The Fan Man (9 page)

All right, man, I am once again walking along in my soaking suit with my squeaking water-shoes, dragging my way across the park, toward NBC. There is a bird, man, hopping along, talking to himself. I will freak him out, man, make birdsong.

“Criiiiiiiccccccckkkkkkk, criiiiicccck, tweeeeeeee,” says the bird, and Horse Badorties says

“Criiiiccccccckkkkkkk, criiiiicccck, tweeeeeeee.”

Bird turn around, look around, spooked, wondering where is that sound coming from, man. Is there some other bird around?

It is only me, Horse Badorties, running through his bird-lifetimes. I must, man, get everyone in the Love Chorus to make flapping motions with their arms. To resurrect the bird memory. That is definite.

Someday, man, I will get myself together, flap my arms, and split the cosmos. Go into nirvana, man, get me some rest on the big white couch of bliss. Not today though, man, today I must go to NBC.

But first, man, I must sit down on this isolated park bench, man, flung up here in the bushes by some thoughtful juvenile delinquent. And even though my brief case is filled with water, fortunately, man, my herbal leaves and twigs are all contained in handy plastic bags recommended by Good Housekeeping, man, and hermetically sealed against the onslaughts of the Puerto Rican frogmen who tried to drown me. I have dry smoke, man, and now that I am in this quiet little spot, let me roll a tremendous joint of banana flakes in licorice paper, and though it is as big as a gorilla’s finger, smoke it all completely entirely down to the last stub-end, which I shall swallow. And then, fortifed by the life-giving brain-fog of banana smoke, I rise.

But before I rise, man, why not roll still another one, to make sure I’m really stoned, because sometimes, man, in my condition, it is hard to tell.

Sprinkle flakes into paper, make cylinders of fingers, roll perfect joint, and light.

I am still sitting, man, not walking. Walk, Horse Badorties, walk in your wet suit. OK, man, I’m going, I’m moving, the big bird is floating down the day. I seem to be coming out of the park, man, as well as out of my mind. What, man, does that sign say …

76th Street

Jesus, man, what am I doing up here, NBC is down in Rockefeller Center. But there ahead of me, man, is the Museum of Natural History. Let’s go look at the stuffed animals.

Go up the steps of the museum and enter the dark building into dark hallway, where a herd of old gray elephants are walking along tall, man, with glass eyeballs.

Look, man, they have a stuffed gorilla family here, standing in a fantastically vivid life-like arrangement of foliage and rocks to simulate an African mountain range. The grass slopes down, and beyond it, curving in incredibly real fashion is a painting of great and further distances, the African plains. A gorilla is standing in his garden of Eden, man, looking down the hillside. Couple little baby gorillas sitting around fucking with some berries and the old lady gorilla is sitting in the doorway with her saggy gorilla tits. And coming up the hill through the far-away jungle trees of this marvelously accurate and beautifully arranged diorama of jungle life is a natural biologist scientist collector, man, with his net, and he is coming to stuff the apes and take them back to his weird house.

Faint smell of decay in the air. Hides must give off a little stink every day. But dig, man, the sound of the great ventilators, making a tremendous hum in the background. Man, I must find the source of that sound. Here’s the office of the curator, man, go directly in. Secretary sitting at a desk, looks up. “Yes, may I help you?”

“Fan Man. Here to repair the fan. Some trouble with the ventilator, we received a call at the main office.”

“Oh, let me see … that would be maintenance. I’ll ring them …
hello
…
this is the curator’s office. There’s a fan repairman up here . There’s some trouble with the ventilator
… .
”

“The pitch is slightly off, baby. We can always tell this sort of thing by the sound it makes.”

“
Very good, thank you.
A guard will be here in a few minutes, sir, to take you.”

“Thanks you so much.”

“I’ve noticed it has been a bit stuffy in here today.”

“Yes, the pitch is probably slightly off in the main blade.” Dig into satchel, bring out tuning fork, strike on kneecap, hold it up to secretary’s ear, give her A440 vibrations per second in her ear canal. “There, baby, that’s the proper pitch.”

“How interesting. You tune it like … a musical instrument?”

“Exactly, there is an amazing correspondence between fans and musical instruments, excluding, of course, the violin.”

“Here is the guard.”

“You called, Miss Winston?”

“Yes, would you take this gentleman to … where exactly do you have to do your work, sir?”

“At the main unit … the big fan, man, it must be in the basement somewhere.”

“Right, I know where you mean. Just follow me, sir.”

Repairman Badorties and the guard walk down the hall, man, and down some steps, and down another hall, and open a door marked

Staff Only

and go down some more steps into the sub-basement of the lonely house of death, man, into the cold stone cellar, man, where the hum is growing louder, man. The great roaring drone of the supreme fan is exciting my eardrums to the visionary state, man. Man, what a sound, open the mind completely out, tremendous vibrating drone:

“BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMMNNNNNN.’’

And there it is ahead of us, man. Enormous, the great Museum Fan, man, with numerous ducts connecting it to the entire building. This is the Chief, man, speaking his great word to the dead:

“BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMMNNNNNN.’’

And now, man, I will answer, putting in a Horse Badorties Dalai Lama bass note:

“BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMMNNNNNN.’’

The guard, man, is scratching his head. “How’s she doin?”

“The pitch seems all right, man. I can’t understand the problem.”

“Seems all right, does it?”

“Operating perfectly, man. But I’ll just check it out on the oscillator.” Removing from my satchel, man, the Doctor Badorties army surplus stethoscope, man. Putting the rubber-tipped prongs in my ears, man, and applying the sensitive listening disc to the heart of the Great Fan. Oh, man, this is fantastic, man. This is the primal voice, man, singing into my stethoscope. I hear a thousand songs in there, man, and a couple of dinosaurs running around talking to each other with bass notes beyond belief, man. They have some dinosaur bones on the fourth floor of this pad, man, and I’m picking up their vibes. And I see by the label this fan was built by the Passaic Fan Company. Looks like I’m going to have to make another trip to New Jersey, man, and purchase one of these fans on long-term credit with a rubber check down.

“The pressure of the sound waves is all right, man. Everything is checking out. The only thing I can suggest, man, is that perhaps some kid threw a hot dog down one of the ducts. “

“You think so?”

“It’s happened before, man. I’ll have to go back to the main office and get my duct-diving suit, man. Without it, the pressure would be too great. You see the suit I’m now wearing? I wrecked it only an hour ago, climbing through the fan duct at the Pan Am Building.”

“It’s dangerous, is it?”

“Right, man, I’ll be back in an hour or so. You might want to take this piece of chalk from my satchel, man, and go through the building, marking each of the vents with an X, so that when I get back, we can go straight to work.”

“Will do.”

And up we go, and up again, and out the side door of the museum goes fan-repairman Badorties.

And now, man, I must proceed directly to NBC. Here comes a bus, man, must run. “HOLD THAT BUS, MAN!”

Difficulty getting enormous umbrella in the door, it is caught in the driver’s wheel.

“Watch that umbrella, will ya mac.”

“I’m sorry, man … sorry. …” In the confusion, drop a few pennies into the coin box and continue on the way, riding for four cents downtown, bus moving jerking forward and I am careening backward to the back of the bus and accidentally strike strap-hanging man behind the knees with my satchel and he falls straight to the floor.

“Sorry, man … terribly sorry … coming through… .”

It’s hot on this bus, man. Time for further fanning. What is this, man, it is not working. The Central Park lake water has disintegrated the points of my fan. And it has also shrunk my suit, man, I can feel it getting tighter every minute. And there is Rockefeller Center, man, stop the bus.

Dingle .. . ding
…
.dingle.

“Excuse me … coming through …”

Bus jerks to a stop, satchel swings forward, strikes same man behind the knees and down he goes again, man, to the floor of the bus. “Sorry, man … excuse me… .”

Leaping off the bus, man, and crossing the street, into the incredibly large lobby of Rockefeller Center, footsteps echoing, echoing. To the Information Booth, man.

“Yes, sir, may I help you?”

“Ace Messenger Service. I have a large umbrella for
The Tonight Show
. My instructions are to deliver it directly to the Director of Programming. It’s for the show tonight.”

“Programming … that would be Mr. Reynolds, fourth floor.”

And so forward goes Horse Badorties, man, to the executive elevator. Press number four button and up we go, man, up, up, up.

Elevator opens onto long silent hallway. Here is a Men’s Room, man, I’d better just step inside and see that my appearance is suitable for this high-level conference, for which I had better brush my tufts of hair.

Through the door, through another door, and into the shining spotless tiled head, man, and there is a mirror and there I am, man, oh no, man.

Hair flying out, beard filled with twigs and stagnant lake weeds, my tie is on sideways and coming out of the sleeve of my jacket which has shrunk up to my elbows. The cuffs of my pants are up to my knees, man, and the entire ensemble is covered with Central Park muck and grime. The effect, man, is one of nightmare proportions. How can I discuss business in this condition? I look like I just fell down the elevator shaft. There is only one solution, man.

Back into the hallway and walk along, man. Arrow on the wall and a sign saying

Therefore, man, before I turn this corner, I must drop to my hands and knees, that’s it, man, and now I crawl along this corridor, toward the desk of that secretary up ahead. She sees me, man, she is getting up, looking astonished, and I am crawling forward, man, dragging my umbrella and satchel.

Crawling along, man, toward her desk. She comes toward me, her face filled with concern. “Are you all right?”

“… fell … down … elevator shaft…”

“Oh my God!”

“Floor above … door opened … accidentally … stepped through … I have an appointment … Mr. Reynolds … could you…”

“I’ll call the doctor… an ambulance
… .
”

“Yes, please … I may be … seriously … herniated big toe … but first, please … I have to see Mr. Reynolds … utmost urgency … my appointment.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Badorties … Maestro Badorties, Resident Director of the Fourth Street Music Academy … fell twenty-five, maybe fifty feet, landed in puddle of water which had collected on top of the elevator … narrow escape… .”

“Mr. Reynolds
…
there is a Mr. Badorties out here
…
he fell down the elevator shaft
…
he has an appointment.”

The immediate sound of scurrying feet, man, and the Director of Programming bursts out of his office, man, toward my prostrate form.

“What happened … good god, Miss Hodgekiss, the man is badly hurt … call the doctor … and then call the superintendent. That damned elevator has been on the blink for a week. Yesterday a delivery man was trapped in there.”

“Yes sir.”

“Mr. Reynolds … in my satchel… .”

“Yes, what is it?”

Director of Programming bending over, filled with concern, man, helping me open my soaking wet satchel, from which I am able to draw a single dry piece of music.