The Ticket That Exploded (Burroughs, William S.) (13 page)

“I’m trying to fix it so we can both listen at once.”

He was opening a headphone on the bench with a screwdriver the two heads so close John’s fluffy blond hair brushed Bill’s forehead.

“Here hold this phone to your ear. Do you hear anything?”

“Yes static.”

“Good.”

John cupped the other phone to his ear. The two boys sat poised listening out through the dusty window across back yards and ash pits the tinkling metal music of space. Bill felt a prickle in his lips that spread to the groin. He shifted on the wooden stool.

“John what is static exactly?”

“I’ve told you ten times. What’s the use in my talking when you don’t listen?”

“I hear music” . . faint intermittent ‘Smiles.’ Bill moving in time to the music brushed John’s knee . . “Let’s do it shall we?”

“All right”

John put the headphones down on the bench. There was a storage room next to the work shop. Bill opened the door with a key. He was the only one who had this key. smell of musty furniture . . smears of phosphorous paste on the walls . . Bill turned on a lamp a parchment shade with painted roses . . chairs upside down on a desk a leather
sofa cracked and shiny. The boys stripped to their socks and sat down on the sofa.

“You’re pearling.”
spurts of semen across the dusty floor static still in his ears rose shadows on young flesh . .

“John is it true if we were ten light-years away we could see ourselves here ten years from now?”

“Yes it’s true.”

“Well couldn’t we travel in time?”

“It’s more complicated than you think.”

“Well time is getting dressed and undressed eating sleeping not the actions but the
words
. . What we
say
about what we do. Would there be any time if we didn’t say anything?”

“Maybe not. Maybe that would be the first step . . yes if we could learn to listen and not talk.”

Over the hills and far away sunlight through the dusty window a soft blue flame in his eyes as he bent over . . his ears rose shadows on the crystal radio set . . He shifted on the wood the dusty window . . “Come up for a while” he said . . stool semen on the sofa a soft blue flame in “All right” Bill felt a tightening “John what is static exactly?” his eyes as he bent over in his stomach . . it was a room “I’ve told you ten times what his ears rose shadows on with rose wallpaper use of my saying anything, the crystal radio set partitioned off like a stage set when you don’t listen?” .. “I’m trying to fix it so we can both . . Bill saw a work ‘I hear music’ ten years from now listen at once” he was bench tools and radio faint intermittent ‘Smiles’ . . opening travel in time sets from the light John Bill moving in time to the with a screwdriver” hold this turned on . .
the music brushed John’s knee, phone to your ear the words do you door he had painted Bill turned to John smiling hear anything? .. we didn’t say to his ear a number like “Let’s do it shall we?” anything maybe not maybe the two hotel door No. “All right” boys poised listening out through 18 . . “Sit down” John took out a John put down the headphones on the dusty window would cigarette from a box on the bench, be the first step across back yards and ash pits the night table there was storage room next to the yes if you could it was rolled in brown workshop. Bill opened learn the tinkling metal music of space paper . . “What is it?” the door with a key . . “That static gave me a hard-on.” “Marijuana . . ever try it” “No” he was the only one who had like something touched me he lit the cigarette and the key. The smell and he brought his finger up . . passed to Bill “Take it all musty furniture smears in three jerks sitting with their the way down and hold phosphorous paste on the walls arms around each other’s that’s right . .” Bill Bill turned on a lamp parchment shoulders looking down at feet a prickling in his shade with painted roses the stiffening flesh flower smell lips . . the wallpaper chairs upside down on a desk of young hard-ons “Let’s see who can seemed to glow leather sofa cracked and shiny shoot the farthest” then he was laughing the boys stripped to their socks they stood up Bill hit the wall until he doubled “I’m trying to fix it so we can both ten years from now listen at once.” opening travel in time with a screwdriver “Hold this phone to your ear. the words Do you hear anything?” We didn’t say to his ear anything maybe not maybe the two boys poised listening out through the dusty window would be the first step
across back yards and ash pits yes if you could learn the tinkling metal music of space “That static gave me a hard-on like something touched me” he brought his finger up in three jerks sitting with arms around each other’s shoulders looking down at the stiffening flesh flower smell of young hard-ons

“Let’s see who can shoot the farthest.”

They stood up. Bill hit the wall . . the pearly drops . . flaking plaster . .

“you finish me off” . . .

long ago boy image . . speed of light. . ten years . . the pool hall on Market St. . Bill leaned across the table for a shot and John goosed him with a cue he collapsed across the table laughing. They had not seen much of each other in the past ten years. Bill had been away at school and later at an Eastern University. John had become a legendary figure around town who lived by gambling he used a system for dice and horses based on a mathematical theory which accounted for the only constant factor in gambling: winning and losing comes in streaks. So double up when you are winning and fold up when you are losing . . St. Louis summer night outside the pool hall smell of coal gas the moon red they walked through an empty park frogs croaking John lived over a speak-easy by the river.. a loft reached by outside wooden stairs.

“Come up for a while,” he said

“All right.” Bill felt a tightening in his stomach. A room with rose wallpaper had been partitioned off from the loft like a stage set. As John turned on the light Bill saw a work bench tools and radio sets in the loft. On the door
to the bedroom John had painted a number like a hotel door No 18 . .

“Sit down” . . John took a cigarette from a box on the night table. It was rolled in brown paper.

“What is it?”

“Marijuana. Ever try it?”

“No” . . John lit the cigarette and passed it to Bill. “Take it all the way down and hold it. . That’s right. .”

Bill felt a prickling in his lips. The wallpaper seemed to glow. Then he was laughing doubled over on the bed laughing until it hurt his ribs laughing. “My God I’ve pissed in my pants.”

(Recollect in the officers’ club Calcutta Mike and me was high on Ganja laughed till we pissed all over ourselves and the steward said “You bloody hash heads get out of here.”)

He stood up his grey flannel pants stained down the left leg sharp odor of urine in the hot St. Louis night.

“Take them off I can lend you a pair.”

Bill kicked off his moccasins. Hands on his belt he hesitated.

“John I uh . .”

“Well so what?”

“All right.” Bill dropped his pants and shorts.

“Your dick is getting hard ... Sit here.” John patted the bed beside him.

Bill tossed his shirt onto a chair. He stretched his legs out and knocked his feet together.

John tossed his shirt onto the floor by the window. He stood up and dropped his pants. He was wearing red shorts. He pulled his shorts down scraping erection and
dropped the shorts over the lamp testing the heat with his hands. “All right,” he decided his gentle precise fingers on Bill’s shoulder fold sweet ecetera to bed — EE Cummings if my memory serves and what have I my friend to give you? Monkey bones of eddie and bill? John’s shirt in the dawn light? . . dawn sleep . . smell of late morning in the room? Sad old human papers I carry . . empty magic of young nights . . Now listen . . ugh . . the dust the bribe . . (precise finger touching dead old path) . . was a window . . you . . ten-year-old face of laughter . . was a window of laughter shook the valley . . sunlight in his eyes for an instant Johnny’s figure shone to your sudden “do it” .. stain on the sheets . . smell of young nights . .

Clinic outside East St. Louis on stilts over the wide brown river took in a steady stream of distant events — That week they could stay on the nod — time there after a rumble in Dallas — Music runs back to the ‘20s — Ten-year-old keeping watch — cracked pavements — sharp scent of weeds that grow in suburbs — pool hall and vaudeville voices —

So we turn over steady stream of distant events and we flush out traces of a time that meanwhile i had forgotten — wet air thick and dirty on the garage — sharp scent of memory pictures coming in — Looked for him he was gone — I met everybody in deserted cemetery with wooden crosses — There was a mulatto about —

“True? — i can’t feel it — Yes you have his face — healed and half-healed skin — Put it on — Without you i on pavement — perhaps if you had helped me — Good bye then — That silver film took it away from me — Well fade-out” —

Trails my Summer dawn wind in other flesh strung together on scar impressions of young Panama night — Pictures exploded in the kerosene lamp spattered light on naked rectum open shirt flapping in the pissoir — Cock flipped out and up — water from his face — The street blew rain from spurts of his crotch — Young faces melted to musical clock hands and brown ankles —dead nitrous streets — fish smell in doorways —

Look at the wired electric maze of the city — Stop — No good — Wait a bit — the long mat — It was an errand boy from the death trauma — The boy who entered the ‘20s had his own train — Room in the half-light source of second wind spread the difference between life and death — Boneless mummy was death in the last round —

So we turn over what he did not know: Window people and sky pictures fade out at dawn — Hurry up — Hands crowd — In the tremendous flash your brain splintered on empty flesh — bleeding boneless panting death in the last round — the gate from darkened eyes of wine still loaded with physical skin — Put it on? ?
End Of The Line
—

Remember i was fish smell and dead eyes in doorway — errand boy from last stroke of nine — room in the half-light beside you — Great wind voices of Alamout it’s you? — My duty has been remitted muttering: “Not think any more of your harsh thoughts” — But who am i to say
more? — Empty is the third in vacant lot — Duty remitted— Sound of fear and i dance — crumpled cloth bodies empty — ash from falling tracks — open shirt flapping wind from the South — the throat designed to water — I stay near the basin and shadow pools — Invisible man on webs of silver cut tracks — Vapor trails writing the sky of Alamout and back i shall go — indications enough in the harbor — muttering of dry rivers — fish smell and dead eyes in doorways — The sirocco dances to sound of the crowds — harsh at this time of day — vultures in the street — Know the answer? — Around in vacant lot 1910 — weeds growing through broken towers — His face screen went dead — smell of healed and half-healed scars — silver film at the exits — Won’t be much left — Little time so I’ll say: “Good night” — not looking around — talking away — of distant events in green neon — You touched from frayed jacket — improvised shacks — mufflers — small pistols — quick fires from bits of driftwood — Shadow voices muttering in the dog rotation — Acoustic qualities couldn’t reach flesh — between suns desolate underbrush — sharp scent of weeds that grow in old Westerns — battered phonograph talking distant events — Important thing is always courage to pass without stopping —

Naked boy on association line — i stay near right now — be shifted harsh at this time of day — The levanto dances between mutual erections fading in hand — trails my Summer afternoons — Slow fingers in dawn sleep tore the flesh from words — fish smell and dead train whistles — open shirt flapping — wind of morning in the harbor — My number is K9 — I am a Biologic from frayed jacket
sitting out in lawn chairs with the St. Louis suburb — not looking around — talking away — arab drum music in the suburban air — fading khaki pants as we shifted this pubescent flesh murmur of human nights like death in your throat? — breathless — my name — faded through the soccer scores. Tuesday was the last day for signing years .. July 7 St Auberge — (ambiguous sign of an inn) .. stand in for Mr
Who??
My name was called like this before rioters bleed without return . .
We want to hear pay talk dad and we want to hear pay talk now
. . Yes that’s me still there waiting in the empty Tangier street.. sunshine and shadow of Mexico . . a night in Madrid . . You let this happen?? (holding the laser gun in his hands) . . wrecked markets half-buried in sand . . smell of blood and excrement in the Tangier streets . . (“We wont be needing you after Friday returning herewith Title Insurance Policy No. 17497.”) . . You don’t remember me? showing you the papers I carry . . diseased bent over burnt-out inside . . coordinates gangrene . . Hiroshima gangrene . . “Frankly doctor we don’t like to hear the word ‘nova’ here . . bringing you the Voice of American . . This is November 18, 1963 . . This is Independence Day in Morocco . . The Independence is in the harbor of Tangier . . The Independence is an
American
boat . . The
American
Independence is in Morocco . . This is Independence Day in Morocco . . This is
American
Independence Day in Morocco .. This is July 4, 1964 in Morocco .. Brook’s Park . . the old swimming pool kinda run down now.. Mack the Knife over the loudspeaker . . (He has loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword) .. Ghostly looking child burned a hole in the blanket .. brief flight to Gib .. Our business now has no future
. . know human limitations? Captain Clark welcomes you aboard.. Remember show price? — (holding the gun in his hands) . . You don’t remember this sad stranger there on the sea wall wishing you luck from dying lips? And remember the ‘Priest’. . They called him and he stayed . . (boat whistling in the harbor) . . Well that’s about the closest way I know to tell you and papers rustling across city desks . . fresh southerly winds a long time ago . . going through the files like this . . agony to breathe in sad muttering voices . .

“Now how’s this for an angle, B.J.?
a real American
stand . . Everything America ever stood for in any man’s dream America stands for now . . Everything this country could have been and wasn’t it will be now . . Every promise America ever made America will redeem now . .” agony to breathe in the Boy’s Magazine . . as I have told you sad guards remote posts . . came to a street half-buried in sand . . transitory halting place in this mutilated phantom . . smell of strange parks . . shabby quarters of a forgotten city . . his cold distant umbrella to the harbor office . . last intersection there smell of ashes . . tin can flash flare . . wind stirs a lock of hair . . a young man waiting . . hockshop kid like mother used to make . . distant hand lifted sad as his voice . . “quiet now . . I go . .” (flickering silver smile) . .