The Fan Man (7 page)

“Man, you’re kidding me.”

“I wouldn’t kid you, Horse. I’ve watched him make it. I’ve got to split, man, you want another snort before I go?”

“No, man, one is enough to kill me, man, thanks.” Closing the phone booth door, man. How terrible, man. I have been poisoned by a fladdler, man. It’s the kind of thing you come to expect from cats who play the fucking fladdle, man. The sound of the fladdle warps their minds, man. And right now, man, essence of rat’s tail is coursing through my bloodstream and making its way to my brain, man. I can feel it locking in there, man, and forcing me to make hideous rat-faces at passers-by, man, contorting my nose lips cheeks eyeballs, as I phone onward, man, into the night.

“Hello, man … dig, man, I’m talking in code, do you want any carrots … right, man, carrots, I wouldn’t put you on … give you orange visions, man.”

The reason I love this particular phone, man, is because when you close the door, a little fan goes on inside the booth. How wonderful, man. I am feeling very weird nonetheless, man, from all this phoning which is affecting my eustachian tubes producing a state of imbalance, man; the booth seems to be floating through space, off through the night, man, as the Mad Dialer dials, setting up a carrot deal so incredibly detailed and carefully mapped, that nobody, not even me, man, can follow its path… .

“Hello, man … this is Horse Badorties, I’ve got a deal cooking, man … stop shouting, man, I can’t hear you … right, man, now I remember–I already have your bread, that is, man, I had your bread until today, man, when a arrange thing happened, man, which you will find hard to believe … don’t go away, man, I’ll call you back in five

minutes.”

Here comes Jimmy Dancer down the street, man, he’s just the cat I want to see. Plays the four-string banjo, man, and he is always interested in some health-food carrots, free from poisonous spray. “Hey, Dancer, man, how are you doing?”

“Horse, man, I was just going over to your pad to see you, man.”

“Terrific, man, I’m working a deal … ”

“I’m going to Canada, Horse. I need my overcoat back, man. It’s cold up north”

“Your overcoat, man?”

“Yeah, man, you remember, I loaned it to you last fall when you went away to teach music at the little girl’s camp in the mountains. Remember, man, a big black fucking overcoat?”

“Don’t ask about that overcoat, man. Ask me about anything else in the world, man, but don’t ask about that overcoat.”

“What’s wrong, man. What happened to the overcoat?”

“It’s too terrible, man. I can’t tell you.”

“What do you mean, man?”

“I can’t tell you, man. Just take my word for it. Your overcoat died an honorable death, man, but I can’t go into the details, they are too hideous.”

“The overcoat’s gone, man?”

“I know how you feel about your overcoat, man. I feel the same way, and that is why I am sparing you the details, man, of what happened to it.”

“Hey, man, this is too much.”

“Yes, man, it is too much for the mind to bear and therefore I am screening you from a fact you would only have to repress later on. In the meantime, man, here is a little pouch of Panama Red turnip greens, man, which will ease your pain.”

“Thanks, man, but I sure wish I had that overcoat. A cat laid it on me years ago, man, when we were traveling down Route 22.”

“Right, man, and now it’s gone to overcoat heaven. Listen, man, if you practice deep breathing, man, you won’t need an overcoat, you’ll be able to melt snow with your asshole. Look at me, man, I’m not wearing an overcoat and it’s the middle of summer. Say, man, before you go to Canada, come and sing with the Love Chorus. We’re doing a show in a few more days, man, and I need some baritone voices, man, St. Nancy’s Church on the Bowery, eight o’clock tomorrow night.”

“I don’t know, man.”

“Don’t take the loss of your overcoat so hard, man. Today, man, I lost a school bus, a dog, an air-raid siren, a minesweeper, and a subway-braking mechanism. St. Nancy’s, man, tomorrow night.”

“All right, man, I’ll try and fall by.”

“Do that, man, and now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make fifty more phone calls… .

“… hello? … hello, man, Horse Badorties here, man. Man, I’m sorry I didn’t get over to you with the tomato surprise, man, but dig, a very strange thing happened, man. I was walking in Van Cortlandt Park, man, and suddenly I saw this airplane overhead, man, running out of gas. The cat was circling low, man, looking for a place to land. I had to guide him in, man, for a forced landing, man, and it took quite a long time, which is why I’ll be late getting to your pad, man… .”

“… hello, man, listen, man, I’ve been having fantastically precognitive dreams lately, man, I am digging the future every night, and last night I had a definite signal, man, that the flying saucers are about to land. That’s right, man, I wouldn’t kid you, and dig, man, I am getting everyone I know to come up to the roof of my pad, man, to watch the saucers land, as there is a possibility I’ll be carried away, man, into the sky and taken to another planet… .”

It is morning, man, the sun is coming up along First Avenue into the phone booth. I have done it, man. I have spent another entire night in a phone booth, making calls as numerous as the sands of the Ganges. I seem to remember setting up a perfect carrot deal, man, if only I can figure it out. And now, man, to get out of this phone booth, into the Bardo of Rebirth, man. The door is stuck, man. I am trapped in my booth.

Here comes a lone figure down the street, man, coming out of the gray light of morning. It is the saxophone player, man, carrying his ax, on the way home from a gig. I am banging on the door, man, and here he comes, man, to the rescue, kicking open the booth.

“How’s it going, Horse?”

“Help me, man, I’ve been all night in this phone booth, man, I need oxygen and a hot dog for breakfast. I’ve seen the truth, man. I’ve got to buy an armored United States Treasury Department truck. Let’s go, man, up the street, and get a cup of coffee.”

“I’ve got to get some
zzzzzz’s
, Horse. I’ll catch you later.”

“Right, man, take it easy. I’ll see you at rehearsal tonight.”

I have got to get some
zzzzz’s
myself, man. But not back at my pad, man. That four flights of stairs, man, would kill me. And besides, man, I have to visit NBC today and alert them about the Love Concert. So I will go to Central Park, man, and sleep in the grass and then, later on, walk over to NBC. A perfect plan, man.

But first, man, I must go immediately to Barney’s Men’s Shop, man, and buy myself a new suit for my visit to NBC. It is essential, man, when dealing with high-level executives to look the part. "TAXI!"

Zooooooooom

Barney’s Men’s Shop, man, here I am, looking through the suits. I’d better find one that’s marked down, man, as I used my last rubber check on that motherfucking school bus. Here is a beautiful suit, man, for $185. It’s my size, too, man. The only thing that is necessary now, man, is to remove from my satchel my special four-pointed, four-color ball-point pen and select the ink which matches this price tag. Then, man, by simply moving the decimal point over one place, and adding a zero to the end of the figure, I have found a suit that is marked down to

$18.50

“Yes sir, may I help you?”

“I’ll take this suit, man.”

“Yes sir, cash or charge?”

“Cash, man, I only came in for a pair of sock, but I couldn’t resist the cut of this suit. It will fit perfectly, man, and I am going to wear it out of the store.”

“Very good, sir.”

In the dressing room, man, changing out of my old in-shreds Horse Badorties suit and climbing into my in-perfect-condition-marked-down-for-special-sale Barney’s suit.

It looks terrific, man. Just what I need for NBC.

“Yes sir, that will be eighteen dollars and fifty cents, plus tax. Shall I dispose of your old … ah … suit?”

“If you would, man, please. On second thought, man, you’d better not, you’d better put it in an airtight bag, man, and let me take it away for burial.” I cannot let this suit fall into hostile hands, man. It is precious, like my valuable toenails which must be sacrificially burned, man after cutting. Black magic, man, is everywhere. Terrible things might happen to me if this suit fell into the wrong hands. Puerto Rican witch doctors, man, performing weird rites, man, with chickens and my old suit. I can’t have it, man, I already have stabbing pains in my beak, man, just thinking of it.

“Here you are, sir, and thank you for shopping Barney’s.”

“Right, man, stay cool.” And out I go, man into the bright sunlight, man, which is too bright, man, I must put on my special shades, man, completely black except for fifty pin holes in each lens. Makes you feel like you are walking around in a wire cage, man, with the optical field split up into a pin-hole pattern, so you can hardly see where you’re walking, so therefore, man, I’d better take a cab.

“TAXI!”

Cab pull directly over to curbstone screech. Bearded cabby wearing shades.

“Wait’ll I get my umbrella in, man, can you shove it up there in the front seat, thanks man. Central Park, man, anywhere at all.”

Zoooom cab moving out, weaving through traffic stop-lights clang-bang through the gears. Cab-man karate. Feint little tap with the bumper going uptown into the sunlight. Driver looking over his shoulder, cutting smoothly nearly killing man with an armload of packages, knifing along, turning the wheel, moving ahead.

“All you need in this cab, man, is a fan, man, to cool yourself.”

“I’m cool, man.”

“Right, man, and you can be even cooler with this handy-dandy fan, man, nothing like it for soothing vibes.” There is of course one other cooling procedure suitable to this moment and that is to remove from my vest-pocket this large gold-plated ball-point pen, a souvenir of the Empire State Building. The pen, man, is hollow inside, and by opening it and shaking it I dispense into my hand one wrinkled neatly-folded-at-each-end health-food smoke, man, of salty seaweed harvested by Portuguese fisherwomen and dried on stones.

Light up, man, draw deep, give smoking stone seaweed to cabby.

“Thanks, man.”

Fearless cabby, man, go anywhere, smoke anything.

Horse Badorties and spaced-out cabby smoking seaweed, smiles of sunlight wreathing the air. Riding along in the flashing light.

Cabby suddenly stoned in middle of Lexington Avenue so what man go anywhere any conditions. Fly automatic pilot, know city inside-out, stoned, drunk, flaked-out, you-name-it I’ll get you there. Perfect coordination, weaving the traffic, floating the traffic, everybody fuck-all dreaming.

Come up to hotels fountains bubbling in sunlight, turning onto Central Park South there are the trees, man, we are at the park.

“Right here is good, man.”

Zoom over to curbstone.

Pay cabby, give him as tip the rest of the seaweed, man, for use in the rush hour. Give him a rush to beat all other rushes, man.

“Right, man, thanks.”

“Hey, man, do me a favor and hang this public announcement in the back of your cab, man. Look, I’ll stick it right here. Tell the world about the Love Concert, man, two-three days from now.”

And I am stepping out of the cab with umbrella and satchel, man, high uptown. Cab driver take off zzoooooooommmm.

Oh no, man, I have left my precious valuable used rotten old suit in that taxicab, man. I must give chase, man, at once, and retrieve it. On second thought, man, fuck it. That’s how it goes, man, life brings mistakes with it too and my suit is now on the way into the hands of the witch doctors. By tonight I’ll have terminal pains in my elbow and a rash on my balls, man, with weird dreams about turning into a chicken, man. Chicken-man Badorties, man, it’s too horrible to contemplate, it makes my tongue wobble, man, to think of it. So while I am still in good health, man, except for my usual brain tumor, let me turn here, into Central Park, man, into wonderful beautiful Central Park with trees and grass and birds and squirrels. What, man, am I doing here. I should be in Buffalo buying a post office.

Walking along, man, in Central Park, over the grass, dead tired, carrying my tremendously heavy satchel and umbrella. Why, man, did I get born? To do precious valuable Love Music, man, you remember.

Life, man, is so difficult when you are carrying a satchel that stretches your arm out to the ground. I see a chick ahead, man, pushing a baby carriage. Somebody just got born, man, and is getting wheeled around in the sunshine.

“Here, baby, here is a piece of sheet music for you and one for your baby, bring you good luck.”

Chick smiling, baby gooing, that is the life, man, someone to change your diaper and wheel you around. But just wait a while, man, wait about two or three years when they start teaching you how to play the violin. Then, man, you will know pain, in the neck muscles specifically with complications down to the base of the spine, possibly including the feet.

I am going along through Central Park, man, with no phone, no trash pad, no cockroaches, and I feel disoriented, man. I’d better lean against this litter basket, man, and get an energy transfer. Lonely life, man, on the planet Earth. I’d recognize it anywhere, gravity holding me down. Long time ago, man, I used to float around in the sky with a sitar, a celestial musician, man, who has fallen from the heights. The only way to get off the earth, man, is die, and I am definitely dying, man. The all-important question is: Will I be able to take fan satchel and umbrella with me when I go?