick, man, with beautiful eyes and long black hair. Man, how I would love to bowl in her pagoda.

“Here, baby, dig this music.” Hand special sheet music to almond-eyed smiling turned-on Chinese chick. “Sing it tonight, baby, at St. Nancy’s Church on the Bowery. As you see we have included the Chinese drum in our ensemble.” Take out toy drum, give to chick. “Here, baby, take this drum, carry it around, bang when you feel like it, and come to St. Nancy’s eight o’clock tonight, the address is on that sheet of music. I’d like to say more, but I must get some other plastic assorted instruments, wander around, fall down, have dinner, and get lost. Come to St. Nancy’s, baby, and we’ll roll the
I Ching
together. See you later, baby, later.”

Here is a little tin sword, man, cheap enough, suitable for a four-star general in the Puerto Rican cavalry, riding a giant roach.

It’s time to get out of Chinatown, man, as I’m in a fit of wild buying. But first I must purchase this pair of black chopsticks, might as well purchase three or four pairs. Walking along, man, drawn to the store-front Buddhist temple of Kwan-yin. Must go inside, man, and get my fortune.

Old Chinese men inside, sitting on folding chairs, reading newspapers, talking, looking at nothing, spaced-out Chinamen, man.

Walk past them to the bowl of fortunes in front of the statue of Kwan-yin, beautiful goddess of good luck. Drop a quarter in the fortune bowl and draw out a little roll of paper, wrapped up in a rubber band. Tiny magic fortune scroll. Unroll it, read:

The umbrella of the Buddha opens out over you as a smile. Good fortune indeed.

Right, man, the umbrella is checking out on all sides. Destiny, man, you can’t fight it. But in order to perform the heroic duty of a Knight of the Hot Dog and carry my enormous umbrella, I must have something to eat immediately, man.

Out of the temple, man, and back into the noisy street, maybe buy a few soybean curds, man, healthful, nutritious square blobular gummy-textured disgusting bean curds, man, make anyone but a Chinaman pass out from eating them.

Wait a second, man, here is a fantastic box of gray hundred-year-old eggs, man. Eat one and die instantly. “Let me have half a dozen, better make it a dozen, of these eggs, please, thank you.” No more room in my satchel, man, I’ll have to carry them in my overcoat.

What else, man, shall I get to eat? A salty Chinese cookie and some black-bean soup, so salty, man, you are thirsty for a week after downing some.

I’d better go up to Forty-second Street, man, and have fifteen steamed-rubber hamburgers.

Here is the perfect restaurant, called the Grand, man, a broken-down little cheap authentic Chinese eating place, man, where only Chinese cats eat. What a wonderful restaurant. Let’s go somewhere else, man, they don’t have a telephone.

“You wan’ eat someting?”

“Give me some fried rice, man.”

Just a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant, man, I can look back into the kitchen where the old Chinese cook is stirring the rice around. It’s hot back there, man, by the stove. “Hey, man, you need a fan. Feel the breezes, man. Straight from the Yellow River. Buy a fan, man, only one dollar and ninety-five cents, make you one with your ancestors.”

Clazy Mellican boy.

“Is this my rice here, man? I’ll take it out myself, save the waitress a tip.”

What a beautiful dish of light fluffy rice, with tiny pieces of mushroom in it and soy sauce, man. This is the only way to eat, man, the Way of Heaven. Rice, man, a chick ate only rice over in New Jersey and she died, man, faded away. I don’t know, man, fuck this rice, I’d better go down the street to the bakeshop and buy instead a huge juicy big stuffed meatbun, man.

“You no like rice?”

“I have just remember an important message waiting for me outside in a telephone booth. Would you put this rice in a container for me? Thank you so much, I must get out of here and don’t forget to buy a fan if your chop suey is too hot you can cool it. So long, man!”

Put container of rice in satchel, man, and go down the street, man, to the little bake shop, and there in the window, man, are the hot fresh-stuffed buns, stuffed with ground-up cooked-up delicious dead cow, turn rotten in my guts fuck my mind up with death anxiety putrification. I can’t do it, man. I am passing up the stuffed meatbun, WHICH REMINDS ME, man! It is time for the Love Chorus rehearsal and chicks will be there, man, and perhaps, man, I will stuff my meat in their buns. LET’S GO!

Back to the subway, man, and down the steps, here comes the train, man, I’ll have to hurry, man, hurry, through the turnstile.