The Fan Man (12 page)

“OK, baby, I am splitting. Take care of my pads for me and help yourself to any valuable precious objects you find. I’ll see you later.”

It would be better and faster all around, man, if I went down by this fire escape, thus avoiding the landlord. Here I go down the creaking dangerous falling-apart fire escape, past my number two pad, man, where I must first open the window and stop in and get my umbrella and satchel. Where are they, man, buried somewhere, must change my shoes, read a book, eat something, get out of here, man, do not get hung-up. Alright, man, I’m trying to. Who is that at the door? It is the chick, man, coming back in.

“Right, baby, I’m just leaving, there is my satchel on top of tin-can mountain, watch out, baby, tin cans are falling down all around into new artistic patterns, and here is my umbrella in the bathtub, and I am taking off out the window and down the fire escape, so long.”

Going, I am going, creak creak … down … down … down…

There goes the weird guy. Here he is back again, sticking his head in the window.

“Leave this window open, baby, to air the place out. So long … so long … man… .”

Creak… creak

There he goes again, down the fire escape. Weirdest guy I ever saw, looks like he just crawled out of a fishbowl. Well, I’ll stay with him tonight and go to San Francisco tomorrow.

On a nearby rooftop, watcheeng, ees Hawkman heemself, watcheeng all de booldeengs, who come, who go, what cheek ees seeteeng alone een a pad weeth de weendow open. Hawkman moob from hees towereeng perch. Over hees shoulders ees worn an old sheet, hees cloak. He leap from one rooftop to another, and go quietly ober de edge ob de roof an down de fire escape an look en de open weendow, where de cheek ees seeteeng.

“Cha cha cha, baby.”

“Beat it, man.”

“I’m comin’ een, baby,” say Hawkman, an he flap on tru’ de weendow, an land on de floor, an de cheek, she run for de door, but Hawkman, he a fast hombre, he queeker dan Speedy Gonzales, he got de cheek, an he plank her down.

“Lemme alone, man,” says de cheek.

“Take off you clothes, baby,” say Hawkman, “so you don’ get hurt.”

Walking along the street, man, carrying my satchel, what is that music, man, coming out of my satchel. Opening my satchel, man, I perceive that saxophone music is coming out of my WALKIE-TALKIE! The saxophone player, man, is contacting me.

“… crackle … sputter … honk… crackle… .”

“Hello man, hello this is Horse Badorties, man. I read you. Where are you, man? You sound tremendously far away, man.”

“
…
crackle
…
honk… crackle
…
”

“Right, man, I read you. Horse Badorties here, man, where are you?”

“I’m standin in the doorway right alongside you, man.”

“Hey, man, there you are! Terrific, man, these walkie-talkies are tremendously powerful, man, wouldn’t you say?”

“Definitely, man.”

“Dig, man, come to the Love Chorus rehearsal with me.”

“Alright, man, but first let’s smoke a little of this,” says the saxophone.

And he removes from his case a tremendous cigar shaped joint, composed of several papers rolled together and no doubt filled with a mild stimulant, perhaps ground-up sesame seeds and rice flour.

“Allow me, man, to apply the award-winning Japanese match, man …”

Scratch… scratch
…

“Here, man, try my Zippo.”

“Right, man, the good old USA. Terrific, man.”

Smoking down tremendous joint.

“It’s sprinkled and flavored throughout, man,” says the saxophone, “with various chemicals.”

“Absolutely, man, to preserve and promote shelf-life.”

Fantastic dynamite angel-smoke, man, my head is going through the side of the building. Man, I am an old bunch of bricks. I am STONED, man, I am floating through different places up and down the street.

“Let’s play some music, man,” says the saxophone.

“Definitely, man. I have to be at my rehearsal half an hour ago.”

We tune up, man, and we play, playing swift sweet melody.

“Is good for you, baby,” say Hawkman, on top ob de blonde cheek.

“Oh, you lousy spic bastard,” say de cheek, struggleeng a leetle.

“Walk along while we play, man, through the street, man, and over to the church. My eyes, man, are hurting me, wait a second, man, while I get my opalescent birdwing sunglasses out of my satchel. I’m stoned out of my mind, man. Where are we, man, in the A & P?”

“You’re on the street, man,” says the saxophone. “Dig the traffic.”

“Crazy, man, I can hear gongs in there somewhere.”

“Look, man,” says the saxophone, “I don’t want to bring you down, man, but you are standin there with your head turned, man, listenin to the street. It looks weird, man. A cop might wonder what you are listenin to, man.”

“Gongs, man. Listen to them.”

“You are putting me on, man.” Bend over, listenin to the street. “You are right, man. There are gongs in there.”

“Yes, and what is more, man, there is Puerto Rican music coming out of that restaurant. Walk faster, man, before it envelops us.”

“You should try and dig their music, man.”

“Yes, man, I’d like to dig it, six feet under the ground, man, in a hole, and bury it. Here’s St. Nancy’s, man, let’s go in and bolt the door behind us.”

“How you like eet, baby?” ask Hawkman, smileeng as he go out de weendow.

“You stink, man.”

“Take it easy,
muchacha,
” say Hawkman, flyin eento de air.

“Alright, Love Chorus, it is time for some advanced musical technique which will lift us up to the final plateau before our performance. Observe the incredibly weird face I am about to make, rolling my eyeballs up into my head so that only the whites of my eyes are showing. And now I am contorting my lips so that my teeth appear to be fangs munching. Will all of you please make that face, let’s go, roll eyes into head, very good, up, up, and curl lips back … now, dig, man, now you have to form your hands into reptilian flipper-claws on little short arms as if they were growing out of your chest. Right, that’s it. And what do we have, man, we have tyranosaurus-rex, man, bend the thumbs under, man, this is a creature who lived previous to the opposing thumb, that’s it, MAN!’’

I think they all have it, man, twenty-five chicks and a couple of cats, man, making prehistoric reptilian Horse Badorties faces, man, with wiggly fingers. “Feel it coming on, feel the ancient long-buried genes rising up. You used to be dinosaurs, man, and now let’s walk around being dinosaurs and tyranosaurs and let’s SING, man, without the sheet music, sing and make faces, one two three… .”

Listen to them, man, they are beautiful. The only way to make trained musicians out of untrained musicians is to get them to forget, man, all their hang-ups about not being able to do music. Then, man, when they are making a face so incredibly weird that they have forgotten about their musical blocks, their soul will sing as it is singing now, man, right on pitch, perfectly. Walking up and down the aisle of the church, man, a parade of reptiles. When you make these faces, man, it is impossible to think, as they are precognitive faces, man. When you do them your brain gets smaller.

“Very good, Reptile Chorus, that is all for tonight. Our performance is now scheduled for seven o’clock Saturday night in Tompkins Square Park. I have reams of publicity out all over time, and here are some printed sheets announcing the special program. Give one to everyone you know.”

I’ve got to get out of here and make it back to my four pads and ball my one chick, man. I’ve had a long day. Everybody is going down the stairs, saxophone player, trombone player, priest, chicks, the Love Chorus, man, of busted-up strung-out Lower East Side losers, man, and we came by candlelight, man, and we sang.

“That chorus sounds good,” says the saxophone player, as we go out the church door.

“Yes, man, but when the fans arrive, then, man, then you will hear something.”

“It sounds great now, man.”

“I’m gratified to hear that, man, as every musician is filled with uncertainty, and my chief uncertainty, man, is about when my fucking fans will arrive, because without the sound of those fans, man, the pinnacle will not be reached.”

“They really make it, do they, Horse?”

“These fans, man, are little gods, man, and they make the sound, man, in which all other sounds are contained–they make the whirring sound of AUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMNNNNNNNN, man, and I am depending on that sound, man, to make the Love Concert the most incredibly perfect musical event in the history of the earth.”

“Where did you learn music, Horse?”

“When I was two years old, man, I was made to study the violin, man. Did you ever wonder, man, why my head tilts over to one side and my chin touches my shoulder? I’ll tell you why, man, it’s from cradling that motherfucking violin, man, in my neck and holding it with my chin, man, as a child. It ruined my posture for life. I’ll see you tomorrow, man, I’ve got to get home and ball my new chick, man. I’m foaming at the mouth, man, I haven’t been laid in a millennium. So long, man, keep in touch by walkie-talkie.”

“Right, man, take it easy.”

Horse Badorties I am Horse Badorties hurrying off to see my new blonde chick, wonderful fucky-wucky, hurry, man, along the Avenue and around the corner and down the street. It is dark, man, no landlord around. I can go straight up the front steps without fear, man, with my heavy satchel umbrella and exploding balls, man. Blessed relief is at last in sight.

Up the steps to get on top of her and eject the valuable precious contents of my gonads into her snatchel. Here I am, man, going through the door of my number two pad, and pushing aside the wardrobe and going through the hole in the wall to my number three pad, man, and there is my chick, man, there she is! Opening her lovely red mouth to speak love to me, man.

“A dirty lousy Puerto Rican spic piece of scum crawled in your goddam window tonight and raped me.”

“My window?” Panic button on. “What did he steal?”

“He raped me, man, that’s what he did.”

“Listen, baby, this is important. Did he tamper with my tape recorders or other precious objects?”

“You fucking lousy bastard!” Chick is out-of-line, man, throwing an old butter dish at me.

“Stop making a scene, baby. Valuable sheet music may have been stolen.” I must make a quick check of everything, man, of every single content of my pad. Look around, check things out, here is the telephone, man, I must make a phone call immediately, my fans have been delayed too long. Dialing, dialing… .

“I hate this fucking city,” says the chick.

“That’s funny, the phone seems to have gone dead. Did he fuck with my telephone, baby? Is that what the motherfucker did? Wait a second, man, now I see what’s going on, this is one of my spare telephones, it comes completely loose from piles of different refuse. It has never been connected at all. Thank goodness, baby, communications were almost severed.”

“I’ll have to get a VD shot.”

“Not necessary, baby, I’ll tell you why. Has to do with psychic mind-control power. Autosuggestion is enough for the organism. Think to yourself that you’ve already had the VD shot, and your cells will react accordingly.”

“Oh, fuck off, man.”

“Listen, baby, I will tell you the true story of Doctor-Foot-Itch. In fact, I will write it up this very moment for
Argosy
magazine. I had this rash, man, between my toes. Musician’s feet, they call it, from keeping tempo with the toes inside plastic Japanese shoes. Stung like a sonofabitch, man, between every one of my toes. Agonizing awful constant burning tickling motherfucking itch, drive me crazy. I hurried out to the drugstore, baby, and laid down a buck and a half for a tube of Doctor-Foot-Itch, the miracle itch reliever. I could hardly walk any longer, man, but I crawled directly back to my pad and laid the tube down and quickly misplaced it and lost it completely in my action-painting pad. As a consequence, I never applied Doctor-Foot-Itch to my feet. I never even took it out of the box. BUT MY FEET STOPPED ITCHING THAT VERY NIGHT! And they have not itched me since. Doctor-Foot-Itch is here in the pad, baby, buried somewhere, doing his quiet work. Indeed, it was a miracle itch reliever.”

We sit, man, staring at each other. The chick, man, I can read it in her eyes. She doesn’t want to fuck Horse Badorties. She’s had her fucking for the day. The Puerto Rican paratroopers, man, beat me to my chick. She’s putting on her army jacket, man, and picking up her knapsack. “Where are you going, baby?”

“I’m going to the YWCA and take a shower.”

“Lister, baby, you can take a bath here. I’ll scrub your back. The tub is around here someplace … here it is, baby, it’s nearly filled with a thousand old tin cans, let’s clean them out together. Let’s turn over a new leaf, start clean, baby, from the beginning. We’ll take baths and bake bread and hang some oilcloth on the windows, make the place our own little love nest, man, what do you say?”

“So long, man.”

The chick is splitting, man, out through the hole in the wall, man, and gone out of my life, man. Horse Badorties, man, is alone once more.