Confession of a Coward
     God, she thought lying in bed naked and re-reading Aldington's Portrait
of  a  Genius, But... he's an impostor! Not D.H. Lawrence, but her  husband-
Henry-with  his bauble of a belly and all the hair he never combed  and  the
way  he  stood around in his shorts, and the way he stood naked  before  the
window like an Arabian and howled; and he told her that he was turning  into
a  toad and that he wanted to buy a Buddha and that he wanted to be old  and
drown in the sea, and that he was going to grow a beard and that he felt  as
if he was turning into a woman.
      And Henry was poor, poor and worthless and miserable and sick. And  he
wanted to join the Mahler Society. His breath was bad, his father was insane
and his mother was dying of cancer.
     And besides all this, the weather was hot, hot as hell.
      "I've  got a new system," he said. "All I need is four or five  grand.
It's  a  matter  of investment. We could travel from track  to  track  in  a
trailer."
      She felt like saying something blas+ like, "We don't have four or five
grand," but it didn't come out. Nothing came out: all the doors were  closed
and  all  the windows were down, and it was in the middle of the  desert-not
even  vultures-and they were about to drop the Bomb. She should have  stayed
in  Texas, she should have stayed with Papa-this man is a goon, a gunnysack,
a  gutless  no-nothing in a world of doers. He hides behind  symphonies  and
poetic fancies; a weak and listless soul.
     "Are you going to take me to the museum?" she asked.
     "Why?"
     "They're having an Art Exhibit."
     "I know."
     "Well, don't you want to see Van Gogh?"
     "To hell with Van Gogh! What's Van Gogh to me?"
     The doors closed again and she couldn't think of an answer.
     "I don't like museums," he continued. "I don't like museum-people."
      The fan was going but it was a small apartment and the heat held as if
enclosed in a kettle.
      "In  fact," he said, peeling off his T-shirt and standing in just  his
shorts, "I don't like any kind of people."
     Amazingly, he had hair on his chest.
      "In  fact," he continued, pulling his shorts down and over the end  of
one  foot, "I'm going to write a book some day and call it Confession  of  a
Coward."
     The doorbell rang like a rape, or the tearing of ripe flesh.
     "Jesus Christ!" he said like something trapped.
      She  jumped off the bed, looking very white and unpeeled. Like a candy
banana. Aldington and D.H. Lawrence and Taos fell to the floor.
      She  ran  to the closet and began stuffing herself inside  the  flying
cloth of female necessaries.
     "Never mind the clothes," he said.
     "Aren't you going to answer?"
     "No! Why should I?"
     It rang again. The sound of the bell entered the room and searched them
out, scaled and scalded their skins, pummeled them with crawling eyes.
     Then it was silent.
     And the feet turned with their sound, turning and guiding some monster,
taking it back down the stairwell, one two three, 1, 2, 3; and then gone.
     "I wonder," he said, still not moving, "what that was?"
      "I  don't know," she said, bending double at the waist and pulling her
petticoat back over her head.
     "Here!" she yelled. "Here!" holding her arms out like feelers.
     He finished yanking the petticoat off over her head with some distaste.
     "Why do you women wear this crap?" he asked in a loud voice.
      She  didn't  feel  an answer was necessary and went  over  and  pulled
Lawrence out from under the bed. Then she got into bed with Lorenzo and  her
husband sat on the couch.
     "They built a little shrine for him," he said.
     "Who?" she asked irritably.
     "Lawrence."
     "Oh."
     "They have a picture of it in that book."
     "Yes, I've seen it."
     "Have you ever seen a dog-graveyard?"
     "What?"
     "A dog-graveyard."
     "Well, what about it?"
      "They always have flowers. Every dog always has flowers, fresh, all in
neat little clusters on each grave. It's enough to make you cry."
      She  found  her place in the book again, like a person  searching  for
solitude in the middle of a lake: So the bitter months dragged by miserably,
accompanied by Lorenzo's tragic feeling of loss, his-
      "I  wish I had studied ballet," he said. "I go about all slumped  over
but that's because my spirit is wilted. I'm really lithe, ready to tumble on
spring  mattresses of some sort. I should have been a frog, at least. You'll
see. Someday I'm going to turn into a frog."
      Her lake rippled with the irritating breeze: "Well, for heaven's sake,
study ballet! Go at night! Get rid of your belly! Leap around! Be a frog!"
     "You mean after WORK?" he asked woefully.
     "God," she said, "you want everything for nothing." She got up and went
to the bathroom and closed the door.
      She  doesn't understand, he thought, sitting on the couch  naked,  she
doesn't  understand that I'm joking. She's so god-damned serious. Everything
I  say is supposed to carry truth or tragic import, or insight or something.
I've been through all that!
     He noticed a pencil-scrawled piece of paper, in her handwriting, on the
side table. He picked it up:
     My husband is a poet published alongside Sartre and Lorca;
     he writes about insanity and Nietzsche and Lawrence,
     but what has he written about me?
     she reads the funnies
     and empties garbage
     and makes little hats
     and goes to Mass at 8 AM
     I too am a poet and an artist, some discerning critics
     say, but my husband wrote about me:
     she reads the funnies...
     He heard the toilet flush, and a moment later, out she came.
     "I'd like to be a clown in a circus," he greeted her.
     She got back on the bed with her book.
      "Wouldn't  you like to be a tragicomic clown stumbling  about  with  a
painted face?" he asked her.
     She didn't answer. He picked up the Racing Form:
     POWER 114 B.g.4, by Cosmic Bomb-
     Pomayya, by Pompey
     Breeder, Brookmeade Stable.
     1956 12 2 4 1 $12,950
     July 18-Jam I I/16 1:45 1/5ft. 3 122 2
     1/2 3 2h GuerinE'Alw 86
     "I'm going to Caliente next Sunday," he said.
     "Good. I'll have Charlotte over. Allen can bring her in the car."
      "Do  you believe she really got propositioned by the preacher in  that
movie like she claimed?"
     She turned the page of her book.
     "God damn you, answer me!" he screamed, angry at last.
     "What about?"
      "Do  you think she's a whore and making it all up? Do you think  we're
all  whores? What are we trying to do, reading all these books? Writing  all
the  poems they -send back, and working in some dungeon for nothing  because
we're not really interested in money?"
     She put the book down and looked back over her shoulder at him. "Well,"
she said in a low voice, "do you want to give it all up?"
      "Give WHAT all up? We don't have anything! Or, do you mean Beethoven's
Fifth or Handel's Water Music? Or do you mean the SOUL?"
     "Let's not argue. Please. I don't want to argue.
     "Well, I want to know what we are trying to do!"
     The doorbell rang like all the bells of doom sweeping across the room.
     "Shhh," he said, "shhh! Be quiet!"
      The  doorbell rang again, seeming to say, I know you are in  there,  I
know you are in there.
     "They know we're in here." she whispered.
     "I feel that this is it, " he said.
     "What?"
     "Never mind. Just be quiet. Maybe it will go away."
      "Isn't it wonderful to have all these friends?" she took up the  joke-
cudgel.
     "No. We have no friends. I tell you, this is something else!"
      It  rang again, very short, flat and spiritless. "I once tried to make
the Olympic swimming team," he said, getting completely off the point.
     "You make more ridiculous statements by the minute, Henry."
     "Will you get off my back? Just for that!," he said, raising his voice,
"WHO IS IT?"
     There was no answer.
      Henry  rose  wide-eyed, as if in a trance, and flung  the  door  open,
forgetting  his  nakedness. He stood there transfixed in  thought  for  some
time, but it was obvious to her that nobody was therein his state of undress
there  would  have  been  quite a commotion or,  at  the  very  least,  some
sophisticated comment.
      Then  he closed the door. He had a strange look on his face, a  round-
eyed  almost  dull look and he swallowed once as he faced  her.  His  pride,
perhaps?
      "I've decided," he announced, "that I'm not going to turn into a woman
after all."
     "Well, that will help matters between us considerably, Henry."
      "And  I'll even take you to see Van Gogh. No wait, I'll let  you  take
me."
     "Either way, dear. It doesn't matter."
     "No," he said, "you'll have to take me!"
     He marched into the bathroom and closed the door.
     "Don't you wonder," she said through the door, "who that was?"
     "Who what was?"
     "Who that was at the door? Twice?"
     "Hell," he said, "I know who it was."
     "Who was it, then?"
     "Ha!"
     "What?"
     "I said, 'Ha!' I'm not telling!"
      "Henry,  you simply don't know who it was, anymore than I  do.  You're
simply being silly again."
      "If  you promise to take me to see Van Gogh, I'll tell you who was  at
the door."
     "All right," she humored him along, "I promise."
     "O.K., it was me at the door!"
     "You at the door?"
      "Yes,"  he  laughed  a silly little laugh, "me looking  for  me!  Both
times."
     "Still playing the clown aren't you, Henry?"
      She  heard  the water running in the basin and knew he  was  going  to
shave.
     "Are you going to shave, Henry?"
     "I've decided against the beard," he answered.
     He was boring her again and she simply opened her book at a random page
and began reading:
     You don't want any more of me?
     I want us to break off-you be free of me, I free of you.
     And what about these last months?
     I don't know. I've not told you anything but what I thought was true.
     Then why are you different now?
     I'm not-I'm the same-only I know it's no good going on.
     She closed the book and thought about Henry. Men were children. You had
to  humor  them. They could take no hurt. It was a thing every  woman  knew.
Henry tried-he was just so-all this playing the clown. All the poor jokes.
     She rose from the bed as if in a dream, walked across the floor, opened
the  door and stared. Against the basin stood a partly soaped shaving  brush
and  his still wet shaving mug. But the water in the basin was cold  and  at
the  bottom,  against the plug, green and beyond her reach at last  and  the
size of a crumpled glove, stared back the fat, living frog.
     Black Sparrow "New Year's Greeting" 1995



      Cass  was the youngest and most beautiful of 5 sisters. Cass  was  the
most  beautiful girl in town. 1/2 Indian with a supple and strange  body,  a
snake-like  and  fiery body with eyes to go with it. Cass was  fluid  moving
fire.  She was like a spirit stuck into a form that would not hold her.  Her
hair  was  black and long and silken and whirled about as did her body.  Her
spirit  was either very high or very low. There was no in between for  Cass.
Some  said she was crazy. The dull ones said that. The dull ones would never
understand  Cass. To the men she was simply a sex machine  and  they  didn't
care  whether she was crazy or not. And Cass danced and flirted, kissed  the
men,  but except for an instance or two, when it came time to make  it  with
Cass, Cass had somehow slipped away, eluded the men.
      Her  sisters accused her of misusing her beauty, of not using her mind
enough, but Cass had mind and spirit; she painted, she danced, she sang, she
made  things of clay, and when people were hurt either in the spirit or  the
flesh,  Cass  felt a deep grieving for them. Her mind was simply  different;
her  mind was simply not practical. Her sisters were jealous of her  because
she  attracted their men, and they were angry because they felt  she  didn't
make the best use of them. She had a habit of being kind to the uglier ones;
the  so-called handsome men revolted her- "No guts," she said, "no zap. They
are  riding on their perfect little earlobes and well- shaped nostrils...all
surface and no insides..." She had a temper that came close to insanity, she
had  a  temper that some call insanity. Her father had died of alchohol  and
her mother had run off leaving the girls alone. The girls went to a relative
who  placed  them in a convent. The convent had been an unhappy place,  more
for  Cass  than the sisters. The girls were jealous of Cass and Cass  fought
most  of  them.  She had razor marks all along her left arm  from  defending
herself in two fights. There was also a permanent scar along the left  cheek
but the scar rather than lessening her beauty only seemed to highlight it. I
met  her  at  the  West End Bar several nights after her  release  from  the
convent. Being youngest, she was the last of the sisters to be released. She
simply  came in and sat next to me. I was probably the ugliest man  in  town
and this might have had something to do with it.
     "Drink?" I asked.
     "Sure, why not?"
      I  don't  suppose there was anything unusual in our conversation  that
night, it was simply in the feeling Cass gave. She had chosen me and it  was
as  simple as that. No pressure. She liked her drinks and had a great number
of them. She didn't seem quite of age but they served he anyhow. Perhaps she
had  forged  i.d., I don't know. Anyhow, each time she came  back  from  the
restroom  and sat down next to me, I did feel some pride. She was  not  only
the  most beautiful woman in town but also one of the most beautiful  I  had
ever seen. I placed my arm about her waist and kissed her once.
     "Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked.
      "Yes, of course, but there's something else... there's more than  your
looks..."
     "People are always accusing me of being pretty. Do you really think I'm
pretty?"
     "Pretty isn't the word, it hardly does you fair."
      Cass  reached  into her handbag. I thought she was  reaching  for  her
handkerchief. She came out with a long hatpin. Before I could stop  her  she
had  run  this  long  hatpin  through her nose,  sideways,  just  above  the
nostrils. I felt disgust and horror. She looked at me and laughed,  "Now  do
you  think  me pretty? What do you think now, man?" I pulled the hatpin  out
and  held  my handkerchief over the bleeding. Several people, including  the
bartender, had seen the act. The bartender came down:
      "Look,"  he said to Cass, "you act up again and you're out.  We  don't
need your dramatics here."
     "Oh, fuck you, man!" she said.
     "Better keep her straight," the bartender said to me.
     "She'll be all right," I said.
     "It's my nose, I can do what I want with my nose."
     "No," I said, "it hurts me."
     "You mean it hurts you when I stick a pin in my nose?"
     "Yes, it does, I mean it."
     "All right, I won't do it again. Cheer up."
      She  kissed  me,  rather grinning through the  kiss  and  holding  the
handkerchief to her nose. We left for my place at closing time. I  had  some
beer and we sat there talking. It was then that I got the perception of  her
as  a  person  full  of kindness and caring. She gave herself  away  without
knowing it. At the same time she would leap back into areas of wildness  and
incoherence. Schitzi. A beautiful and spiritual schitzi. Perhaps  some  man,
something, would ruin her forever. I hoped that it wouldn't be me.  We  went
to bed and after I turned out the lights Cass asked me,
     "When do you want it? Now or in the morning?"
     "In the morning," I said and turned my back.
      In  the morning I got up and made a couple of coffees, brought her one
in bed. She laughed.
     "You're the first man who has turned it down at night."
     "It's o.k.," I said, "we needn't do it at all."
     "No, wait, I want to now. Let me freshen up a bit."
      Cass  went  into  the  bathroom. She came out shortly,  looking  quite
wonderful, her long black hair glistening, her eyes and lips glistening, her
glistening... She displayed her body calmly, as a good thing. She got  under
the sheet.
     "Come on, lover man."
     I got in. She kissed with abandon but without haste. I let my hands run
over  her body, through her hair. I mounted. It was hot, and tight. I  began
to  stroke  slowly, wanting to make it last. Her eyes looked  directly  into
mine.
     "What's your name?" I asked.
     "What the hell difference does it make?" she asked.
      I  laughed and went on ahead. Afterwards she dressed and I  drove  her
back  to  the  bar but she was difficult to forget. I wasn't working  and  I
slept until 2 p.m. then got up and read the paper. I was in the bathtub when
she came in with a large leaf- an elephant ear.
     "I knew you'd be in the bathtub," she said, "so I brought you something
to cover that thing with, nature boy."
     She threw the elepahant leaf down on me in the bathtub.
     "How did you know I'd be in the tub?"
     "I knew."
      Almost  every day Cass arrived when I was in the tub. The  times  were
different but she seldom missed, and there was the elephant leaf.  And  then
we'd  make love. One or two nights she phoned and I had to bail her  out  of
jail for drunkenness and fighting.
      "These  sons of bitches," she said, "just because they buy you  a  few
drinks they think they can get into your pants."
     "Once you accept a drink you create your own trouble."
     "I thought they were interested in me, not just my body."
      "I'm  interested in you and your body. I doubt, though, that most  men
can see beyond your body."
      I  left  town  for  6 months, bummed around, came back.  I  had  never
forgotten  Cass, but we'd had some type of arguement and I felt like  moving
anyhow,  and when I got back i figured she'd be gone, but I had been sitting
in the West End Bar about 30 minutes when she walked in and sat down next to
me.
     "Well, bastard, I see you've come back."
      I ordered her a drink. Then I looked at her. She had on a high- necked
dress. I had never seen her in one of those. And under each eye, driven  in,
were  2 pins with glass heads. All you could see were the heads of the pins,
but the oins were driven down into her face.
     "God damn you, still trying to destroy your beauty, eh?"
     "No, it's the fad, you fool."
     "You're crazy."
     "I've missed you," she said.
     "Is there anybody else?"
      "No there isn't anybody else. Just you. But I'm hustling. It costs ten
bucks. But you get it free."
     "Pull those pins out."
     "No, it's the fad."
     "It's making me very unhappy."
     "Are you sure?"
     "Hell yes, I'm sure."
     Cass slowly pulled the pins out and put them back in her purse.
     "Why do you haggle your beauty?" I asked. "Why don't you just live with
it?"
      "Because people think it's all I have. Beauty is nothing, beauty won't
stay.  You  don't know how lucky you are to be ugly, because if people  like
you you know it's for something else."
     "O.k.," I said, "I'm lucky."
      "I  don't mean you're ugly. People just think you're ugly. You have  a
fascinating face."
     "Thanks."
     We had another drink.
     "What are you doing?" she asked.
     "Nothing. I can't get on to anything. No interest."
     "Me neither. If you were a woman you could hustle."
     "I don't think I could ever make contact with that many strangers, it's
wearing."
     "You're right, it's wearing, everything is wearing."
     We left together. People still stared at Cass on the streets. She was a
beautiful  woman, perhaps more beautiful than ever. We made it to  my  place
and I opened a bottle of wine and we talked. With Cass and I, it always came
easy.  She  talked  a while and I would listen and then i  would  talk.  Our
conversation simply went along without strain. We seemed to discover secrets
together.  When we discovered a good one Cass would laugh that  laugh-  only
the  way  she  could. It was like joy out of fire. Through  the  talking  we
kissed and moved closer together. We became quite heated and decided  to  go
to  bed. It was then that Cass took off her high -necked dress and I saw it-
the ugly jagged scar across her throat. It was large and thick.
      "God  damn you, woman," I said from the bed, "god damn you, what  have
you done?
     "I tried it with a broken bottle one night. Don't you like me any more?
Am I still beautiful?"
      I  pulled  her  down on the bed and kissed her. She  pushed  away  and
laughed, "Some men pay me ten and I undress and they don't want to do it.  I
keep the ten. It's very funny."
     "Yes," I said, "I can't stop laughing... Cass, bitch, I love you...stop
destroying yourself; you're the most alive woman I've ever met."
     We kissed again. Cass was crying without sound. I could feel the tears.
The long black hair lay beside me like a flag of death. We enjoined and made
slow  and  sombre  and wonderful love. In the morning  Cass  was  up  making
breakfast. She seemed quite calm and happy. She was singing. I stayed in bed
and enjoyed her happiness. Finally she came over and shook me,
      "Up,  bastard! Throw some cold water on your face and pecker and  come
enjoy the feast!"
      I drove her to the beach that day. It was a weekday and not yet summer
so  things  were splendidly deserted. Beach bums in rags slept on the  lawns
above the sand. Others sat on stone benches sharing a lone bottle. The gulls
whirled  about, mindless yet distracted. Old ladies in their 70's  and  80's
sat on the benches and discussed selling real estate left behind by husbands
long ago killed by the pace and stupidity of survival. For it all, there was
peace  in the air and we walked about and stratched on the lawns and  didn't
say  much.  It  simply  felt  good being together.  I  bought  a  couple  of
sandwiches, some chips and drinks and we sat on the sand eating. Then I held
Cass  and  we  slept  together about an hour. It  was  somehow  better  than
lovemaking. There was flowing together without tension. When we awakened  we
drove  back  to my place and I cooked a dinner. After dinner I suggested  to
Cass that we shack together. She waited a long time, looking at me, then she
slowly  said,  "No." I drove her back to the bar, bought  her  a  drink  and
walked out. I found a job as a parker in a factory the next day and the rest
of  the  week  went to working. I was too tired to get about much  but  that
Friday night I did get to the West End Bar. I sat and waited for Cass. Hours
went  by  .  After I was fairly drunk the bartender said to me,  "I'm  sorry
about your girlfriend."
     "What is it?" I asked.
     "I'm sorry, didn't you know?"
     "No."
     "Suicide. She was buried yesterday."
      "Buried?"  I  asked. It seemed as though she would  walk  through  the
doorway at any moment. How could she be gone?
     "Her sisters buried her."
     "A suicide? Mind telling me how?"
     "She cut her throat."
     "I see. Give me another drink."
      I  drank until closing time. Cass was the most beautiful of 5 sisters,
the  most  beautiful  in town. I managed to drive to my  place  and  I  kept
thinking, I should have insisted she stay with me instead of accepting  that
"no."Everything  about her had indicated that she had cared.  I  simply  had
been  too  offhand about it, lazy, too unconcerned. I deserved my death  and
hers.  I  was a dog. No, why blame the dogs? I got up and found a bottle  of
wine  and  drank from it heavily. Cass the most beautiful girl in  town  was
dead  at  20. Outside somebody honked their automobile horn. They were  very
loud  and  persistent.  I sat the bottle down and screamed  out:  "GOD  DAMN
YOU,YOU  SON  OF  A  BITCH ,SHUT UP!" The night kept coming  and  there  was
nothing I could do.

     ===

     **A Lovely Love Affair**

      I  went  broke --- again --- but this time in the French Quarter,  New
Orleans,  and Joe Blanchard, editor of the underground paper OVERTHROW  took
me  down to this place around the corner, one of those dirty white buildings
with  green storm windows, steps that ran almost straight up. It was  Sunday
and  I  was  expecting a royalty, no, and advance from a dirty  book  I  had
written for the Germans, but the Germans kept writing me this bullshit about
the  owner, the father, being a drunk, they were deep in the red because the
old  man had withdrawn their funds from the bank, no, overdrawn them for his
drinking  and  fucking bouts and therefore, they were broke  but  they  were
kicking the old man out and as soon as-
     Blanchard rang the bell.
      This old fat girl came to the door, and she weighed about between  250
and  300  pounds. She kind of wore this vast sheet as a dress and  her  eyes
were  very small. I guess that was the only small thing about her.  She  was
Marie  Glaviano, owner of a caf+ in the French Quarter, a very  small  caf+.
That was another thing that was not very big about her --- her caf+. But  it
was  a  nice caf+, red and white tablecloths, expensive menus and no  people
about.  One of those old-time black mammy dolls standing near the  entrance.
The  old  black mammy doll signified good times, old times, good old  times,
but  the good old times were gone. The tourists were walkers now. They  just
liked to walk around and look at things. They didn't go into the cafes. They
didn't  even  get  drunk. Nothing paid anymore. The good  times  were  over.
Nobody  gave a shit and nobody had any money and if they had any, they  kept
it.  It  was  a  new age and not a very interesting one. Everybody  kind  of
watched  the revolutionaries and the pigs rip at each other. That  was  good
entertainment and it was free and they kept their money in their pockets, if
they had any money.
      Blanchard said, "Hello, Marie. Marie, this is Charley Serkin. Charley,
this is Marie."
     "Hi," I said.
     "Hello," said Marie Glaviano.
     "Let us come in a minute, Marie," said Blanchard.
      (There  are only two things wrong with money: too much or too  little.
And there I was down at the "too little" stage again.)
     We climbed the steep steps and followed her down one fo those long long
sideways-built places ---I mean all length and no width, and then we were in
the  kitchen, sitting at a table. There was a bowl of flowers.  Marie  broke
open 3 bottles of beer. Sat down.
     "Well, Marie," said Blanchard, "Charley's a genius. He's up against the
knife. I'm sure he'll pull out, but meanwhile- meanwhile, he's got no  place
to stay."
     Marie looked at me. "Are you a genius?"
     I took a long drag at the beer. "Well, frankly, it's hard to tell. More
often,  I feel like some type of subnormal. Rather like all these great  big
white blocks of air in my head."
     "He can stay," said Marie.
      It  was Monday, Marie's only day off and Blanchard got up and left  us
there in the kitchen. Then the front door slammed and he was out of there.
     "What do you do?" asked Marie.
     "Live on my luck," I said.
     "You remind me of Marty," she said.
     "Marty?" I asked, thinking, my god, here it comes. And it came.
      "Well, you're ugly, you know. Well, I don't mean ugly, I mean beat-up,
you  know.  And you're really beat-up, you're even more beat-up  than  Marty
was. And he was a fighter. Were you a fighter?"
     "That's one of my problems: I could never fight worth a damn."
      "Anyhow,  you  got that same look as Marty. You been beat  but  you're
kind. I know your type. I know a man when I see a man. I like your face. You
got a good face."
      Not  being able to say anything about her face, I asked, "You got  any
cigarettes, Marie?"
      "Why  sure, honey," she reached down into that great sheet of a  dress
and  pulled a full pack out from between her tits. She could have carried  a
week's  worth  of groceries in there. It was kind of funny.  She  opened  me
another beer.
      I took a good drain, then told her, "I could probably fuck you until I
made you cry."
     "Now look here, Charley," she said, "I won't have you talking that way.
I'm  a  nice girl. My mother brought me up right. You keep talking that  way
and you can't stay."
     "Sorry, Marie, I was just kidding."
     "Well, I don't like that kind of kidding."
     "Sure, I understand. You got any whiskey?"
     "Scotch."
     "Scotch is fine."
      She brought out an almost full fifth. 2 waterglasses. We had ourselves
some  scotch and water. That woman had been around. That was obvious.  She's
probably been around ten years longer than I. Well, age wasn't any crime. It
was only that most people aged badly.
     "You're just like Marty," she said again.
     "And you're not like anybody I've ever seen," I said.
     "Do you like me?" she asked.
      "I've got to," I said, and she didn't give me any snot over that  one.
We drank another hour or two,. Mostly beer but with a bit of scotch here and
there, and then she took me down to my bed. And on the way down we passed  a
place  and she was sure to say, "That's my bed." It was quite wide.  My  bed
was next to another one. Very strange. But it didn't mean anything. "You can
sleep in either bed," said Marie, "or both of them."
     There was something about that that felt like a putdown-
     Well, sure, I had a head in the morning and I heard her rattling in the
kitchen but I ignored it as any wise man would, and I heard her turn on  the
tv  for the morning news, she had the tv on the breakfast nook table, and  I
heard the coffee perking, it smelled rather good but the smell of bacon  and
eggs  and potatoes I didn't like, and the sound of the morning news I didn't
like, and I felt like pissing and I was thirsty, but I didn't want Marie  to
know  that I was awake, so I waited, mildly pissed (haha, yes), but  wanting
to  be  alone,  wanting to own the place alone and she kept  fucking  around
fucking around and finally I heard her running past my bed-
     "Gotta go, " she said, "I'm late."
     "Bye, Marie," I said.
      When  the  door slammed I got up and walked to the crapper and  I  sat
there  and I pissed and I crapped and I sat there in New Orleans,  far  from
home, wherever my home was, and then I saw a spider sitting in a web in  the
corner,  looking at me. Now that spider had been there a long time,  I  knew
that. Much longer than I had. First, I thought of killing him. But he was so
fat  and  happy  and ugly, he owned the joint. I'd have to wait  some  time,
until  it  was proper. I got up and wiped my ass and flushed. As I left  the
crapper, the spider winked at me.

      I  didn't want to play with what was left of the 5th, so I sat in  the
kitchen,  naked, wondering, how can people trust me so? Who  was  I?  People
were crazy, people were simple. That gave me and edge. Hell ys, it did.  I'd
lived  for ten years without a trade. People gave me money, food, places  to
stay. Whether they thought I was an idiot or a genius, that didn't matter. I
knew  what  I  was.  I was neither. What made people give  me  gifts  didn't
concern  me. I took the gifts and I took them without a feeling  of  victory
or/and  coercion. My only premise was that I couldn't ask for  anything.  On
top of it all, I rather had this little phonograph record spinning around on
top  of my brain and it kept playing the same tune: don't try don't try.  It
seemed like and all right idea.
      Anyhow, after Marie left I sat in the kitchen and drank 3 cans of beer
I  found  in  the refrigerator. I never cared much for food.  I'd  heard  of
people's love for food. But food only bored me. Liquid was o.k. but bulk was
a  dragdown.  I liked shit, I liked to shit, I liked turds but it  was  such
terrible work creating them.
      After the 3 cans of beer I noticed this purse on the seat next to  me.
Of  course,  Marie  had taken another purse to work. Would  she  be  foolish
enough  or  kind  enough to leave money? I opened the purse.  There  at  the
bottom was a ten dollar bill.
     Well, Marie was testing me and I'd prove worthy of her test.
      I  took  the ten, walked back to my bedroom and dressed. I felt  good.
After all, what did a man need to survive? Nothing. It was true. And I  even
had the key to the place.
      So  I  stepped  outside and locked the door to keep out  the  thieves,
hahaha, and there I was out on the streets, the French Quarter, and  what  a
stupid place that was, but I had to make it do. Everything had to serve  me,
that's  the way it went. So-oh yes, I was walking down the street,  and  the
trouble  with  the  French Quarter was that there just  weren't  any  liquor
stores  around  like  in  other decent parts of  the  world.  Maybe  it  was
deliberate.  One had to guess that it helped those horrible  shit  holes  on
every  corner that were called bars. The first thing I ever thought of  when
walking into one of those "quaint" French Quarter bars was vomiting.  And  I
usually did, running back to some urine-stinking pisspot and letting  go  --
tons  and  tons of fried eggs and half-cooked greasy potatoes.  And  walking
back  in,  after heaving, and looking upon them: the only thing more  lonely
and  inane  than the patrons was the bartender, especially if he also  owned
the place. O.k., so I walked around, knowing that the bars were the lie, and
you know where I found my 3 six packs? A little grocery with stale bread and
all about it, even peeling into the paint, this half-sex smile of loneliness-
help me, help me, help me-terrible, yes, and they can't even light the place
up,  electricity costs money, and here I was, the first guy to buy three six
packs  in  18 years, and my god, she almost came across the top of the  cash
register-It was too much. I grabbed my change and 18 tall cans of  beer  and
ran out into the stupid French Quarter sunlight-

      I  placed  the  remainder  of the change back  in  the  purse  in  the
breakfastnook and then left the purse open so Marie could see it. Then I sat
down and opened a beer.
      It  was good being alone. Yet, I wasn't alone. Each time I had to piss
I'd  see that spider and I thought, well, spider, you've got to go, soon.  I
just don't like your looks in that dark corner, catching bugs and slies  and
sucking the blood out of them. You see, you're bad, Mr. Spider. And I'm o.k.
At  least,  that's the way I like to see it. You're nothing but  a  frigging
dark brainless wart of death, that's what you are. Suck shit. You've had it.
      I  found a broom in the backporch and came back in there and I crashed
him  out  of his web and brought him his own death. All right, that was  all
right,  he  was out there ahead of me, somewhere, I couldn't help that.  But
how  could Marie put her big ass down on the rims of that lid and  shit  and
look at that thing? Did she even see it? Perhaps not.
     I went back in the kitchen and had some more beer. Then I turned on the
tv.  Paper people. Glass people. I felt as if I were going insane and turned
the  thing  off. I drank some more beer. Then I boiled 2 eggs and fried  two
strips of bacon. I managed to eat. You forgot about food sometimes. The  sun
came  through  the  curtains. I drank all day. I threw the  empties  in  the
trash. Time went. Then the door opened. It flew open. It was Marie.
     "Jesus Christ!" she screamed, "you know what happened?"
     "No, no, I don't."
     "Oh, god damn it!"
     "Whatssa matta, honey?"
     "I burned the strawberries!"
     "Oh, yes?"
     She ran around the kitchen in little circles, that big ass bobbing. She
was crazy. She was out of it. Poor old fat cunt.
      "I  had this pot of strawberries going in the kitchen and one of these
tourists  came in, rich bitch, first customer of the day, and she likes  the
little  hats I make, you know-Well, she's kinda cute and all the  hats  look
good  on  her  and so she's got a problem, and then we get to talking  about
Detroit,  she  knew  somebody in Detroit that I knew, you  know,  and  we're
talking and then all of a sudden I SMELL IT!!! THE STRAWBERRIES ARE BURNING!
I  ran  into  the kitchen, but it's too late-.what a mess! The  strawberries
have  boiled  over and they are everywhere and it stinks, it's burned,  it's
sad, and nothing can be saved, nothing! What hell!"
     "I'm sorry. But did you sell her a hat?"
     "I sold her two hats. She couldn't make up her mind."
     "I'm sorry about the strawberries. And I killed the spider."
     "What spider?"
     "I didn't think you'd know."
     "Know what? What's this spiders? They're just bugs."
      "They tell me a spider isn't a bug. Something to do with the number of
legs- I really don't know or care."
     "A spider ain't a bug? What kinda shit is that?"
     "Not an insect. So they say. Anyhow, I killed the damn thing."
     "Sure. You left it there. I had to have beer."
     "You have to have beer all the time?"
     "Yes."
     "You're going to be a problem. You had anything to eat?"
     "2 eggs, 2 slices of bacon."
     "You hungry?"
     "Yes. But you're tired. Relax. Have a drink."
     "Cooking relaxes me. But first I gotta have a hot bath."
     "Go ahead."
      "O.k.,"  she reached over and turned on the tv and then  went  to  the
bathroom. I had to listen to tv. A news broadcast. Perfectly ugly bastard. 3
nostrils.  Perfectly  hateful bastard dressed  like  a  little  inane  doll,
sweating,  and  looking  at me, saying words I hardly  understood  or  cared
about.  I  knew that Marie would be looking at tv for hours,  so  I  had  to
adjust  to  it. When Marie came back I was looking directly into the  glass,
which  made  her  feel  better.  I looked  as  harmless  as  a  man  with  a
checkerboard and the sports page.
      Marie  had  come  out, dolled in another outfit. She might  have  even
looked  cute, but she was so god damned fat. Well, anyhow, I wasn't sleeping
on a park bench.
     "You want me to cook, Marie?"
     "No, it's all right. I'm not so tired now."
     She began preparing the food. When I got up for the next beer, I kissed
her behind the ear.
     "You're a good sport, Marie."
     "You got enough drink for the rest of the night?" she asked.
     "Sure, kid. And there's still that 5thy. Everything's fine. I just want
to sit here and look at the set and listen to you talk. O.k?"
     "Sure, Charley."
     I sat down. She had something going. It smelled good. She was evidently
a  fine  cook. The whole walls crawled with this warm smell of  cooking.  No
wonder  she  was so fat: good cook, good eater. Marie was making  a  pot  of
stew.  Every  now and then she'd get up and add something  to  the  pot.  An
onion.  A piece of cabbage. A few carrots. She knew. And I drank and  looked
at  that big sloppy old gal and she sat there making these most magic  hats,
her hands working into a basket, picking up first the color, then that, this
length  of ribbon, then that, and then twisting it so, sewing it so, placing
it  against the hat, and that 2 bit straw was just more magic. Marie created
masterpieces that would never be discovered --- walking down the  street  on
top of bitches' heads.
     As she worked and tended stew, she talked.
     "It's not like it used to be. People don't have any money. Everything's
Traveler's  checks and checkbooks and credit cards. People just  don't  have
money.  They don't carry it. Credit's everything. A guy gets a paycheck  and
it's  already taken. They mortgage their whole lives away to buy one  house.
And  then  they've got to fill that house with shit and have a car.  They're
hooked  on  house and the legislators know this and tax them to  death  with
property taxes. Nobody has any money. Small businesses just can't last."
     We sat down to the stew and it was perfect. After dinner we brought out
the  whiskey  and she brought me two cigars and we looked at tv  and  didn't
talk much. I felt as if I had been there for years. She kept working on  the
hats, talking now and then, and I'd say, yeh, that's right, or, is that  so?
And the hats kept flying off of her hands, masterpieces.
     "Marie," I told her, "I'm tired. Got to go to bed."
     She told me to take the whiskey with me, so I did. But instead of going
down  to my bed, I threw back the cover of Marie's bed and crawled in. After
undressing, of course. It was a fine mattress. It was a fine bed. It was one
of  those  old-fashioned highpost jobs with a wooden roof, or whatever  they
call them. I guess if you fucked until the roof came down, you made it.  I'd
never bring that roof down without help from the gods.
     Marie kept looking at tv and making hats. Then I heard her turn off the
set,  switch out the kitchen light and she came into the bedroom, right past
the bedroom and she didn't see me, she went right n down to the crapper. She
was  in  there a while and then I watched her switch out of her clothes  and
into this big pink nightie. She fucked with her face a bit, gave up, put  on
a  couple of curlers, then turned around and walked toward the bed  and  saw
me.
     "My god, Charley, you're in the wrong bed."
     "Uh, uh."
     "Listen, honey, I'm not that kind of woman."
     "O, cut the horseshit and climb in."
      She  did.  My god, she was nothing but meat. Actually,  I  was  a  bit
frightened.  What  did  you do with all that stuff?  Well,  I  was  trapped.
Marie's whole side of the bed sank down.
     "Listen, Charley-"
     I grabbed her head, turned it, and she seemed to be crying, and then my
lips  were on hers. We kissed. Damn it, my cock was getting hard. Good  god.
What was it?
     "Charley," she said, "you don't have to."
     I took one of her hands and placed it around my cock.
     "O shit," she said, "o shit!"
     Then she kissed me, tongued me. She had a small tongue ---at least that
was small ---and it ripped in and out, rather full of saliva and passion.  I
pulled away.
     "Whatza matta?"
     "Wait uh minute."
      I reached over and got the fifth and took a good long pull, then I sat
it  down  again and I reached on under and lifted that huge pink nightie.  I
got  to  feeling and I didn't know what I had but it seemed to be  it,  very
small  though, but in the right place. Yes, it was her cunt. I poked  at  it
with  my  pecker.  Then she reached down and guided me in. Another  miracle.
That  thing  was  tight. It almost ripped the skin off  of  me.  We  started
working. I was looking for the long ride but I didn't care. She had  me.  It
was  one of the best fucks of my life. I moaned and hollered, then finished,
rolled  off. Unbelievable. When she came back from the bathroom we talked  a
while, then she went to sleep. But she snored. SO I had to go down to my own
bed. And I awakened the next morning as she went to work.
     "Gotta hurry, Charley," she said.
     "Sure, baby."
      As  soon as she left I went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water.
She'd left her purse there. Ten dollars. I didn't take it. I walked back  to
the bathroom and took a good crap, without the spider. Then I took a bath. I
tried  to  brush  my  teeth, vomited a bit. I dressed and  walked  into  the
kitchen. I'd gotten hold of a piece of paper and pen:

     Marie:
     I love you. You are very good to me. But I must leave. And I don't know
exactly why. I'm crazy, I guess. Goodbye.
     Charley

     I propped the note up against the television set. I didn't feel good. I
felt  like  crying. It was quiet in there, it was quiet in there the  way  I
liked  it.  Even the stove and the refrigerator looked human,  I  mean  good
human  ---  they seemed to have arms and voices and they said, hang  around,
kid, it's good here, it can be very good here. I found what was left of  the
5th  in  the  bedroom.  I drank that. Then I found a  can  of  beer  in  the
refrigerator. I drank that. Then I got up and made the long walk  down  that
narrow  place, it seemed like A hundred yards. I got to the door and then  I
remembered I had the key. I walked back and put the key with the note.  Then
I  looked  at the ten in the purse again. I left it there. I made  the  walk
again.  When I got to the door, I knew that when I closed it there would  be
no  going  back. I closed it. It was final. Down those steps.  I  was  alone
again  and nobody gave a damn. I walked south, then took a right.  I  walked
along,  I  walked along and got out of the French Quarter. I  crossed  Canal
Street. I walked along for some blocks and then I turned this way and then I
crossed another street and turned that way. I didn't know where I was going.
I  passed  a place to my left and a man was standing in the doorway  and  he
said,
     "Hey, man, you want a job?"
      And I looked into the doorway and here were these rows of men lined up
at  wooden  tables and they had hammers and they were hitting at  things  in
shells,  they  looked like clam shells and they broke  the  shells  and  did
something with the meat, and it was dark in there; it seemed as if  the  men
were  beating at themselves with hammers and tossing away what was  left  of
them, and I told the man,
     "No, I don't want a job."
     I was facing the sun as I walked.
     I had 74 cents.
     The sun was all right.


     ===

     **My Big-Assed Mother**

      they were tow good girls, Tito and Baby. they both looked near 60  but
they  were close to 40. all that wine and worry. I was 29 and looked  closer
to  50.  all that wine and worry. I had gotten the apartment first and  then
they  had moved in. it worried the apartment house manager who kept  sending
the  cops up when we made the least bit of noise. it was jumpy. I was afraid
to piss in the center of the bowl.
     the best time was the MIRROR, watching myself, bloated belly, with Baby
and  Tito,  drunk and sick for nights and days, all of us, the  cheap  radio
playing, tubes all worn-out sitting there on that worn-down rug, ah my,  the
MIRROR, and I'd be watching, and I'd say:

     "Tito, it's in your ass. feel it?"
     "oh yes, oh my yes - SHOVE! hey! where ya GOING?"
      "now,  Baby, you got it in front here, umm? feel it? big purple  head,
like a snake singing arias! feel me love?"
     "oooh, dahling, I think I'm gonna c-..HEY! where ya GOING?"
      "Tito,  I  am back in your rumble seat. I am parting you in  two.  you
don't have a chance!"
     "oooh god ooooh, HEY where ya GOING? get back in there!"
     "I dunno."
      "I  dunno  who I want to catch it. what can I do? I want you  both,  I
can't HAVE you both! And while trying to make up my mind I am in a terror of
demise  and  agony  trying  to  hold  it!  doesn't  anybody  understand   my
suffering?"
     "no, just give it to me!"
     "no, me, me!"
     THEN THE BIG FIST OF THE LAW.
     "bang! BanG! BANG!
     "hey, what's going on in there?"
     "nuttin'."
      "nothing?  what's all that moaning and hollering and  screaming?  it's
3:30 a.m. you've got four floors of people wide awake and wonderin-"
      "please  go away. my mother has a bad heart. you are terrorizing  her.
and she's down to her last pawn."
     "and YOU are too, buddy! In case you don't know, this happens to be the
Los Angeles Police Department-"
     "christ, I'd have never guessed-"
     "now you've guessed. o.k. open up or we'll kick it down!"
      Tito and Baby ran into the far corner of the dining room, crouched and
shivering, holding, hugging their aging wrinkled and wino and insane bodies.
they were stupidly lovely.
     "open up here, buddy, we been up here four times in the past week and a
half  on the same call. you think we like to go around just throwing  people
in jail just because it makes us feel good?"
     "yeah."
     "Captain Bradley says he doesn't care whether you are black or white."
     "you tell Captain Bradley that I feel the same way."
      I  kept  quiet. the two whores shivering and clutching their  wrinkled
bodies  by