The Fan Man (6 page)

A rare find, man, a trained musician to add depth to the Love Chorus in its last week of rehearsal. My lucky day, man, and now, man, NOW? Yes, man, now, with my mind liberated by Peruvian mango skins I race down the stairs and in super-fast lightning flash astral-hero compressed time sequence, I arrive at the Port Authority Building, buy ticket, and stumble onto the bus just as it leaves the station.

I am riding on a bus to New Jersey, man, watch the scenery flop past, guy at a gas station, gone past, kid on a front lawn, gone past, Two Guys From Brooklyn pants factory, gone past, great Jersey swamp spreading out and out.

“
Finkfield.
”

Finkfield, man, that’s my stop.

“Hold everything, man, my umbrella is stuck in the seat, man, don’t close that door, here I come, man… . ”

Charging down the aisle, leaping down the steps, hitting the ground, man, the Knight of the Hot Dog is on his spiritual quest!

The junkyard, man, stands right alongside the highway, beautifying the state with ten thousand old vehicles piled up, and I am entering it slowly, man, humbled in the presence of all this junk. It exceeds my wildest dreams, man, and I am turning down the lane here into an incredible MOUNTAIN OF JUNK! My dream, man … this is last night’s dream, man, coming true to show me I am on the right path buying a school bus. Look, man, look at the incredibly numerous broken piles of old batteries wheels parts iron heaps altars of stashed crap, man. And ahead of me, standing in the middle of it all, is the owner, man, Mr. Thorne. I’d recognize him anywhere, man, because of the spaced-out look in his eyes. A collector, man, of weird objects–a burly guy standing there, man, looking it all over, in an old busted hat and falling apart trousers. He’s the Pope of Junk, man, look at him, looking around with deep religious feelings moving in his heart, man. I have found my guru.

“How’s it going, man?”

“Afternoon.”

“I called about a school bus.”

“Here she is over here, near-perfect condition, just needs a little work on the steering box, the ball-joints, and the brake shoes. She squeaks a little when you brake her.”

“Minor details, man. I can see that it is a road-worthy bus. I have an instinct about such things.”

“Is that so? Well, over here now, is somethin else you might be interested in. It’s an old air-raid siren.”

“Man, I am looking for an air-raid siren for years, man!”

“Got an old minesweeper here alongside it.”

“Right, man, throw it in the bus, I’ll use it to look for lost wristwatches in my pad … help me lift it in, man.”

We’re loading the bus, man, with valuable precious objects. I feel like I’ve come to heaven, man. What is that I see lying there on the ground, all rusted-up with handles and bands, a piece of modern sculpture which I can sell to the Whitney Museum. “What’s this here, man?”

“This is the braking mechanism from an old subway car, an antique you might say.”

“Give me a hand with it, man, load it in.”

Man, this school bus is tremendous, man. I can get so many fantastic objects in it, go anywhere, a floating junk pile, man. “What’s this thing lying here on the ground, man, all these poles and pulleys and springs, man."

“That’s a fabulous piece of machinery, son, belonged to a feller known as the Great Springboard. Just a local boy, got into the big time, toured all over the world. Used to shot hisself a hunnert feet in the air on this thing and come down in a net.”

“What happened to the cat, man?”

“Out at the World’s Fair over in New York a few years ago, he sprung up in the air and came down on his head in the parking lot. After the funeral, his mother came out here and sold it to me.”

“How much do you want for it, man?”

“I don’t figure on sellin it just yet. I kinda like to come out here now and then and look at it and think about that boy, springin off through the air.”

“I know how you feel, man. It is obviously a valuable precious content of your junkyard. Well, how much do I owe you for the rest of the stuff, man?”

“Three hunnert bucks takes it away.”

“Right, man, here’s a check from the Fourth Street Music Academy … hey, is this your dog, man?”

“I wouldn’t pet that dog if I were you, son. He smells pretty bad, you’ll have to throw your clothes away if he rubs up against you.”

“Here, man, come here and give Horse your paw.”

His paw, man, is encrusted with grime and oil and his coat is covered with burrs and grease and he is the perfect watchdog for my pad, man. “How much you want for this dog, man?”

“Ten bucks takes him away.”

“All right, man, here’s a check for three-hundred-ten bucks, man, and now I’ve got to split in my school bus.”

“Here’s the owner’s card, son. Be careful backin out.”

The dog is in the bus, man, and I am behind the wheel, and starting up the motor.

“Come back again, son. I got a lot more stuff here you should look at. Got an old airplane engine here, if you like to fly.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow for it, man. Don’t sell the airplane engine to anyone else. I can use it to fan my studio.”

The old school bus is moving, man, listen to that engine purring. It handles like a tank, man, I can hardly steer it, what an advantage. Turning it around, man, in the junkyard practically tears my arms out of the sockets. I should have remembered to get a driver’s license, man, but there is plenty of time for such things later because now, man, NOW, I am off and away, onto the highway and heading back toward New York City, with a school bus at last, man, piled with precious objects and a dog.

Fenders rattling, windshield broken, hole in the floorboards, wind rushing up through–my cool school bus, man. Maestro Badorties is wheeling along at last, man, forty miles an hour in his own valuable vehicle. The things I can do with this bus, man, the incredible adventures and fifteen-year-old chicks I can get in here, man. But the first thing I must do is slow down, man, there is a sharp curve up ahead… .

… slowing down, brakes working all right, but the wheels, man, do not seem to be turning in the direction I must go in. There is a little dirt road, man, head for it directly, go down here bumping off the highway and down this narrow steep dirt road, fighting with the steering wheel which turns, man, but nothing happens and I cannot stay on the little dirt road either, man, I am careening along with the brake pedal all the way to the floor and it is not working, man, there are no brakes, I’d better shift it down, man, double clutch down into low gear, there is no more low, man, the clutch is gone watch out, man, the bus is going off the dirt road and over this bank, man, and down, man, my life is rushing past me, man, there is Van Cortlandt Park before my eyes, man, and I am bouncing down this bank of rocks and dirt and going down into New Jersey swamp grass, man, down into a foot of water and mud and coming to a stop, man, in a swamp of tall weeds, with my wonderful school bus, and my dog is looking at me.

“That’s it, man. We’ve had it.”

We are mired in fetid grassland with pussy willows coming up past the windows. I’d better get out before the fucking thing sinks completely under, man, and the state police come and discover I have no license to drive my school bus. How awful, man, to leave behind my school bus with air-raid siren, minesweeper, and subway-braking mechanism, man.

Can’t get the fucking door open, man, so it is out the window with my satchel and umbrella, man, and dropping down into the swamp. Now to get my dog out. “Come on, man, crawl out of there.” Water, man, and muck, and there, man, coming over the hill is a police car. No time to get my dog out, man. The police will have to remove him. I’ve got to get the hell out of here, man, through these tall pussy willows, man, and continue off through the swampland, which feels exactly like the floor of my apartment, man, about a foot of water and mud. I can go through it easily, man, with trained footsteps, they’ll never catch old Horse.

Keeping my umbrella low, man, I proceed through the swamp grass and there are the state troopers, man, swarming over the school bus and scratching their heads, man, looking at my dog behind the steering wheel.

I am out one school bus, man, but it will be returned to the owner of the junkyard, along with the rubber check I gave him, and now, man, I am slipping far away from the scene of my wonderful yellow school bus. Through this grove of trees, man, I can watch as they bring down a tow truck, man, and haul out the old bus. It’s sad in a way, man. But I realize now, man, that instead I should buy a used mail truck.

Back in New York City again, man, coming up out of the subway into the Lower East Side with swamp mud in my shoes and pussy willows up my pants leg. It is nighttime in the city, man. Another typical Horse Badorties day has gone by, man. I had to walk ten miles through a swamp, I missed my Love Chorus rehearsal, and I have got to make a hundred phone calls immediately. Here is my favorite phone booth, man, on First Avenue, and here is my special mercurized dime, man, which allows me to call again and again, without paying anything.

“Hello, man … there’s a shipment of organic carrots on the way, man, are you interested in a few bunches… .”

“Hello, man, will you get out your
I Ching
, man, and look up this hexagram I just threw, number fifty-one, nine in the fourth place, what is it …
shock is mired
? Right, man, I’m hip, I lost my school bus in a swamp… .”

“Hello, baby, this is Horse Badorties … sing this note for me will you, baby, I need to have my tympanic cavity blown out: Boooooooooooooooooooop”

The night is going by, man, passing on starless and deep, with millions of people going around here and there, and the Fearless Phoner is calling every one of them.

“Hello, Mother, this is Horse. Did I, by any chance, on my last visit leave a small container of Vitamin C tablets, little white tablets in an unmarked bottle … yes, I did? Good, I’ll be up to get them soon, man, but don’t under any conditions take one of them.”

“Hello, man … is this Dial-A-Chicken? … tell me something, man, do you deliver to phone booths?”

“Hello, man, Horse Badorties here … listen, man, I’m sorry I didn’t get over to your pad with the Swiss chard, man, but I was unavoidably derailed for three days, man. I was walking along, man, and I saw these kids, man, in the street, playing with a
dead rat
, man. I had to go back to my pad to get a shovel and bury it, man. You understand, man, kids must not be imprinted with such things. Look, man, I’ll be over soon, I’ll be there at … hold on a second, man, just a second… .”

Coming directly down First Avenue toward this telephone booth, man, is Sundog the fiddler. I don’t want to see the cat, man. It’s not that I don’t dig him, man, but I cannot stand the sight or sound of a violin, man, it makes the most horrible noises on the face of the earth, man, combining a cat’s gut and a horse’s tail to produce fiendish screeching, so I must therefore utilize the famous Aleister Crowley black magician make-myself-invisible-to-all-others-technique, man, whereby I can walk right through an Arabian marketplace, man, and not be seen by a single person. It is all in the willpower, man, and I am now crunching myself up in the phone booth and at the same time forming a psychic screen around myself so that as Sundog the fiddler walks by, man, I will be rendered completely invisible to his gaze.

“Hey, Horse, man, what are you doing curled up in the phone booth, man?”

“I’m making a thousand phone calls, man, and am passing out in the process.”

“You’re in luck, man, I happen to have a bit of brandy in my fiddle case.”

“DON’T OPEN THAT FIDDLE CASE, MAN, UNTIL I HAVE CLOSED MY EYES! Alright, man, go ahead, my eyes are shut.”

“Here you go, Horse, in this flask.”

“Thanks, man. I need something to set my cells on fire and numb my brain … good stuff, man, lot of bite in it, where did you get it?”

“I know this old guy, man, lives out in the New Jersey woods, man. He makes the stuff himself. Puts all kinds of things into it, man. Puts a piece of rat’s tail in it, man, it’s just the very tip of a female rat’s tail.”