Tales of Ordinary Madness Read online

  “Steiner?”

  “Glub....”

  “Look, finish your mouthful. I have something to say to you.”

  I listened to him chewing. It sounded like twelve rabbits fucking in the straw.

  “Listen, man. Mad Jimmy’s here. He’s your boy. He rode up on a bicycle. I’m about to vomit. Come right over. Hurry. I warn you. You’re his friend. You’re his only friend. You better hurry over here. Take him away from me, take him away from my eyes. I can’t be responsible for myself much longer.”

  I hung up.

  “Did you call Izzy?” asked Jimmy.

  “Yeah. He’s your only friend.”

  “Oh, jesus christ,” said Mad Jimmy, and then he started dumping all his spoons and stuff and wooden dolls into a sack and he ran out to his bicycle and hid them in the paper-rack.

  Poor Izzy was on the way. The tank. Little air-hole mouth sucking in the sky. He was fucked-up mainly on Hemingway, Faulkner and a minor admixture of Mailer and Mahler.

  Then suddenly, there was Izzy. He never walked. He just seemed to swing through a door. I mean, he ran along on little balls of air – hungry and damned near invincible.

  Then he saw Mad Jimmy and his wine bottle.

  “I need money, Jimmy! Stand up!”

  Izzy ripped Jimmy’s pockets inside out and found nothing.

  “Watcha doin’, man?” asked Mad Jimmy.

  “The last time we got in a fight, Jimmy, your ripped my shirt, man. You ripped my pants. You owe me $5 for the pants and $3 for the shirt.”

  “Fuck man, I didn’t rip your fucking shirt.”

  “Shut up, Jimmy, I’m warning you!”

  Izzy ran out to the bicycle and began going through the paper-sack which hung over the back rack. He came in with the brown bag. Dumped it on the coffee table.

  Spoons, knives, forks, rubber dolls ... carved wooden images....

  “This stuff ain’t worth shit!”

  Izzy ran back to the bicycle and searched the paper bags some more.

  Mad Jimmy came up and began dumping his shit back into the brown paper bag. “This silver alone is worth twenty bucks! You see what an asshole he is?”

  “Yeah.”

  Izzy ran back on it. “Jimmy, you ain’t got shit on that bike! You owe me eight bucks, Jimmy. Listen, the last time I beat you up, you tore my clothes!”

  “Fuck you, mother!”

  Jimmy adjusted his new Panama once again in the mirror.

  “Look at me! Look how handsome I look!”

  “Yeah, I see,” said Izzy, and then he walked over and took the Panama and ripped a long hole in the outer brim. Then he ripped a slit on the other and put the Panama back on Jimmy’s head. Jimmy didn’t look so handsome anymore.

  “Get me some scotch tape,” said Jimmy, “I gotta fix my hat.”

  Izzy walked over, found some scotch tape, jammed tassles of it into the hole, then he ran a whole hunk of it over the rip, but missed most of it, and a big strip of tape ran over the brim and down into Jimmy’s face, dangling right over the nose.

  “Why do they want me in court? I don’t play games! What the hell is this?”

  “All right, Jimmy,” said Izzy, “I’m driving you to Patton. You’re a sick man! You need help! You owe me $8, you busted Mary’s rib, you hit her in the face ... you’re sick, sick, sick!”

  “Fuck you, mother!” Mad Jimmy got up and swung at Izzy, missed, then fell to the floor. Izzy picked him up and began to give him the airplane spin.

  “Don’t, Izzy,” I said, “you’ll slash him to ribbons. There’s too much glass on the floor.”

  Izzy tossed him on the couch. Mad Jimmy ran out with his brown paper bag, stuffed it into the paperholder and then began cussing.

  “Izzy, you stole my bottle of wine! I had another bottle of wine in that papersack! You stole it, bastard! Come on now, that bottle cost me 54 cents. When I bought it, I had 60 cents. Now I only have six cents.”

  “Look, Jimmy, would Izzy take your bottle of wine? What’s that next to you there? On the couch?”

  Jimmy picked it up. He looked down into the eye of the bottle.

  “No, this isn’t the one. There’s another one, Izzy took it.”

  “Look, Jimmy, your friend doesn’t drink wine. He doesn’t want your bottle. Why don’t you get off your imaginary kick and ride your bike the hell out of here?”

  “I’m sick of you too, Jimmy,” said Izzy, “now peddle off. You’ve had it.”

  Jimmy stood in front of the mirror adjusting what was left of the Panama. Then he walked out, got on Arthur’s bicycle and rode off under the moon. He’d been at my place for hours. Now it was night.

  “Poor crazy bastard,” I said, watching him peddle off, “I’m sorry for him.”

  “Me too,” said Izzy.

  Then he reached under a bush and got the wine bottle. We walked inside.

  “I’ll get a couple of glasses,” I said.

  I came back and we sat there, drinking the wine.

  “Have you ever tried sucking your own dick?” I asked Izzy.

  “I’ll try it when I get home.”

  “I don’t think it can be done,” I said.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “I fall about an eighth of an inch short. It’s frustrating.”

  We finished the wine and then walked down to Shakey’s and drank the deep brown beer by the pitcherful and watched the old-time fights – we saw Louis get dumped by the Dutchman; the third Zale-Rocky G. fight; Braddock-Baer; Dempsey-Firpo, all of them, and then they put on some old Laurel and Hardy flicks ... there was one where the bastards were fighting for covers in the sleeper of a Pullman. I was the only one who laughed. People stared at me. I just cracked peanuts and kept on laughing. Then Izzy began laughing. Then everybody started laughing at them fighting for the covers in the Pullman. I forgot all about Mad Jimmy and felt like a human being for the first time in hours. Living was easy – all you had to do was let go. And have a little money. Let the other men fight the wars, let the other men go to jail.

  We closed the place up and then Izzy went to his place and I went to mine.

  I stripped, worked up a lather, hooked my toes in the bed rungs and doubled into a circle. It was the same – an eighth of an inch short. Well, you couldn’t have it all. I reached over, opened it in the middle, and began reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Nothing had changed. It was still a lousy book.

  WOULD YOU SUGGEST WRITING AS A CAREER?

  The bar. Sure. It overlooked the takeoff ramp. We sat at the bar but the bartender ignored us. Bartenders in airport bars are snobs, I decided, just like porters on trains used to be snobs. I suggested to Garson that rather than scream at the man, which is what he (the bartender) wanted, that we take a table. We took a table.

  Well-dressed thieves all about, looking comfortable and dull, sipping at drinks, talking quietly and waiting on their flight. Garson and I sat and looked at the barmaids.

  “Shit,” said Garson, “look – their dresses are cut so that you can see their panties.”

  “Ummm hum,” I said.

  Then we made comments about them. That one had no ass. The other one’s legs were too thin. And they both looked stupid and thought they were hot shit. The one without the ass walked over. I told Garson to name his and then I ordered a scotch and water. She went off for the drinks, then came back. The drinks weren’t higher than at an ordinary bar but then I had to tip her well for seeing her panties – up close like that too.

  “You scared?” asked Garson.

  “Yes,” I said, “but what about?”

  “Flying for the first time.”

  “I thought I might be. But now, looking at these–” I waved about the bar “– it doesn’t matter ...”

  “How about the readings?”

  “The readings I don’t like. They’re stupid. Like digging a ditch. It’s survival.”

  “At least you’re doing what you like to do.”

  “No,” I said, “I’m d
oing what you like to do.”

  “All right, then, at least people will appreciate what you’re doing.”

  “I hope so. I’d hate to get lynched for reading a sonnet.”

  I reached into my travel bag, put the bag between my legs and refilled my drink. I had that, then I ordered Garson and myself one more.

  The one without the ass in ruffled panties: I wondered if she wore other panties under those ruffled panties? We finished our drinks. I gave Garson a 5 or a ten for the ride in and we went upstairs for my seat on the plane. I no sooner sat down in the last seat, last row, when the plane began to roll. Close.

  It seemed to take a long time to get off the ground. An old grandma had the window seat next to me. She looked calm, almost bored. Probably took 4 or 5 flights a week, ran a string of whorehouses. I couldn’t get the safety belt quite right but since nobody else was complaining, I let mine dangle rather loosely. It would be less embarrassing to get thrown out of my seat than to ask the stewardess how to fasten the belt.

  We were in the air and I hadn’t screamed. It was calmer than a trainride. No motion. Boring. We seemed to be doing 30 miles an hour; the mountains and clouds didn’t hurry by at all. 2 stewardesses walked up and down, smiling smiling smiling. One of them didn’t look too bad but she had these huge cords of veins running up and down her neck. Too bad. The other stewardess didn’t have any ass.

  We ate and then the drinks came around. One dollar. Not everybody wanted a drink. Strange turds. Then I began hoping the plane would lose a wing and then I’d really get to see what the faces of the stewardesses looked like. I knew the one with the cords would scream very loudly. The one without the ass – well, who knew? I’d grab the one with the cords and rape her on the way down to our death. A quickie. Clutching, finally, in mutual ejaculation just before we hit the ground.

  We didn’t crash. I had my second allowable drink, then sneaked an extra one right in front of grandma. She didn’t flinch. I did. A full glass. Straight down. No water.

  Then we were there. Seattle ...

  I let them all get off first. I had to. Now I couldn’t get out of my seatbelt.

  I called to the one with the big veins in her neck.

  “Stewardess! Stewardess!”

  She walked back.

  “Look I’m sorry ... but how do you ... open this damn thing?”

  She wouldn’t touch the belt or get close to me.

  “Turn it over, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “Just pull on that little clip on the back ...”

  She walked away. I pulled at the little clip. Nothing. I pulled and I pulled. Oh, Christ! ... then, it gave.

  I grabbed my flightbag and tried to act normal.

  She smiled at me at the gangplank door.

  “Good afternoon and come again, sir!”

  I walked down the runway. A young boy with long blonde hair was standing there.

  “Mr. Chinaski?” he asked.

  “Yes, is that you, Belford?”

  “I kept watching the faces ...” he said.

  “That’s all right,” I said, “let’s get out of here.”

  “We still have a few spare hours before the reading.”

  “Great,” I said.

  They were tearing up the airport. You had to take a bus to get to the parking lot. They let you wait. There was a big crowd waiting for the bus. Belford started to walk toward them.

  “Wait! Wait!” I said. “I just can’t stand there among all those damned people!”

  “They don’t know who you are, Mr. Chinaski.”

  “How well I know. But I know who they are. Let’s stand here. When the bus comes we’ll dash up. Meanwhile how about a little drink?”

  “No thanks, Mr. Chinaski.”

  “Look, Belford, call me Henry.”

  “I’m Henry too,” he answered.

  “Oh yes, I forgot.” ...

  We stood and I drank.

  “Here comes the bus, Henry!”

  “O.k., Henry!”

  We ran for the bus ...

  After that, we decided that I was “Hank” and he was “Henry.”

  He had an address in his hand. A friend’s cabin. We could lay up there together until the reading. His friend was gone. The reading wasn’t until 9 p.m. Somehow Henry couldn’t find the cabin. It was nice country. Sure, it was nice country. Pines and pines and lakes and pines. Fresh air. No traffic. It bored me. There wasn’t any beauty in me. I thought, I’m not a very nice fellow. Here’s life the way it should be and I feel as if I were in jail.

  “Nice country,” I said, “but I suppose some day they’ll get to it.”

  “They will,” said Henry. “You ought to see it when the snow comes down.”

  Thank god, I thought, I’m spared that ...

  Belford stopped outside a bar. We went in. I hated bars. I’d written too many stories and poems about bars. Belford thought he was doing me a favor.

  You can get just so much out of bars and they won’t go down anymore. They come up. People in bars were like people in 5 and dime stores: they were killing time and everything else.

  I followed him in. He knew some people at a table. Lo, here was a professor of something. And there was a professor of something. And there was this and there was that. A tableful of them. Some women. Somehow the women looked like margarine. Everybody sat there drinking this green poison beer in big mugs.

  A green beer arrived in front of me. I lifted it, held my breath and took a pull.

  “I’ve always liked your work,” said one of the profs, “You remind me of ...”

  “Pardon me,” I said, “I’ll be right back ...”

  I hustled toward the crapper. Naturally it stank. A nice quaint place.

  Bar ... coming up!

  I didn’t have time to get a toilet door open. It had to go into the urinal. Further down the urinal from me was the bar clown. The town “mayor.” In his red cap. Funny guy. Shit.

  I let it go, gave him the dirtiest look I could, then he walked out.

  Then I walked out and sat in front of my green beer.

  “You’re reading tonight at .............?” one of them asked me.

  I didn’t answer.

  “We’ll all be there.”

  “I’ll probably be there too,” I said.

  I had to be. I’d already cashed and spent their check. The other place, the next day, maybe I could get out of that.

  All I wanted to do was get back to my room in L.A., all the shades down while drinking COLD TURKEY and eating hard-boiled eggs with paprika, and hoping for some Mahler on the radio ...

  9 p.m.... Belford guided me in. There were little round tables with people sitting at them. There was a stage.

  “You want me to introduce you?” Belford asked.

  “No,” I said.

  I found the steps that led up to the stage. There was a chair, a table. I put my traveling bag up on the table and started taking things out.

  “I’m Chinaski,” I told them, “and this is a pair of shorts and here are some stockings and here is a shirt and here is a pint of scotch and here are some books of poetry.”

  I left the scotch and the books on the table. I peeled the cellophane from the scotch and had a drink. “Any questions.”

  They were quiet.

  “Well, we might as well begin then.”

  I gaeve them some of the old stuff first. Each time I took another drink the next poem sounded better – to me. College students were all right anyhow. They only asked one thing – that you didn’t purposely lie to them. I thought that was fair.

  I got through the first 30 minutes, asked for a ten minute break, got down off the stage with my bottle and sat at a table with Belford and 4 or 5 other students. A young girl came up with one of my books. God o mighty, baby, I thought, I’ll autograph anything you’ve got!

  “Mr. Chinaski?”

  “Sure,” I said with a wave of my genius hand. I asked her name. Then wrote something. Drew a pictu
re of a naked guy chasing a naked woman. Dated it.

  “Thanks very much, Mr. Chinaski!”

  So this was how it worked? Just a bunch of bullshit.

  I took my bottle out of some guy’s mouth. “Look mother, that’s the 2nd hit you’ve taken. I’ve got to sweat another thirty minutes up there. Don’t touch that bottle again.”

  I sat in the middle of the table. Then I took a pull, sat it back down.

  “Would you suggest writing as a career?” one of the young students asked me.

  “Are you trying to be funny?” I asked him.

  “No, no, I’m serious. Would you advise writing as a career?”

  “Writing chooses you, you don’t choose it.”

  That got him off me. I had another drink, then climbed back on stage. I always saved what I preferred for last. It was my first college reading but I’d had a drunken two night stand at an L.A. bookstore for a warmup. Save the best for last. That’s what you did when you were a kid. I read it on out, then closed the books.

  The applause surprised me. It was heavy and it kept on. It was embarrassing. The poems weren’t that good. They were applauding for something else. The fact that I’d made it through, I suppose ...

  There was a party at this professor’s house. This professor looked just like Hemingway. Of course, Hemingway was dead. The professor was rather dead too. He kept on talking about literature and writing – of all the disgusting fucking subjects. No matter where I went he trailed me. He followed me everywhere but to the bathroom. Everytime I turned around, there he was –

  “Ah, Hemingway! I thought you were dead!”

  “Did you know that Faulkner was a drunkard too?”

  “Yeh.”

  “What do you think of James Jones?”

  The old boy was sick: he never got off it.

  I found Belford. “Listen, kid, the refrigerator is dry. Hemingway doesn’t stock much shit ...”

  I gave him a 20. “Look, you know anybody who can go out and get some more beer, at least?”

  “Yes, I know somebody.”

  “Fine, then. And a couple of cigars.”

  “What kind?”

  “Any kind. Cheap. Ten or 15 cents. And thanks.”

  There were 20 or 30 people there and I had already stocked the refrigerator once. So this is the way this bullshit works?