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  to try to unwind.”

  “a place like this, huh?”

  “this was the place. he didn’t try to close

  deals, he just wanted to relax with the

  actors, the artists, the screenwriters, the

  directors, the producers, the investors

  and so forth. and, of course, there were also the

  beautiful girls.”

  “here?”

  “yes, look around …”

  I did.

  “well, it was just a matter of time until he discovered

  coke, then more coke, mostly with his new friends

  after the after-hour places closed.”

  “flying, what?”

  “yes, but professionally he

  continued to function well until

  he began doing crank.”

  “it really keeps you awake, huh? my

  round to buy …”

  I ordered two more.

  “after some months he felt more and more

  depressed, he took 6 weeks off and went to

  Hawaii, resting, laying in the sun.”

  “did he screw?”

  “he told me that he tried. anyhow, he came back

  and he used to talk to me here just like you’re

  doing now.”

  “oh.”

  “then he became obsessed with some Mexican Real

  Estate Dream

  which

  he would bankroll

  with a Mexican friend

  who was powerful in politics there.

  the master plan was that

  within 8 years they would control

  a real estate empire and

  several banks before the

  government could stop them.

  “drink up,” I suggested.

  “well, they didn’t quite get it rolling.

  he lost everything.

  at the office he became difficult and unreasonable,

  smashing ashtrays, throwing the phone out the window,

  once pouring a can of Tab down his secretary’s

  blouse. yet somehow he managed to retain an

  obnoxious brilliance and he remained almost functional

  which was better than most of the others there.”

  “most others don’t have much.”

  “that’s true. anyhow, one day he arrived at work

  dressed in a house painter’s outfit, you know, the

  white overalls, the little white cap, carrying a brush and a

  bucket of paint. that’s when the Board of Directors

  insisted on a 3-month leave of absence.”

  “BARKEEP!” I yelled. “COUPLE MORE!”

  “he sold his house and moved into an apartment

  on Fountain Avenue. his friends came by for

  a while, then they stopped.”

  “suckerfish like winners.”

  “yes, and then there was a period when he tried to

  get back with his x-wife but she didn’t want any more

  of that. she was with a young sculptor from Boston

  who was immensely talented and who taught

  at an Ivy League university.”

  “a rough turn of events,” I said.

  “anyhow, our friend had this apartment

  on Fountain Avenue and

  one day the manager who lived in the apartment

  below noticed water coming down through the

  ceiling …”

  “oh?”

  “he ran upstairs and knocked on the door, there

  was no answer, he took out his key and opened it, went

  in and there was Randy standing there like a statue,

  his head down in the bathroom sink, the water

  running and overflowing,

  running over the floor, and the manager wasn’t sure what

  to think, it looked so strange, and he went over and

  saw that the head was wedged there in the sink,

  and the manager felt his legs, his back, and everything

  was stiff, rigor mortis had long ago set in, there he

  was standing with his head down under the water

  and the overhead light on …”

  “listen, Monty,” I said, “your name is ‘Monty,’ isn’t

  it?”

  “yes, you’ve got it right.”

  “I drove over here earlier but that was such a long time ago.

  do you remember if the parking lot is out front

  or in the back?”

  “it’s straight out back.”

  “goodnight, Monty.”

  “goodnight.”

  fortunately after all that

  I still knew front from back. I climbed down off

  that bar stool and made my way as best I could to the

  exit.

  my turn

  the male reviewer writes that he

  misses the poems about

  the drinking bouts and the hard

  women and the low

  life.

  the female reviewer says that

  all I write about

  is drinking and puking and bad

  women

  and a life nobody could

  ever care

  about.

  their reviews are

  on the same page

  and are about

  the same book

  and

  this is a poem

  about

  book reviewers.

  skinny-dipping

  as a young man

  he went skinny-dipping with

  Kafka

  but it was too much

  for him:

  the sun burned him badly

  and he was in bed

  for two days

  with a high

  fever.

  he was fat

  and in great pain

  as he twisted in the

  sheets.

  now Kafka didn’t get burned

  and he visited the fat

  boy

  and the fat boy’s

  mother

  gave Kafka

  hell.

  and life continued.

  and the fat boy

  went on to write many

  books and he became

  famous in his own

  time

  while Kafka only wrote

  a few books and remained

  unknown.

  the fat boy

  even went on to live

  comfortably in Paris

  with a wife of some

  importance

  and they mixed with

  many of the

  great artists of their

  day

  while Kafka remained

  unknown

  and life continued.

  a close call

  pushing my cart through the supermarket

  today

  the thought crossed my mind

  that I could start

  knocking cans from the shelves and swiping

  at rolls of towels, toilet paper and

  silver foil,

  I could throw oranges, bananas, tomatoes

  into the air, I could take cans of

  beer from the refrigerator and roll

  them down the aisle, I could pull up

  women’s skirts and grab their asses,

  I could ram my shopping cart through

  the plate glass window.

  then another thought occurred to me:

  people generally consider the consequences

  before they do something

  like that.

  I pushed my cart along.

  a young woman in a checkered skirt was

  bending over
in the pet food section.

  I seriously considered grabbing her

  ass

  but I didn’t, I rolled on

  by.

  I had the items I needed and I pushed

  my cart up to the checkout stand.

  a lady in a red smock with a nameplate

  waited on me.

  the nameplate indicated her name was

  “Robin.”

  Robin looked at me: “how you doing?”

  she asked.

  “fine,” I told her.

  and then she began tabulating and

  bagging my purchases

  with no idea that

  the fellow standing there before her

  had just two minutes ago been

  one small step away from the

  madhouse.

  like a rock

  through early evening

  I

  sit alone

  listening to the sound of

  the heater;

  I fall into myself

  like a rock dropped into some

  ungrand canyon.

  it hits bottom. I

  lift my drink.

  unfortunately

  my hell is not any more hell

  than the hell of a

  fly.

  that’s what makes it

  difficult. and

  nothing is less

  profound than a

  melancholy

  drunk.

  I must remember:

  the death or the murder of a

  drunk matters

  less

  than

  nothing.

  spider, on the wall:

  why do you take

  so long?

  the waitress at the yogurt shop

  is young, quite young,

  and the boys are lined up on the bench

  waiting for a table

  as she waits on customers.

  the boys say sly and

  daring things to her

  in very low voices.

  they all want to

  bed down with her

  or

  at least

  get her

  attention.

  she hears the

  whispered remarks,

  really likes hearing them

  but says,

  again and again,

  “shut up! oh, you shut up!”

  it goes on and

  on:

  the boys continue and

  she continues:

  “oh, shut up!”

  in a voice without

  grace or melody

  in a voice

  without warmth or humor

  in a voice

  remarkably

  ugly:

  “oh, shut up now!”

  but the eager boys

  are not aware of her

  tone of

  voice

  and the one who will

  finally live with that

  voice

  is probably not yet sitting

  there.

  her husband of the

  future

  will finally understand

  the horrible reality of

  that voice

  (remember,

  the voice is the window

  to the soul)

  and he will think:

  oh my god

  oh my god

  oh my god

  what have I

  done?

  won’t

  she

  ever

  shut up?

  one out in the minor leagues

  men on 2nd and 3rd.

  first base was open.

  one out.

  we gave Parker an

  intentional walk.

  we had a 3- to- 2

  lead.

  last half of the

  9th, Simpson on the

  mound.

  Tanner up.

  Simpson let it go.

  it was low and

  inside.

  Tanner tapped it

  to our shortstop,

  DeMarco.

  perfect double play

  ball.

  DeMarco gloved it,

  flipped it to Johnson

  our 2b man.

  Johnson touched 2nd

  then stood there

  holding the ball as

  the runners were

  steaming around

  the bases.

  I screamed at Johnson

  from the dugout:

  “DO SOMETHING WITH THE

  GODDAMNED BALL!”

  the whole stadium was

  screaming.

  Johnson just stood there

  a funny look on his face

  with the ball.

  then

  he fell forward

  still holding the ball.

  he was

  stretched out there as

  the winning run

  scored.

  the dugout emptied

  as we ran

  to Johnson.

  we turned him

  over.

  he wasn’t moving.

  he looked

  dead.

  the trainer took

  his pulse and

  looked at me.

  then he started

  mouth-to-mouth.

  the announcer asked

  if there was a

  doctor in the

  stands.

  two of them came

  down.

  one of them

  was drunk.

  the tiny crowd started

  coming

  out on the field.

  the ushers pushed

  them back.

  somebody took the

  ball out of Johnson’s

  hand.

  they worked on him

  for a long time.

  there was a

  camera flash.

  then another.

  then the doctor

  stood up:

  “it’s no good.

  he’s gone.”

  the stretcher

  came out and

  we loaded Johnson

  onto the stretcher.

  somebody threw a

  warm-up

  jacket

  over his face.

  the stadium was

  almost deserted as

  they carried Johnson

  off the field

  through

  the dugout

  and into

  the locker room.

  I didn’t go

  in.

  I took a cup of water

  from the cooler

  and

  sat alone on the bench.

  Toby the batboy

  came over.

  “what’s going to happen now, Mr.

  Quinn?” he asked.

  “our 2nd baseman is

  dead, Toby.”

  “who you going to play

  there now?”

  “I don’t think that’s

  important right now,” I

  told him.

  “yes, it is, Mr. Quinn!

  we’re 2 games out of

  first place

  going into September!”

  “I’ll think of something,

  Toby …”

  then I got up and went

  through the door

  to the locker room,

  Toby following right

  behind.

  the little girls hissed

  since my last name was Fuch, he said to Raymond, you can

  believe the school yard was
tough: they put itching

  powder down my neck, threw gravel at me, stung me

  with rubber bands in class, and outside they called

  me names, well, one name mainly, over and over,

  and on top of all that my parents were poor, I wore

  cardboard in my shoes to fill in the holes in the

  soles, my pants were patched, my shirts thread-

  bare; and even my teachers ganged up

  on me, they slammed my

  palm with rulers and sent me to the principal’s office as

  if I was really guilty of something;

  and, of course, the abuse kept coming from my classmates;

  I was stoned, beaten, pissed on;

  the little girls hissed and stuck their tongues out

  at me …

  Fuch’s wife smiled sadly at Raymond: my poor darling husband had such

  a terrible childhood!

  (she was so beautiful it almost stunned one to look at

  her.)

  Fuch looked at Raymond: hey, your glass is empty.

  yeah, said Raymond.

  Fuch touched a button and the English butler silently

  glided in. he nodded respectfully to Raymond and in his

  beautiful accent asked, another drink, sir?

  yes, please, Raymond answered.

  the butler went off to prepare the drink.

  what hurt most, of course, continued Fuch, was the name-