The Fan Man (11 page)

Here we go, man, working toward the release, man, the crescendo climbing climax, here are a quick few sixty chord changes and some impossibly intricate fingernail-destroying hammering-on techniques and backwater jive and a symphonic swelling out and a Chinese ogdoad and a cartload of beautiful melodies all at once and then, man, as we conclude on exactly the same plane, man, in pure and doubt-free rhythm perfectly together, the crowd shits itself, man, hollering and clapping, and chicks hanging around, flashing eyes.

Saxophone player says, “All right, man.”

Trombone says, “Cool, man.”

Horse Badorties says, “Yes, man, but it will sound even better when we add the sound of a tremendously large museum fan which I am purchasing in Jersey tomorrow.”

“Do you have a group, man?” asks the trombone.

“Man, I’ve got groups all over the country, but especially I have got a group rehearsing tonight at St. Nancy’s Church around the corner, man, and you come there at eight o’clock we will smoke oatmeal in the choir loft and sing some fantastically beautiful wonderments, man.”

“Sounds like a gas, man.”

“It’s done with fans, man. Dig, I have to split now, to take care of the numerous events of my life, man.”

“All right, man,” says the saxophone. “We’ll be in touch, man.”

“Right, man, and here is how. Within my satchel is a pair of walkie-talkies, man, and you take one and I’ll take one, man, and we will remain in constant contact, MAN!”

Saxophone takes walkie-talkies and I walk away and over to the edge of the park and give it a test, man. “Hello, man, can you hear me, man?”

“Yeah, man, you are comin in clear.”

“Alright, man, cool. I’m leaving the park, man
…
and crossing the streeep … crackle … sputter
…
.”

I must get a dozen more walkie-talkies, man, and have musicians situated all over the city, playing simultaneously. I can hear the saxophone, man. He’s blowing some notes into the walkie-talkie.

“Sounds beautiful, man, I can hear it perfectly. We’ve done it, man, at last.”

Crackle … sputter … crackle
…

Fading out, man, it’s starting to fade, but it will come back when the time is right.

“Hey, man, who was that cat playing the weird instrument?”

“Cat named Horse Badorties, man, he came over to my pad one day to borrow a spoon to eat some yogurt.”

“He knows how to play the fucking thing, man, whatever it is.”

“Yes, man, that is true. Wait a second, man, I hear something on his walkie-talkie… .”

“Hello
…
hello
…
crackle
…
sputter
…
this is Horse Badordies … crackle
…
man… crackle… .”

“OK, man, you’re comin in clear… .”

“… crackle … sputter … right, man … I hear you too … something about mongolian idiot … see you … crackle … later … sputter … man …”

Walking along Avenue A, man, with satchel umbrella and here is a little girl playing in the street, man, with her one-armed dolly. The kid needs something, man, to protect her from the music her uncle makes on the gourds. “Here,
muchacha
, have a music box.”

“
Muchas gracias
,” she says, taking the music box, touching the little lace dress of the lady dancer on top of it, man. It’s too bad it doesn’t work, man. She’s giving the figures a little push.

“… plinka… plink… plinka… .”

It’s working, man, the music box is going, there go the dancing figures, man, around and around. And there goes a fantastically sexy blonde chick, man, up Avenue A. QUICK, MAN! After her, going after her, man. The chick is on the road, man, she’s a run-away teen-age blonde chick, man, with a knapsack on her back and soon she will have Horse Badorties on her, too, through the power of my personal magnetism, charm, and the promise of a free pad.

“Here you go, baby, here’s a piece of sheet music for the highway. You want a place to spend the night? It’s getting late, you want a safe place to stay.”

“All right,” she says, looking through me quickly, and seeing the purity of my intentions to screw her.

“It’s just around the corner, right along here, step over the garbage cans. Just a second, baby, I’ll buy a couple of long juicy Puerto Rican submarine sandwiches, such as you have never tasted, filled with sausage, onions, peppers.” Into the store, man.

“May I halp you?”

“Gimme a can of vegetable soup, man, make it two cans.”

“Fiftee cen’
, por favor
.”

“Thanks, man, this is your lucky day. Tomorrow I’ll be bringing in a tremendous museum fan with twenty-five ducts on it and we’ll direct one through your ceiling into this store.”

“Ducks?”

“Right, man, flying south to San Juan. See you later, man. OK, baby, I’ve got dinner, we just have to go up these stairs here…watch out for the first step, it isn’t there … up we go up… .”

Up the four flights of stairs behind the blonde chick, a beautiful chick, man, with a wonderful sweet ass in traveling blue jeans, in old sneakers, ankles, and army jacket, a liberated fifteen-year-old chick, man, who will go anywhere, including bed with Horse Badorties. What is this? There is my landlord on the fourth floor, placing a huge bolt and several boards across my door.

“What’s going on here, man, that’s my pad you’re boarding up.”

“YOU SONNA MA BITCH, I KILL YOU!’’

“Relax, man, what’s the trouble?”

“You not pay the rent for six months, you ruin the apartment, you son bitch!”

He’s red in the face, man, and green in the fingers. Wants some bread, man. “All right, man, don’t blow out your capillaries, I’ll write you a check at once, man, right now.”

“DON’T GIVE ME NO SONNABITCHIN CHECK, YOU BUM!’’

“Don’t wave that hammer in my face, man, you might hit yourself in the head with it. Look, man, I assure you, this check is perfectly good, I just received some money for an article on an abominable footprint from
Argosy
magazine.”

“You get the hell out of my building, dat’s all, Mister, just go.”

A voice calling from the landing below, a lady calling the landlord: “Hello, Mr. Patrutchka, is that you up there?”

“Yeh, it’s me, what’s de matter?”

“My ceiling is caving in with water you better come down here.”

Landlord turning to me before he goes down the steps: “You be out of here in five minutes, take your stuff and go!”

“All right, man, if you’ll be good enough to remove the boards from the door of my pad… .”

“You wrecked the apartment, you sonbitch bastar’, I never get it clean again.”

“A small matter, man, a single girl scout could clean it up in an hour. Give me the hammer, man, I’ll open the door and take my things out immediately, man. You go ahead, man, and attend to the ceiling below.”

“In five minutes, you be out, understand, or I call de cops.”

“I understand completely, man, stand aside, baby, while I …”

Hit the door, man, and knock the partition right out of it. There goes the landlord, man, down the stairs, going out of sight, gone. “All right, baby, come this way, down the hall, quietly.”

And we go down the hall, the chick and I, to Luke the Buddhist’s old pad, which the landlord does not know I have the key to, and open the door and go inside. “Here it is, baby, my number two pad.”

The door swings open, man, to the Buddhist monk’s previous pad, man, which he kept perfectly neat and tidy. I have made only a few small additions of Horse Badorties homey touches.

“Sure is a lot of junk in here.”

“Art materials, baby, serving as camouflage for a secret passageway, which you will see momentarily. Follow me through that pile of trash cans and old rags, step over that mound of dirt and broken dishes crawling with roaches and come over here and help me move this tremendous wardrobe chest stuffed with bottles and rags. That’s it, shove it out from the wall, and what, baby, do you see before you?”

“A hole in the wall.”

“That is correct, baby, a hole in the wall, which I took the precaution of chopping out yesterday. If the landlord should by any chance discover that I am living in this number two pad, it won’t matter, because we will now slip through this secret passage–go ahead, baby, through those broken slats and falling plaster–through this hole in the wall to my Horse Badorties number three pad.”

“Gee, there’s a lot of junk in here too.”

“Yes, baby, and it was not easy to get these piles of sheet music and garbage bags through that little hole in the wall. Now help me swing the wardrobe back in place to cover the hole, baby, that’s it, and now we are safe from the landlord, here in the number three pad, just keep your voice low.”

“Doesn’t anybody else live here?”

“I have the whole floor now, baby.”

And now, man, we can eat our vegetable soup, if we can locate the stove. Feeling around through old cardboard boxes and empty cans, here it is, man. Kick, send flying different piles of crap, getting precious valuable objects out of the way, man, and lighting the stove. “And now, baby, out of my satchel comes a handy can opener, and we can cook the soup right in the cans as there are no pots available that are not already filled with scientific mold experiments. We just sit the cans directly on the flames.”

“The labels are on fire.”

“Yes, baby, it cooks quicker that way. We’ll be eating in no time, canned soup, of no possible value to the human system. Have a seat, baby, anywhere at all. The altitude is completely informal, take off your knapsack and relax, Horse Badorties will watch over it for you, baby. Where are you coming from, baby?”

“I was in Provincetown.”

“Do they have any mail trucks for sale there, do you know?”

The soup, man, is bubbling up, it is hot.

“I have some spoons in my knapsack.”

“Great, baby, this is the life, with soup and spoons and I think I hear the landlord outside in the hall, going nuts.”

Creep quietly over to the door and listen to the sounds in the hallway:

“… sonamabitch … no come back … kill de sonnabitch… .”

And away he goes, man, down the steps, thinking I am gone, man. We are safe. Life is good.

“And now, baby, let us partake of an after-soup smoke, inhaled directly through this specially imported Hindustani coconut-bowl dope-hookah. Of course I never use it for such criminal activity. Instead, I am loading it with tiny nutritious flour-based alphabet noodles, made of ground-up artichokes and spinach … drag deep, baby, let’s get healthy.”

Chick and Horse Badorties smoking alphabets and passing into the alpha-waves, and I see stretching before me my entire life from when I was a little Horse Badorties in Van Cortlandt Park, which reminds me, man, I must go there tomorrow. After I sue the landlord, man. I must call my lawyer this evening, man. A simple suit based on a stuffed-up toilet in the hallway, down which some thoughtless tenant flushed a Turkish bath-mat. Landlord has refused to repair; privation of tenant, violation of sanitation code, A through B.

“This is good smoke, man.”

“Yes, it is manufactured by three little old Italian ladies, based on a time-honored recipe. Let us fill the bowl again and enjoy their family secret.”

And now for a little music from the moon-lute, man, sweet gentle Horse Badorties love songs, man, to put the chick in the mood.

“You play nice.”

What a sweet blonde chick, what beautiful blue eyes, what nice skin, what gorgeous boobs, what wonderful luck we have found each other and I am playing to her, I’d better knock off playing these captivating love songs, man, and begin chopping another hole in the wall, from this pad into number four pad.

“Baby, I am going to insure us against further intrusion, by lifting this ax and driving it …”

Crash

“… into the wall …”

Sending plaster and wall slats and nails and cockroaches flying through the air. It is hard work, man, that is enough for today. “Soon, baby, we will be able to move through the wall to my number four pad.”

“Out of sight, man.”

“Yes, but not entirely, baby, for through this brand new crack I’ve just made in the wall, we can now see next door, to a PERFECTLY CLEAN PAD, how wonderful, we will soon be there.”

“Yes, baby, we are going to be all right, everything is cool and speaking of cool, let us go up to the roof, directly above, and cop a view of the city. Come on, baby, it’s an unforgettable scene, I can’t remember what it looks like I haven’t been up there in so long, LET’S GO!”

And we go out through the hole-in-the-wall, moving the wardrobe, and fight our way across number two pad and out the door. Down the hallway is a staircase to the roof, and we climb the steps and kick open the roof door, and step out, onto the rooftop.

“Dig, baby, the skyline, with swooping seagulls, and over there is the East River, maybe I’ll buy a canoe. And over here, baby, is a piece of artwork, produced by a local primitive. Dig the huge drawing of the big yellow bird.” We cross the roof, and view the painting, of a great winged bird traced on the rooftop and beneath it, written in huge yellow letters, the name

HAWKMAN

“Roof art, baby, worth a fortune. Hawkman, the Puerto Rican kid who wanted to fly.” I’m far-out, man, looking out over the rooftops, like Hawkman himself, and I am flying, man, to the big clock in the distant tower which says EIGHT O’CLOCK?

“I’ve got to get to rehearsal, baby, I’ve got
to–
”

Just stand here, man, and let your vision sweep far up to the great Manhattan buildings, rising up in the dust and soot. Horse Badorties, man, having a taste of good old samadhi, feeling like the Dalai Lama. Once knew a woman who thought samadhi was a town in Ohio. Samadhi, Ohio man, oneness with the contemplated object, whose energies stream forth as subject and object become one in rapture as, in this case, man, I have become one with the clock tower. EIGHT O’CLOCK, man, I’ve got to get the fuck out of this rapturous blissful state of oneness and get my ass in seventh gear, over to the church without further blissfulness of spirit.