To think that all this wealth, this wealth of the primeval chaos, must be infused, to be palatable and potable, with the Homeric minutiae of the daily round, with the repetitious drama of petty humans whose sufferings and aspirations have, even to mortal ears, the monotonous hum of windmills whirring in remorseless space. The petty and the great: separated by inches. Alexander dying of pneumonia in the desolate reaches of Asia; Caesar in all his purple proved mortal by a pack of traitors; Blake singing as he passed away; Damien torn on the wheel and screaming like a thousand twisted eagles … what did it matter and to whom? A Socrates hitched to a nagging wife, a saint plagued with a thousand woes, a prophet tarred and feathered … to what end? All grist for the mill, data for historians and chroniclers, poison to the child, caviar for the schoolmaster. And with this and through this, weaving his way like an inspired drunkard, the writer tells his tale, lives and breathes, is honored or dishonored. What a role! Jesus protect us!
9
No coffee, no apple pie. It was dark and the avenue deserted when I hit the air. I was famished. With the few cents I had I bought a candy bar and walked home.
A horrendous jaunt, particularly on an empty stomach.
But my head was buzzing like a bee-hive. For company I had the martyrs, those gay self-willed birds who had long since been devoured by the worms.
I dove straight into bed. Why wait up for them, even though there was a promise of food? Anything from their lips would be so much gibberish after the biographical fling I had enjoyed.
I waited a few days before breaking the news to Stasia.
She was dumbfounded when I handed her the check.
Never believed it possible of me. But wasn’t I rushing her at bit? And the check, could she be certain it wouldn’t bounce?
Such questions! I said nothing about Doc Zabriskie’s request to call him before cashing the check. No use running the risk of hearing something disagreeable. Cash it first, then worry—that was my thought.
It never entered my head to inquire if she had changed her mind about going. I had done my part, it was up to her to fulfill hers. Ask nobody nothing, it’s too risky. Forward, at all costs!
A few days later, however, came the bad news. It was like a double-barreled shot-gun going off. First, as I might have known, the check bounced. Second, Stasia had decided against leaving—for a while anyway. On top of it I got hell from Mona for trying to get rid of Stasia. I had broken my word again. How could they ever trust me? And so on. My hands were tied, or my tongue rather. Impossible to tell her what Stasia and I had agreed upon in private. That would only have made me more of a traitor.
When I asked who had cashed the check I was told it was none of my business. I suspected it was some one who could well afford the loss. (That filthy millionaire most likely.)
What to say to Doc Zabriskie? Nothing. I hadn’t the courage to face him again. Indeed, I never did see him again. One more name to scratch off my list.
While things were simmering down a bizarre episode took place. Knocking softly on the window-pane one evening, looking his same queasy, quirky, disreputable self, stands Osiecki. It’s his birthday, be informs me. The few drinks he had stowed away had not had too baleful an effect. He was slightly out of focus, to be sure, still mumbling in his whiskers, still scratching himself, but, if one could express it thus, in a more winsome fashion than usual.
I had refused his invitation to do a little quiet celebrating with him. I made some weak excuses which failed to penetrate the fog in which he was wrapped. He had such a hang dog look that instead of turning him loose I permitted him to break down my resistance. Why not go along, after all? Did it matter that my shirt was unironed and frayed, my pants wrinkled and my coat full of spots? As he said, Nonsense! It was his idea to go to the Village, have a few friendly drinks, and get back early. Just for old times’ sake. It wasn’t fair to ask a man to celebrate his birthday all by himself. He jiggled the coins in his pocket as if to tell me that he was well heeled. We weren’t going to any fancy joints, he assured me. Maybe you’d like to catch a bite first? he said. He grinned with all his loose teeth.
So I gave in. At Borough Hall I put away a sandwich and a coffee one, two, three. Then we dove into the subway. He was muttering and mumbling to himself, as of yore. Now and then I caught a distinct phrase. What it sounded like, in the roar of the tube, was—Ah yes, yes, once in a while indulge … spree and pee … a look at the girls and a brawl … not too bloody … ring around the rosie … you know … shake the bugs out of the rug.
At Sheridan Square we hopped out. No trouble finding a joint. The whole Square seemed to be belching tobacco smoke; from every window there came the blare of jazz, the screams of hysterical females wading in their own urine; fairies, some in uniform, walked arm in arm, as if along the Promenade des Anglais, and in their wake a trail of perfume strong enough to asphyxiate a cat. Here and there, just like in Old England, a drunk lay sprawled out on the sidewalk, hiccoughings, puking, cursing, babbling the usual maudlin fuck-you-all shit. Prohibition was a wonderful thing. It made every one thirsty, rebellious and cantankerous. Especially the female element. Gin brought the harlot out. What filthy tongues they had! Filthier than an English whore’s.
Inside a stompin’ hell on wheels sort of joint we edged our way to the bar, near enough, at least, to give our order. Gorillas with mugs in their paws were swilling it all over the place. Some were trying to dance, some were squatting as if taking a crap, some rolled their eyes and did the breakdown, some were on all fours under the tables, sniffing like dogs in heat, others were calmly buttoning or unbuttoning their flies. At one end of the bar stood a cop in shirt sleeves and suspenders, his eyes half-closed, his shirt sticking out of his pants. The holster, with the revolver in it, lay on the bar, covered by his hat. (To show that he was on duty, possibly.) Osiecki, observing his helpless state, wanted to take a crack at him. I pulled him away only to see him flop on a table top smeared with swill. A girl put her arms around him and started dancing with him, rooted to the spot, of course. He had a far off look in his eye, as if he were counting sheep.
We decided to quit the joint. It was too noisy. We went down a side street ornamented with ash cans, empty crates and the garbage of yesteryear. Another joint. The same thing, only worse. Here, so help me God, there were nothing but cocksuckers. The sailors had taken over. Some of them were in skirts. We squeezed our way out amidst jeers and catcalls.
Strange, said Osiecki, how the Village has changed. One great big ass-hole, ain’t it though?
What about going uptown?
He stood a moment and scratched his bean. He was thinking, evidently.
Yeah, I remember now, he bumbled, switching his hand from his head to his crotch. There’s a nice quiet place I went to once … a dance floor, soft lights … not too expensive either.
Just then a cab came along. Pulled up right beside us.
Looking for a place?
Yeah, said Osiecki, still scratching, still thinking.
Hop in!
We did. The cab started off, like a rocket. No address had been given. I didn’t like being whizzed off that way—to a destination unknown.
I nudged Osiecki. Where are we going?
It was the driver who answered. Take it easy, you’ll find out. And you can take my word for it, it’s no gyp joint.
Maybe he’s got something, said Osiecki. He acted as if he had been charmed.
We pulled up to a loft building in the West Thirties. Not so far away, it flashed through my head, from the French whorehouse where I got my first dose of clap. It was a desolate neighborhood—drugged, frozen, shell-shocked. Cats were prowling about half dead on their feet. I looked the building up and down. Couldn’t hear any soft music coming through the blind windows.
Ring the bell and tell the doorman
