The Most Beautiful Woman in Town (9 page)

TWELVE FLYING MONKEYS WHO WON'T COPULATE PROPERLY

The bell rings and I open the side window by the door. It is night. “Who is it?” I ask.

Somebody walks up to the window but I can't see the face. I have two lights over the typewriter. I slam the window but there is talking out there. I sit down to the typewriter but there is still talking out there. I leap up and rip open the door and scream:

“I TOLD YOU COCKSUCKERS NOT TO BOTHER ME!”

I look around and there is one guy standing on the bottom of the steps and another guy standing on the porch, pissing. He is pissing into a bush to the left of the porch, standing on the edge of the porch, his piss arcing in a heavy swath, upward and then down into the bush.

“Hey, this guy is pissing into my bush,” I say.

The guy laughs and keeps pissing. I grab him by the pants, pick him up and throw him, still pissing, over the top of the bush and into the night. He doesn't return. The other guy says, “What did you do that for?”

“I felt like it.”

“You're drunk.”

“Drunk?” I ask.

He walks around the corner and is gone. I close the door and sit down to the typer again. All right, I have this mad scientist, he's taught monkeys to fly, he's got eleven monkeys with these wings. The monkeys are very good. The scientist has even taught them to race. Race around these pylons, yes. Now let's see. Gotta make it good. To get rid of a story you gotta have fucking, lots of it, if possible. Better make it twelve monkeys, six male and six of the other kind. All right now. Here they go. The race is on. There they go around the first pylon. How am I going to get them to fucking? I haven't sold a story in two months. I should have stayed in the goddamned post office. All right. There they go. Around the first pylon. Maybe they just fly off. Suddenly. How about that? They fly to Washington, D.C. and hang around the Capitol dropping turds on the public, pissing on them, smearing their turds across the White House. Can I have one drop a turd on the President? No, that's asking too much. Okay, make it a turd on the Secretary of State. Orders are given to shoot them out of the sky. That's tragic, isn't it? But what about the fucking? All right. All right. Work it in. Let's see. Okay, ten of them are shot out of the sky, poor little things. There are only two others. A male and one other kind. They can't seem to be found. Then a cop is walking though the park one night, and there they are, the last two of them, wings strapped on, fucking like the devil. The cop walks up. The male hears, turns his head, looks up, gives a silly little monkey-grin, never missing a stroke, then turns his head and goes back to banging. The cop blows his head off. The monkey's head, that is. The female flips the male off in disgust and stands up. For a monkey, she is a pretty little thing. For a moment the cop thinks of, thinks of — But no, it would be too tight, maybe, and she might bite, maybe. While he's thinking this, she turns and begins to fly off. The cop aims as she rises, hits her with a bullet, she falls. He runs up. She is wounded but not dead. The cop looks around, lifts her up, takes it out, tries to work it in. No good. Just room for the head. Shit. He drops her to the ground, puts the gun to her brain and B A M! it's over.

The bell rings again.

I open the door.

Three guys walk in. Always these guys. A woman never pisses on my porch, a woman hardly ever comes by. How am I going to get any sex ideas? I have almost forgotten how to do it. But they say it's like riding a bicycle, you never forget. It's better than riding a bicycle.

It's Crazy Jack and two guys I don't know.

“Look, Jack,” I say, “I thought I was rid of you.”

Jack just sits down. The other two guys sit down. Jack has promised me never to come by again but he is on the wine most of the time, so promises don't mean much. He lives with his mother and pretends to be a painter. I know four or five guys living with or supported by their mother, and the guys pretend to genius. And all the mothers are alike: “Oh, Nelson has never had any work accepted. He's too far ahead of his time.” But say Nelson is a painter and gets something hung: “Oh, Nelson has a painting hanging at the Warner-Finch Galleries this week. His genius is being recognized at last! He's asking $4,000 for the work. Do you think that's too much?” Nelson, Jack, Biddy, Norman, Jimmy and Ketya. Fuck.

Jack has on blue jeans, is barefooted, no shirt, undershirt, just a brown shawl thrown over him. One guy has a beard and grins and blushes continually. The other guy is just fat. Some kind of leech.

“Have you seen Borst lately?” Jack asks.

“No.”

“Let me have one of your beers.”

“No. You guys come around, drink all my shit, split and leave me on a dry shore.”

“All right.”

He leaps up, runs out and gets his wine bottle which he has hidden under the cushion on the porch chair. He comes back, takes off the lid, takes a suck.

“I was down at Venice with this chick and one hundred rainbows. I thought I spotted the heat and I ran up to Borst's place with this chick and the hundred rainbows. I knocked on the door and told him, ‘Quick, let me in! I've got one hundred rainbows and the heat is right behind me!' Borst closed the door. I kicked it in and ran in with the chick. Borst was on the floor, jacking off some guy. I ran into the bathroom with the chick and locked the door. Borst knocked. I said, ‘Don't you dare come in here!' I stayed in there with the chick for about an hour. We knocked off two pieces of ass to amuse ourselves. Then we came out.”

“Did you dump the rainbows?”

“Hell no, it was a false alarm. But Borst was very angry.”

“Shit,” I say, “Borst hasn't written a decent poem since 1955. His mother supports him. Pardon me. But I mean, all he does is look at TV, eat these delicate little celeries and greens and jog along the beach in his dirty underwear. He used to be a fine poet when he was living with those young boys in Arabia. But I can't sympathize. A winner goes wire to wire. It's like Huxley said, Aldous, that is, ‘Any man can be a …' ”

“How you doing?” Jack asks.

“Nothing but rejects,” I say.

The one guy begins playing his flute. The leech just sits there. Jack lifts his wine bottle. It is a beautiful night in Hollywood, California. Then the guy who lives in the court behind me falls out of bed, drunk. It makes quite a sound. I'm used to it. I'm used to the whole court. All of them sit in their places, shades drawn. They get up at noon. Their cars sit out front dust-covered, tires going down, batteries weakening. They mix drink with dope and have no visible means of support. I like them. They don't bother me.

The guy gets into bed again, falls out.

“You silly damn fool,” you hear him say, “get back into that bed.”

“What's all that noise?” Jack asks.

“Guy behind me. He's very lonely. Drinks a beer now and then. His mother died last year and left him twenty grand. He sits around and masturbates and looks at baseball games and cowboy shootums on TV. Used to be a gas station attendant.”

“We've got to split.” says Jack, “want to come with us?”

“No,” I say.

They explain that it is something to do with the House of Seven Gables. They are going to see somebody who had something to do with the House of Seven Gables. It isn't the writer, the producer, the actors, it is somebody else.

“Well, no,” I say, and they all run out. It is a beautiful sight.

Then I sit down to the monkeys again. Maybe I can juggle those monkeys up. If I can get all twelve of them fucking at once! That's it! But how? And why? Check the Royal Ballet of London. But why? I'm going crazy. Okay, the Royal Ballet of London has this idea. Twelve monkeys flying while they ballet. Only before the performance somebody gives them all the Spanish Fly. Not the ballet. The monkeys. But the Spanish Fly is a myth, isn't it? Okay, enter another mad scientist with a real Spanish Fly! No, no, oh my God, I just can't get it right!

The phone rings. I pick it up. It's Borst:

“Hello, Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“I have to keep it short. I'm broke.”

“Yes, Jerry.”

“Well, I lost my two sponsors. The stock market and the tight dollar.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, I always knew it was going to happen. So I'm getting out of Venice. I can't make it here. I'm going to New York City.”

“What?”

“New York City.”

“I thought that's what you said.”

“Well, I'm broke you see, and I think I can really make it there.”

“Sure, Jerry.”

“Losing my sponsors is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Really?”

“Now I feel like fighting again. You've heard about people rotting along the beach. Well, that's what I've been doing down here: rotting. I've got to get out of here. And I'm not worried. Except for the trunks.”

“What trunks?”

“I can't seem to get them packed. So my mother's coming back from Arizona to live here while I'm gone, and eventually I'll be back here.”

“All right, Jerry.”

“But before I go to New York I'm going to stop off at Switzerland and perhaps Greece. Then I'm coming back to New York.”

“All right, Jerry, keep in touch. Always good to hear.”

Then I am back to the monkeys again. Twelve monkeys who can fly, fucking. How can it be done? Twelve bottles of beer are gone. I find my reserve half-pint of scotch in the refrigerator. I mix one-third glass scotch with two-thirds water. I should have stayed in the goddamned post office. But even here, like this, you have a minor chance. Just get those twelve monkeys fucking. If you'd been born a camel boy in Arabia you wouldn't even have this chance. So get your back up and get those monkeys at it. You've been blessed with a minor talent and you're not in India where probably two dozen boys could write you under if they knew how to write. Well, maybe not two dozen, maybe just a round dozen.

I finish the half-pint, drink half a bottle of wine, go to bed, forget it.

The next morning at nine a.m. the doorbell rings. There is a young black girl standing there with a stupid-looking white guy in rimless glasses. They tell me that I have made a promise to go boating with them at a party three nights ago. I get dressed, get into the car with them. They drive to an apartment and a black-haired kid walks out. “Hello, Hank,” he says. I don't know him. It appears I met him at the party. He passes out little orange life-belts. Next I know we're down at the pier. I can't tell the pier from the water. They help me down a swinging wooden contraption that leads to a floating dock. The bottom of the contraption and the dock are about three feet apart. They help me down.

“What the fuck is this?” I ask. “Does anybody have a drink?” I am with the wrong people. Nobody has a drink. Then I am in a small rowboat, rented, and somebody has attached a half-horse-power motor. The bottom of the boat is filled with water and two dead fish. I don't know who the people are. They know me. Fine, fine. We head out to sea. I vomit. We pass a suckerfish floating near the top of the water. A suckerfish, I think, a suckerfish wrapped around a flying monkey. No, that's terrible. I vomit again.

“How's the great writer?” asks the stupid-looking guy in the prow of the boat, the guy with the rimless glasses.

“What great writer?” I ask, thinking he is talking about Rimbaud, although I never thought Rimbaud a great writer.

“You,” he says.

“Me?” I say, “Oh, fine. Think I'm going to Greece next year.”

“Grease?” he says. “You mean up your ass?”

“No,” I answer, “up yours.”

We head out to sea where Conrad made it. To hell with Conrad. I'll take coke with bourbon in a dark bedroom in Hollywood in 1970, or whatever year you read this. The year of the monkey-orgy that never happened. The motor flits and gnashes at the sea; we plunge on toward Ireland. No, it's the Pacific. We plunge on toward Japan. To hell with it.

25 BUMS IN RAGS

you know how it is with horseplayers. you hit it hot and you think it's all over. I had this place in back, even had my own garden, planted all kinds of tulips, which grew, beautifully and amazingly. I had the green hand. I had the green money. what system I had devised I can no longer remember, but it was working and I wasn't and that's a pleasant enough way to live. and there was Kathy. Kathy had it. the old guy next door would actually slobber at the mouth when he saw her. he was always knocking at the door. “Kathy! oooh, Kathy! Kathy!”

I'd answer the door, just dressed in my shorts.

“ooooh, I thought . . .”

“what do you want, mother?”

“I thought Kathy …”

“Kathy's taking a shit. any message?”

“I. .. bought these bones for your dog.”

he had a big bag of dry chicken bones.

“feeding a dog chicken bones is like putting broken razorblades in a child's cereal. you trying to kill my dog, fucker?”

“oh, no!”

“then jam the bones and split.”

“I don't understand.”

“stick that bag of chickenbones up your ass and get the hell out of here!”

“I just thought Kathy .. .”

“I
told
you, Kathy's taking a SHIT!”

I slammed the back door on him.

“you shouldn't be so hard on the old fart, Hank, he says I remind him of his daughter when she was young.”

“all right, so he made it with his daughter. let him screw swiss cheese. I don't want him at the door.”

“I suppose you think I let him in after you go to the track?”

“I don't even wonder about that.”

“what do you wonder about?”

“all I wonder is which one of you rides topside.”

“you son of a bitch, you can leave now!”

I was getting on my shirt and pants, then socks and shoes.

“I won't be 4 blocks away before you're locked in embrace.”

she threw a book at me. I wasn't looking and the edge of the book hit me over the right eye. a cut started and a spot of blood hit my hand as I tied my right shoe.

“I'm sorry, Hank.”

“don't get NEAR me!”

I went out and got into the car, backed out the drive at 35 miles an hour, taking part of the hedge with me, then some of the stucco from the front house with my left rear fender. there was blood on my shirt then and I took out my handkerchief and held it over the eye. it was going to be a bad Saturday at the track. I was mad.

I bet like the atomic bomb was on the way. I wanted to make ten grand. I bet longshots. I didn't cash a ticket. I lost $500. all I had taken out. I just had a dollar in my wallet. I drove in slowly. it was going to be a terrible Saturday night. I parked the car and went in the back door.

“Hank …”

“what?”

“you look like death. what happened?”

“I blew it. I blew the roll. 500.”

“jesus. I'm sorry,” she said, “it's my fault.” she came up to me, put her arms around me. “god damn, I'm sorry, daddy. it was my fault, I know it.”

“forget it. you didn't make the bets.”

“are you still mad?”

“no, no, I know you're not fucking that old turkey.”

“can I make you something to eat?”

“no, no, just get us a fifth of whiskey and the paper.”

I got up and went to the hidden money cache. we were down to $180. well, it had been worse, many times, but I felt that I was on my way back to the factories and the warehouses,
if
I could get that. I came out with a ten. the dog still liked me. I pulled his ears. he didn't care how much money I had or how little. a real ace dog. yeah. I walked out of the bedroom. Kathy was putting on lipstick in front of the mirror. I pinched her on the ass and kissed her behind the ear.

“get me some beer and cigars too. I need to forget.”

she left and I listened to her heels clicking on the drive. she was as good a woman as I had found and I had found her in a bar. I leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. a bum. I was a bum. always this distaste for work, always trying to live off my luck. when Kathy came back I told her to pour a big one. she knew. she even peeled the cellophane off my cigar and lit it for me. she looked funny, and fine. we'd make love. we'd make love through the sadness. I just hated to see it go: car, house, dog, woman. it had been gentle and easy living.

I guess I was shaken because I opened the paper and looked at the WANT ADS.

“hey, Kathy, here's something. men wanted, Sunday. pay same day.”

“oh, Hank, rest up tomorrow. you'll get those horses Tuesday. everything will look better then.”

“but shit, baby, every buck counts! they don't run on Sunday. Caliente, yeah, but you can't beat that 25 percent Caliente take and the distance. I can get good and drunk tonight and then pick up this shit tomorrow. those extra bucks might make the difference.”

Kathy looked at me funny. she'd never heard me talk like that before. I always acted like the money would be there. that 500 dollar loss had left me in shock. she poured me another tall one. I drank it right off. shock, shock, lord, lord, the factories. the wasted days, the days without meaning, the days of bosses and idiots, and the slow and brutal clock.

we drank until two a.m., just like at the bar, then went to bed, made love, slept. I set the alarm for four a.m., was up and in the car and downtown skidrow at 4:30 a.m. I stood on the corner with about 25 bums in rags. they stood there rolling cigarettes and drinking wine.

well, it's money, I thought. I'll get back . .. some day I'll vacation in Paris or Rome. shit on these guys. I don't belong here.

then something said to me, that's what they're ALL thinking: I don't belong here. each one of THEM is thinking that about HIMSELF. and they're right. so?

the truck came along about 5:10 a.m. and we climbed in.

god, I could be sleeping along behind Kathy's fine ass about now. but it's money, money.

guys were talking about just getting off the boxcar. they stank, poor fellows. but they didn't seem miserable. I was the only one who was miserable.

I would be getting up about now, taking a piss. I would be having a beer in the kitchen, looking for the sun, seeing it get lighter, peeking at my tulips. then going back to bed with Kathy.

the guy next to me said, “hey, buddy!”

“yeah,” I said.

“I'm a Frenchman,” he said.

I didn't answer.

“can you use a blowjob?”

“no,” I said.

“I saw one guy blowing another in the alley this morning. this one guy had this LONG THIN white dick and the other guy was still sucking and the come was dripping out of his mouth. I watched and watched and god I'm hot as hell. let me suck your dick, buddy!”

“no,” I told him, “I don't feel like it right now.”

“well, if I can't do that, maybe you can suck mine.”

“get the hell out of here!” I told him.

the Frenchman moved further back into the truck. by the time we'd gone another mile his head was bobbing. he was doing it right in front of everybody, to some old guy who looked like an Indian.

“GO, BABY, GET IT ALL!!!” somebody shouted.

some of the bums laughed but most of them were just silent, drinking their wine and rolling their cigarettes. the old Indian acted like it wasn't even happening. by the time we got to Vermont the Frenchman had got it all and we all climbed out, the Frenchman, the Indian, myself and the other bums. they gave us each a little tab of paper and we walked into a cafe. the little tab was good for a doughnut and a coffee. the waitress held her nose up. we stank. dirty cocksuckers.

then somebody finally hollered, “everybody out!”

I followed them out and we went into a big room and sat in these chairs like they used to have in school, or college rather, say like in Music Appreciation. with the big slab of wood for the right arm so you could open your notebook and write on it there. anyhow, so there we sat for another 45 minutes. then some snot kid with a can of beer in his hand, said, “o.k., get your SACKS!”

the bums all leaped up at ONCE and RAN to this large back room. what the hell? I thought. I slowly walked on back and looked in the other room. the bums were in there pushing and fighting for the best paper carriers. it was deadly and senseless battle. when the last man had left the back room I walked in and picked up the first sack I found on the floor. it was very dirty and full of rips and holes. when I walked out into the other room the bums all had their paper carriers on their backs, wearing them. I found a seat and just sat there with mine in my lap. somewhere along the line I think they had gotten our names; I think it was before you got your coffee and doughnut tab you gave your name. so we sat there and were called out in groups of 5 or 6 or 7. this took, it seemed, another hour. anyhow, by the time I got into the back of this smaller truck with a few others, the sun was well up. they gave us each a little map of the streets we were to deliver papers to. I opened my little map. I recognized the streets all right: GOD OH MIGHTY, OUT OF THE WHOLE TOWN OF LOS ANGELES THEY HAD GIVEN ME MY OWN NEIGHBORHOOD!

I had the rep as drinker, gambler, hustler, man of leisure, shack-job specialist. how could I be SEEN with that filthy dirty sack on my back? delivering newspapers full of ads?

they put me out on my corner. very familiar surroundings, indeed. there was the flowershop, there was the bar, the gas station, everything . .. around the corner my little house with Kathy sleeping in her warm bed. even the dog was asleep. well, it's Sunday morning, I thought. nobody will see me. they sleep late. I'll run through the god damned route. and I did.

I ran up and down 2 streets very quickly and nobody saw the great man of class and soft white hands and great soulful eyes. I was going to get by with it.

then up the 3rd street. it was going well until I heard the voice of a little girl. she was in her yard. about 4 years old.

“hey, mister!”

“oh, yes? little girl? what is it?”

“where's your dog?”

“oh, haha, he's still asleep.”

“oh.”

I always walked the dog up that street. there was a vacant lot there he always shit in. that did it. I took all my remaining newspapers and dumped them into the back of an abandoned car near the freeway. the car had been there for months with all the wheels gone. I didn't know what it meant. but I put all the newspapers on the rear floor. then I walked around the corner and went into my house. Kathy was still asleep. I awakened her.

“Kathy! Kathy!”

“oh, Hank … everything all right?”

the dog ran on in and I petted him.

“you know what those sons of bitches DID?”

“what?”

“they gave me my
own
neighborhood to deliver papers in!”

“oh. well, it's not nice but I don't think the people will mind.”

“don't you understand? I've built this REP! I'm the hustler! I can't be seen with a bag of shit on my back!”

“oh, I don't think you have all that REP! it's just in your head.”

“listen, are you going to give me a lot of shit? you've had your ass in this warm bed while I've been out there with a lot of cocksuckers!”

“don't be angry. I've got to pee. wait a minute.”

I waited out there while she took her sleepy female piss. god, they were SLOW! the cunt was a very inefficient pissing machine. dick had it all beat.

Kathy came out.

“please don't worry, Hank. I'll put on an old dress and help you deliver the papers. we'll finish fast. people sleep late on Sundays.”

“but I've already been SEEN!”

“you've already been seen? who saw you?”

“that little girl in the brown house with the weeds on Westmoreland st.”

“you mean Myra?”

“I don't know her name!”

“she's only 3.”

“I don't know how old she is! she asked about the dog!”

“what about the dog?”

“she asked where it WAS!”

“come on, I'll help you get rid of the papers.”

Kathy was climbing into an old ripped dress.

“I got rid of them. it's over. I dumped them into the back of that abandoned car.”

“will they catch you?”

“FUCK! who cares?”

I went into the kitchen and got a beer. when I got back Kathy was in bed again. I sat in a chair.

“Kathy?”

“uh?”

“you just don't realize who you're living with! I'm class, real class! I'm 34 but I haven't worked 6 or 7 months since I was 18 years old. and no money. look at my hands! I've got hands like a pianist!”

“Class? you OUGHT to HEAR yourself when you're drunk! you're horrible, horrible!”

“are you trying to start some shit again, Kathy? I've kept you in furs and hundred proof since I dug you outa that gin mill on Alvarado st.”

Kathy didn't answer.

“in fact,” I told her, “I am a genius but nobody knows it but me.”

“I'll buy that,” she said. then she dug her head into the pillow and went back to sleep.

I finished the beer, had another, then went 3 blocks over and sat on the steps of a closed grocery store that the map said would be the meeting place where the man would pick me up. I sat there from 10 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. it was dull and dry and stupid and torturous and senseless. then the rotten truck came at 2:30 p.m.

“hey. buddy?”

“yum?”

“you finished already?”

“yum.”

“you're fast!”

“yep.”

“I want you to help this one guy finish his route.”

oh, fuck.

I got into the truck and then he let me off. here was this guy. he was CREEPING. he threw each paper with great care upon each porch. each porch got special treatment. and he seemed to enjoy his work. he was on his last block. I finished the whole thing off in 5 minutes. then we sat and waited for the truck. for an hour.