The Most Beautiful Woman in Town (24 page)

THE WHITE BEARD

And Herb would drill a hole in a watermelon and fuck the watermelon and then force Talbot, little Talbot to eat it. We got up at 6:30 a.m. to pick the apples and the pears and it was near the border and the bombing shook the earth as you yanked at the apples and the pears, trying to be a good guy, trying for the ripe ones only, and then climbing down to piss — it was cold in the mornings — and having a bit of hash in the john. What it all meant, nobody knew. We were tired and we didn't care; we were thousands of miles from home in a foreign country and we didn't care. It was as if they had simply dug an ugly hole in the earth and thrown us into it. We only worked for lodging and food and a very small salary and what we could steal. Even the sun didn't act right; it seemed covered with this thin red cellophane and the rays couldn't get through so we were always sick, in the infirmary, where all they knew how to do was feed you these huge cold chickens. The chickens would taste like rubber and you'd sit up in bed eating these rubber chickens, one after the other, the snot running out of your nose and down your face, the big-ass nurses farting at you. It was so bad in there you just had to get well and back into those stupid pear and apple trees.

Most of us had run away from something — women, bills, babies, the inability to cope. We were resting and tired, we were sick and tired, we were done.

“You shouldn't make him eat that watermelon,” I said.

“Go ahead, eat it,” said Herb, “eat it or so help me I'll rip your head off your shoulders!”

Little Talbot would bite into that melon, swallowing seeds and Herb's come, crying silently. Bored men liked to think of things to do to keep from going crazy. Or maybe they went crazy. Little Talbot used to teach Algebra in highschool in the States but something had gone wrong and he'd run off to our slop pit and now he was eating come laced with watermelon juice.

Herb was a big guy, steam-shovel hands, black wire beard, and he was full of farts like those nurses. He carried this huge hunting knife in a leather holder on his side. He didn't need it, he could kill anybody without it.

“Look, Herb,” I said, “why don't you go out there and end this one-quarter of a war? I'm tired of it.”

“I don't want to upset the balances,” said Herb.

Talbot was finished with the watermelon.

“Ah, why don't you check your shorts for shit?” he asked Herb.

Herb answered him: “One more word out of you and you'll be carrying your bunghole in a knapsack.”

We went out on the street and here were all these thin-assed people in shorts, carrying guns and needing shaves. Even some of the women needed shaves. There was the faint smell of shit everywhere, and every now and then, VURUMB — VURUMB!, you'd hear the bombing. It was one hell of a cease-fire agreement. ..

We went underneath a place to a table and ordered some cheap wine. They burned candles in there. Some Arabs sat on the floor, dazed and listless. One had a raven on his shoulder and every now and then he'd lift the palm of his hand. The palm had one or two seeds in it. The raven would peck at them sickly and seemed to have trouble swallowing. Hell of a cease-fire. Hell of a raven.

Then a young girl of 13 or 14, origin unknown, came and sat at our table. Her eyes were a milky blue, if you can imagine a milky blue, and the poor child was hung with nothing but breasts. She was simply a body — arms and head and everything else hung to those breasts. The breasts were more enormous than the world and the world was killing us. Talbot looked at her breasts, Herb looked at her breasts, I looked at her breasts. It was as if we had been visited by the last miracle, and we knew that all the miracles had ended. I reached out and touched one of her breasts. I couldn't help myself. Then I squeezed it. The girl laughed and said in English:

“They make you hot, don't they?”

I laughed. She was dressed in a yellow see-through. Purple bra and panties; green high-heeled shoes, green large earrings. Her face shone as if it had been varnished and her skin was somewhere between pale brown and dark yellow. Who knows? I'm not a painter. She had tits. She had breasts. It was quite a day.

The raven flew around the room once in an untrue circle, landed again on the Arab's shoulder. I sat there thinking about the breasts, and about Herb and Talbot too. About Herb and Talbot: how they never mentioned what had brought them there and how I never mentioned what had brought me there and how we were such terrible failures, fools in hiding, trying not to think or feel, but still not killing ourselves, hanging on. We belonged there. Then a bomb landed in the street and the candle on our table fell out of its holder. Herb picked it up and I kissed the girl, mauling her breasts. I was going crazy.

“You want to fuck me?” she asked.

When she mentioned the price, it was too high. I told her we were just fruit pickers and when that was over we had to go work the mines. The mines weren't a hell of a lot of fun. Last time the mine had been in the mountain. Instead of digging into the ground we brought the mountain down from the sky. The ore was in the mountaintop and the only way to get it out was from the bottom. So we drilled these holes upward in a circle, cut the dynamite, stuck the fuses in and stuck the dynamite in this circle of holes. You laced all the fuses together to one fuse hanging down, lit it and split. You had two and one half minutes to get as far away as possible. Then, after the blast, you came back and shoveled all that shit out of there and repeated the process. You ran up and down this ladder like a monkey. Every now and then they'd just find a hand or a foot and nothing else. The 2 and one half minutes hadn't been enough. Or one of the fuses had been improperly constructed, the flame running right up. The manufacturer had fucked-up but he was too far away to care. It was kind of like jumping in a parachute — if it didn't open, there really wasn't anybody to bitch to.

I went upstairs with the girl. The place had no windows, and again a candle. There was a mat on the floor. We both sat on the mat. She lit the hash pipe and passed it to me. I took a hook and passed it back, looked at those breasts again. She looked almost ridiculous tied to those two things. It was almost a crime. I said, almost. And, after all, there are other things besides breasts. The things that go with them, for instance. Well, I'd never seen anything like that in America. But in America, of course, when there was something like that the rich boys took it and hid it until it spoiled or changed, then they let the rest of us have a run at it.

But there I was bitching about America because they'd run me out. They were always trying to kill me over there, bury me. There was even a poet I'd known, Larsen Castile, he'd written this long poem about me and in the end they find a mound in the snow one morning and they pile back the snow and it's me. “Larsen, you half-ass,” I told him, “that's just wishful thinking.”

Then I was on the breasts, sucking first one, then the other. I felt like a baby. At least I felt like I imagined a baby might feel. I felt like weeping because it was so good. I felt as if I could stay there sucking at those breasts forever. The girl didn't seem to mind. In fact, a tear did come down! It was so good, a tear did come down. A tear of placid joy. Sailing, sailing. My god, what men had to learn! I had always been a leg man, my eyes always fastened to the legs. Women climbing out of cars always goofed me up entirely. I didn't know what to do. Like, my god, there's a woman climbing out of a car! I see her LEGS! WAY UP! All that nylon, trappings, all that shit … WAY UP! Too much! Can't stand it! Mercy! Stamp me down with oxen! — Yes, it was always too much. — now I was sucking breast. O.K.

I got my hands under the breasts, lifted them. Tons of meat. Meat without mouth or eye. MEAT MEAT MEAT. I slammed it into my mouth and flew into heaven.

Then I was on her mouth and working at the purple panties. Then I mounted. Steamships sailed by in the dark. Elephants squirted my back with sweat. Blue flowers shook in the wind. Turpentine burned. Moses belched. A rubber innertube rolled down a green hill. It was over. I hadn't lasted long. Well … hell.

She took a little bowl and washed me off and then I put my clothes on and marched down the stairway. Herb and Talbot waited. The eternal question:

“How was it?”

“Well, much the same as any other.”

“You mean you didn't fuck the breasts?”

“Damn it. I knew I fucked-up somewhere.”

Herb walked on up. Talbot told me, “I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him while he sleeps tonight. With his own knife.”

“Tired of eating watermelon?”

“I never did like watermelon.”

“You going to try her?”

“I might as well.”

“The trees are almost empty. I guess we'll be going to the mines soon.”

“At least Herb won't be there smelling up the shafts with his farts.”

“Oh yes, I forgot. You're going to kill him.”

“Yes, tonight with his own knife. You won't spoil it, will you?”

“It's none of my business. I figured you told me in secrecy.”

“Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it…”

Then Herb came down. The steps shook as he walked. The whole place shook. You couldn't tell the bombing from Herb. Then
he
bombed. You could hear it, FLURRRRRPPP, then you could smell it all over. An Arab who had been sleeping against the wall awakened, swore and ran out into the street.

“I rammed it between her breasts,” said Herb. “Then a
sea
of come under her chin. When she stood up it hung there like a white beard. She needed two towels to mop it up. When they built me, they threw away the mould.”

“When they built you they forgot to flush,” said Talbot.

Herb just grinned at him. “You going to try her, little titmouse?”

“No, I've changed my mind.”

“Chicken, eh? That figures.”

“No, I've got something else on my mind.”

“Probably some guy's cock ”

“Maybe you're right. You've given me an idea.”

“It doesn't take much imagination. Just stick it in your mouth. Do what you want to.”

“That isn't what I had in mind.”

“Yeh? What'd you have in mind? Up your butt, then?”

“You'll find out.”

“I'll find out, eh? What do I care what you do with some guy's cock?”

Then Talbot laughed.

“The little titmouse is crazy. He's been eating too much watermelon.”

“Maybe he has,” I said.

We had a couple of rounds of wine, then got out. It was our day off but our money was gone. Nothing to do but go back, lay on our bunks, wait for sleep. It got cold there at night and there wasn't any heat and they just gave you two thin blankets. You just put all your clothes on top of the blankets — coats, shirts, shorts, towels, everything. Dirty clothes, clean clothes, everything. And when Herb farted you pulled it all over your head. We walked back on in and I felt very sad. There was nothing I could do. The apples didn't care, the pears didn't care. America had tossed us out or we had run away. A shell landed on top of a schoolbus two blocks up. They had been bringing children back from a picnic. As we walked by, there were pieces of children everywhere. The blood was heavy on the road.

“Poor kids,” said Herb, “they'll never get laid.”

Ifigured they had been. We walked on.

A WHITE PUSSY

bar near the train depot, has changed ownership 6 times in a year. it went from a topless joint to a Chinaman to a Mexican to a cripple and back and forth like that, but I knew it best sitting there looking out at the tower clock of the train station through a half-open side door, it's a fair enough bar — there aren't any women there to bother you. just a bunch of cassava-eaters and badminton players and they left me alone. most of the time they sat watching a dull game of some sort on tv. it's better in your room, of course, but we've learned through years of drinking that if you use it all alone inside the 4 walls, then the 4 walls will not only destroy you but help THEM destroy you. no need giving them easy victories. knowing the proper balance of solitude vs. the crowd — that was the trick, the con needed to keep you from the padded walls.

so I am sitting there being dull when this Mexican with the Perpetual Grin sits down beside me.

“I need 3 g's. can you get me 3 g's?”

“the boys say ‘no' — for a while. lot of trouble lately.”

“but I need it.”

“we all need it. buy me a beer.”

the Perpetual Mexican Grin buys me a beer.

a) he's putting me on.

b) he's crazy.

c) he wants to suck pipe.

d) he's a cop.

e) he doesn't know anything.

“I can get you 3 g's, maybe,” I tell him.

“I hope so. lost my partner. he knew how to get through a safe on the thin side, just applying the vise-wedge from a blocked-in setup, just screwed up the pressure until the side buckled. nice, no noise. now he's busted. now I gotta use the sledge, bust off the combo and dynamite the hole. too noisy and old-fashioned. but I need 3 g's to lay up until I can spot a lark.”

he tells me all this very quietly, close in, so nobody can hear. I can hardly hear.

“how long you been a fucking cop?” I ask him.

“you got me wrong. I'm a student. night school. taking advanced trig now.”

“you gotta bust safes to do that?”

“sure. and when I'm done I'm gonna own some safes of my own and a place in Beverly Hills where the riots can't touch me.”

“my friends tell me that the word is Rebellion, not Riot.”

“what kind of friends you got?”

“all kinds, and none. maybe when you get into upper calculus you'll understand better what I mean. I think you got a long way to go.”

“that's why I need the 3 g's.”

“a 3 g loan means 4 g's in 35 days.”

“how do you know I won't skip?”

“nobody ever has, you know what I mean.”

2 more beers come along. we watch the ballgame.

“how long you been a fucking cop?” I ask again.

“I wish you'd stop that. mind me asking YOU something?”

“uhhuhh,” I say.

“I saw you walking along outside one night about 2 weeks ago, around one a.m., your face covered with blood. it was all over your shirt, too. a white shirt. I wanted to help you but you didn't seem to know where you were at. and you scared me: you didn't stagger but it was like you were walking in a dream. then I watched you go into this phone booth and later a cab picked you up.”

“uhhuhh,” I say.

“was that you?”

“I think so.”

“what happened?”

“I was lucky.”

“what?”

“sure. they just touched me up a bit. this is the Roaring Decade of the Assassins. Kennedy. Oswald. Doc King. Che G. Lumumba. sure that I have forgotten several. I was lucky. I wasn't important enough to kill.”

“who did it to you?”

“everybody.”

“everybody?”

“uhhuhh.”

“what do you think of the King-thing?”

“a real chickenshit play, like any assassination from Julius Caesar on down.”

“you think the blacks are right?”

“I don't think that I deserve to die at the hands of a black man, though I think there are some fantasy-sick whites who do, I mean, THEY want to die at the hands of a black. but I think that one of the finest things about the Black Revolution is that they are TRYING; most of us white panty-waists have forgotten how to, including me. what's this got to do with 3 g's?”

“well, I was told you had the ‘inside' and I need bread but I think you're some kind of nut.”

“F.B.I.”

“sir?”

“are you the F.B.I.?”

“are you paranoid?” he asks.

“of course. what sane man is not?”

“you're nuts!” he seems pissed and pushes his stool back and walks out. Teddy, the new owner, comes up with another beer.

“who was that?” he asks.

“some guy shoveling me a bit of shit.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. so I shoveled a little shit back.”

Teddy walks off unimpressed but that's the way bartenders are. I finish the beer, walk outside and go down to that big barn Mexican bar with the all-brass rail. they wanted to kill me in there. I was a bad actor when drunk. it felt good to be white and screwy and easy. she comes up. the barmaid. I remember the face. the band strikes up “Happy Days Are Here Again.” they are giving me the finger. that beats the switchblade.

“I need my keys back.”

she reaches into her apron (she looks good in that apron; women always do; some day I am going to fuck a woman with nothing but an apron on. I mean on HER) and she flips the keys out onto the bar. there they were — car keys, apt. keys, keys to the inside of my skull.

“you said you were coming back last night.”

I look around, 2 or 3 guys were just laying around over the bar. knocked out. the flies circling around over their heads, their wallets gone. it smelled like Mickeys. well, a gringo's got it coming, except for me. but the Mexicans were cool — we stole their land but they just kept playing the brass. and I say:

“I forgot to come back.”

“the drink's on me.”

“o.k., pretend I'm Bob Hope telling Christmas jokes to the soldiers. One Mickey, strong.”

she laughs and goes over to mix the poison. I turn my head to make it easy for her. she sits it in front of me.

“I like you,” she says. “I want to fuck you again. you do good tricks for an old man.”

“thank you. it's that white wig you wear. I'm a freak: I like young women who pretend they are old, old women who pretend they are young. I like garter belts, high heels, thin pink panties, all that ribald trapping.”

“I've got one scene where I dye my pussy white.”

“perfect.”

“drink your poison.”

“oh yes, thank you.”

“you're welcome.”

I drink the Mickey but I fool them, I walk right out and luck it, see a cab sitting right there on Sunset in the sunshine, get in, and by the time he gets me to my place, I am just barely able to pay him, get the door open, close the door and then I am paralyzed. a white pussy. yes she had wanted to fuck me, all right. I make it to the couch and then I am frozen, except for the thought, oh yes, 3 g's, who couldn't use it? interest and final penalty be damned. 35 days. how many men ever had 35 free days in their lives? and then it got dark so I couldn't answer my own question.

uhhuhh.