What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire (4 page)

I told the guy—he was watering his lawn—

you ever squirt my dog

again and you'll have to deal with me.

he just kept on watering, looking straight ahead,

and he said, I ain't worried, you punks talk about

doing it but you never do it.

he was an old white-haired guy, kind of dumb. I could

feel the dullness radiating off him.

I yanked the hose from his hand, turned him around and

sank a hard right to his gut.

he dropped like a stone and just lay on his

back on the lawn, holding his stomach and breathing

hard.

he looked pitiful.

I picked up the hose and watered him down good,

soaked his clothes, then gave him a good dose

in the face and walked off.

I went down to the store and got a fifth of scotch

and a six-pack.

when I came back he was gone.

I went up to my apartment and told Marie that I

had taken care of the matter with the guy who

squirted our dog.

she asked me, what did you do, kill him?

and I told her, no, I just explained things to him.

and she wanted to know, what did I mean, I

explained things to him?

and I told her, never mind, where are some clean

glasses?

and then the dog came walking in.

Koko.

you gotta know I liked him

plenty.

I never realized then what a good time I was

having

smoking cheap cigars,

in my shorts and undershirt.

proud of my barrel chest

and my biceps

and my youth, my legs,

“baby, look at my legs! ever seen legs like

that?”

prancing up and down in that hotel

room.

I was giving her a show and she just sat

there smoking

cigarettes.

she was nasty, a looker but a nasty

looker.

I knew that she would say something

vicious

but I would laugh at her.

she had seen me make a whole barfull

of men back down one

night.

each night was about the same, I'd put on

my show for her,

I'd tell her what a great brain I had.

“you're so fucking smart, what're you

doing living in a hole like this?”

“I'm just resting up, baby, I haven't

made my move yet…”

“bullshit! you're an asshole!”

“what?”

“you're an asshole!”

“why, you wasted whore, I'll rip you in half!”

then we'd go at it, swearing loudly, throwing

things, breaking things,

the phone ringing from the desk downstairs,

the other roomers banging on the walls

and me laughing, loving it,

picking up the phone, “all right, all right,

I'll keep her quiet…”

putting the phone down, looking at

her, “all right, baby, come on over here!”

“go to hell! you're disgusting!”

and I was, red-faced, cigarette

holes burnt in my undershirt,

4-day beard, yellow teeth, broken toenails,

grinning madly I'd move toward

her, glancing at the pull-down bed, I'd move

toward her saying, “hike your skirt up!

I want to see more leg!”

I was one bad dude.

she stayed 3 years then I moved on to the

next

one.

the first one never lived with another

man again.

I cured her of

that.

I have been hungry many times

but the particular time that I

think of now

was in New York City,

the night was beginning

and I was standing before the

plate glass window of a

restaurant.

and in that window

was a roasted pig,

eyeless,

with an apple in its mouth.

poor damned pig.

poor damned me.

beyond the pig

inside there

were people

sitting at tables

talking, eating, drinking.

I was not one of those people.

I felt a kinship with the pig.

we had been caught in the wrong

place

at the wrong

time.

I imagined myself in the window,

eyeless, roasted, the apple in my

mouth.

that would bring a crowd.

“hey, not much rump on him!”

“his arms are too thin!”

“I can see his ribs!”

I walked away from the window.

I walked to my room.

I still had a room.

as I walked to my room

I began to conjecture:

could I eat some paper?

some newspaper?

roaches?

maybe I could catch a rat?

a raw rat.

peel off the fur,

remove the intestines.

remove the eyes.

forego the head, the tail.

no, I'd die of

some horrible rat disease!

I walked along.

I was so hungry that everything

looked eatable:

people, fireplugs, asphalt,

wristwatches…

my belt, my shirt.

I entered the building and

walked up the stairway to my

room.

I sat in a chair.

I didn't turn on the light.

I sat there and wondered if I

was crazy

because I wasn't doing anything

to help myself.

the hunger stopped then

and I just sat there.

then I heard it:

two people in the next room,

copulating.

I could hear the bedsprings

and the moans.

I got up, walked out of the

room and back into the

street.

but I walked in a different

direction this time,

I walked away from the pig

in the window.

but I thought about the pig

and I decided that I'd die first

rather than eat that

pig.

it began to rain.

I looked up.

I opened my mouth and let in the rain

drops…soup from the sky…

“hey, look at that guy!”

I heard someone say.

stupid sons-of-bitches, I thought,

stupid sons-of-

bitches!

I closed my mouth and kept

walking.

after she died

I met her son in her room

a very small room without sink or toilet

in a flophouse at Beverly and Vermont.

he was thinking what kind of boyfriend are you

to let her die in a place like this?

and I was thinking, what kind of a son are you?

he asked me, do you want any of her things?

no, I said.

well, he said, we'll give them to Goodwill.

he left.

there was a large bloodstain on the bottom

sheet.

the owner of the hotel walked in. she said,

I'll have to change that sheet before I can rent this
   room to

somebody else.

o.k., I said.

I left.

I walked down to the florist

and ordered a heart-shaped arrangement, large,

for the funeral.

just say on the card, I told the lady,

from your lover. no name.

no name?

no name.

cash or credit card?

cash.

I paid and walked out on the

boulevard and

never looked

back.

all theories

like clichés

shot to hell,

all these small faces

looking up

beautiful and believing;

I wish to weep

but sorrow is

stupid.

I wish to believe

but belief is a

graveyard.

we have narrowed it down to

the butcherknife and the

mockingbird.

wish us

luck.

my first wife was from Texas and we came back

to L.A. to live

she came from oil money and I came from

someplace else.

our 2nd day in town

we drove down Vermont Avenue

to get her some art supplies

and as I was tooling my eleven-year-old

Plymouth south

a black man rolled past in a nine-year-old

green Dodge:

“hey, baby,” he hollered out the window,

“what's happening?”

“nothing much happenin',” I hollered

back, “I'm just trying to make

it!”

as we stopped for a signal at

Beverly Blvd.

a black man on the corner saw me

he was standing in a broad-brimmed

Stetson pulled down in front

and wearing white leather boots

and lots of gold:

“Hank, baby, where'd you find the

blonde gash?”

“she's my mark, man,” I replied,

“you know how it is.”

I put it into low and pulled

away.

“listen,” my first wife said

nasally,

“how come you know all these
black

guys?”

“it's easy, baby, I've worked with them

on all the gigs. like it's

natural.”

she didn't answer and when we got

to the art store

she was very upset

about the brushes

the quality of the paper

the paints weren't what she

wanted

and the total selection was

unsatisfactory.

she was very unhappy

about everything.

I stood there and watched her

beautiful ass and her very long

blonde hair

then I walked over to the picture frame

section

picked up an 8-and-one-half by

eleven

stared through the space of

it

and let her

work it

out.

I went for a walk on Hollywood Boulevard.

I looked down and there was a large white dog

walking beside me.

his pace was exactly the same as mine.

we stopped at traffic signals together.

we crossed the side streets together.

a woman smiled at us.

he must have walked 8 blocks with me.

then I went into a grocery store and

when I came out he was gone.

or she was gone.

the wonderful white dog

with a trace of yellow in its fur.

the large blue eyes were gone.

the grinning mouth was gone.

the lolling tongue was gone.

things are so easily lost.

things just can't be kept forever.

I got the blues.

I got the blues.

that dog loved and

trusted me and

I let it walk away.