You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense Read online

  grinning: “well, what you guys

  waiting for?”

  the other guy, Jack, he passed me

  the tequila bottle and I took a

  hit and passed it back and he

  took a hit.

  Lance looked at us: “I’ll be

  in the car, sleeping it

  off.”

  Jack and I waited until he was

  gone

  then started walking toward the

  exit.

  Jack was wearing this big

  sombrero

  and right at the exit was an

  old whore sitting in a

  chair.

  she stuck out her leg

  barring our

  way: “come on, boys, I’ll make

  it good for you and

  cheap!”

  somehow that scared the

  shit out of Jack and he

  said, “my god, I’m going to

  PUKE!”

  “NOT ON THE FLOOR!” screamed

  the whore

  and with that

  Jack ripped off his

  sombrero

  and holding it

  before him

  he must have puked a

  gallon.

  then he just stood there

  staring down

  at it

  and the whore

  said, “get out of

  here!”

  Jack ran out the door with

  his sombrero

  and then the whore

  got a very kind look upon her

  face and said to me:

  “cheap!” and I walked

  into a room with her

  and there was a big fat man

  sitting in a chair and

  I asked her, “who’s

  that?”

  and she said, “he’s here to

  see that I don’t get

  hurt.”

  and I walked over to the

  man and said, “hey, how ya

  doin’?”

  and he said, “fine,

  señor…”

  and I said,

  “you live around

  here?”

  and he said, “give

  her the

  money.”

  “how much?”

  “two dollars.”

  I gave the lady the two

  dollars

  then walked back to the

  man.

  “I might come and live

  in Mexico some day,” I

  told him.

  “get the hell out of

  here,” he said,

  “NOW!”

  as I walked through the

  exit

  Jack was waiting out there

  without his

  sombrero

  but he was still

  wavering

  drunk.

  “Christ,” I said, “she was

  great, she actually got my

  balls into her

  mouth!”

  we walked back to the car.

  Lance was passed out, we

  awakened him and he drove us

  out of

  there

  somehow

  we got through the border

  crossing

  and all the way

  driving back to

  L.A.

  we rode Jack for being a

  chickenshit

  virgin.

  Lance did it in a gentle

  manner

  but I was loud

  demeaning Jack for his lack of

  guts

  and I kept at it

  until Jack passed out

  near

  San Clemente.

  I sat up there next to

  Lance as we passed the last

  tequila bottle back and

  forth.

  as Los Angeles rushed toward

  us

  Jack asked, “how was

  it?”

  and I answered

  in a worldly

  tone: “I’ve had

  better.”

  starting fast

  we each

  at times

  should

  remember

  the most

  elevated

  and

  lucky

  moment

  of

  our

  lives.

  for me

  it

  was

  being

  a

  very young

  man

  and

  sleeping

  penniless

  and

  friendless

  upon a

  park

  bench

  in a

  strange

  city

  which

  doesn’t say

  much

  for all

  those

  many

  decades

  which

  followed.

  the crazy truth

  the nut in the red outfit

  came walking down the street

  talking to himself

  when a hotshot in a sports car

  cut into an alley

  in front of the nut

  who hollered, “HEY, DOG DRIP!

  SWINE SHIT! YOU GOT PEANUTS FOR

  BRAINS?”

  the hotshot braked his sports

  car, backed toward the nut,

  stopped,

  said: “WHAT’S THAT YOU SAID,

  BUDDY?”

  “I said, YOU BETTER

  DRIVE OFF WHILE YOU CAN,

  ASSHOLE!”

  the hotshot had his girl in the

  car with him and started to

  open the door.

  “YOU BETTER NOT GET OUT OF THAT

  CAR, PEANUT BRAIN!”

  the door closed and the sports car

  roared

  off.

  the nut in the red outfit then

  continued to walk down the

  street.

  “THERE AIN’T NOTHIN’ NOWHERE,”

  he said, “AND IT’S GETTING TO BE

  LESS THAN NOTHING ALL THE

  TIME!”

  it was a great day

  there on 7th Street just off

  Weymouth

  Drive.

  drive through hell

  the people are weary, unhappy and frustrated, the people are

  bitter and vengeful, the people are deluded and fearful, the

  people are angry and uninventive

  and I drive among them on the freeway and they project

  what is left of themselves in their manner of driving—

  some more hateful, more thwarted than others—

  some don’t like to be passed, some attempt to keep others

  from passing

  —some attempt to block lane changes

  —some hate cars of a newer, more expensive model

  —others in these cars hate the older cars.

  the freeway is a circus of cheap and petty emotions, it’s

  humanity on the move, most of them coming from some place they

  hated and going to another they hate just as much or

  more.

  the freeways are a lesson in what we have become and

  most of the crashes and deaths are the collision

  of incomplete beings, of pitiful and demented

  lives.

  when I drive the freeways I see the soul of humanity of

  my city and it’s ugly, ugly, ugly: the living have choked the

  heart

  away.

  for the concerned:

  if you get married they think you’re

  finished

  and if you are without a woman they think you’re

  incomplete.

  a large portion of my readers want me to

  keep writing about
bedding down with madwomen and

  streetwalkers—

  also, about being in jails and hospitals, or

  starving or

  puking my guts

  out.

  I agree that complacency hardly engenders an

  immortal literature

  but neither does

  repetition.

  for those readers now

  sick at heart

  believing that I’m a contented

  man—

  please have some

  cheer: agony sometimes changes

  form

  but

  it never ceases for

  anybody.

  a funny guy

  Schopenhauer couldn’t abide the masses,

  they drove him mad

  but he was able to say,

  “at least, I am not them.”

  and this consoled him to some

  extent

  and I think one of his most humorous writings

  was when he expostulated against some man who

  uselessly cracked his whip

  over his horse

  completely destroying a thought process

  Arthur was involved

  in.

  but the man with the whip was a part of the

  whole

  no matter how seemingly useless and

  stupid

  and once great thoughts

  often with time

  become useless and

  stupid.

  but Schopenhauer’s rage was so

  beautiful

  so well placed that I laughed

  out loud

  then

  put him down

  next to Nietzsche

  who was also

  all too

  human.

  shoes

  when you’re young

  a pair of

  female

  high-heeled shoes

  just sitting

  alone

  in the closet

  can fire your

  bones;

  when you’re old

  it’s just

  a pair of shoes

  without

  anybody

  in them

  and

  just as

  well.

  coffee

  I was having a coffee at the

  counter

  when a man

  3 or 4 stools down

  asked me,

  “listen, weren’t you the

  guy who was

  hanging from his

  heels

  from that 4th floor

  hotel room

  the other

  night?”

  “yes,” I answered, “that

  was me.”

  “what made you do

  that?” he asked.

  “well, it’s pretty

  involved.”

  he looked away

  then.

  the waitress

  who had been

  standing there

  asked me,

  “he was joking,

  wasn’t

  he?”

  “no,” I

  said.

  I paid, got up, walked

  to the door, opened

  it.

  I heard the man

  say, “that guy’s

  nuts.”

  out on the street I

  walked north

  feeling

  curiously

  honored.

  together

  HEY, I hollered across the

  room to her,

  DRINK SOME WINE OUT OF

  YOUR SHOE!

  WHY? she

  screamed.

  BECAUSE THIS USELESSNESS

  NEEDS SOME

  GAMBLE!

  I yelled

  back.

  HEY, the guy in the next

  apartment beat on the

  wall, I’VE GOT TO GET UP

  IN THE MORNING AND GO

  TO WORK SO FOR CHRIST’S

  SAKE, SHUT

  UP!

  he damn near broke the wall

  down and had a most

  powerful

  voice.

  I walked over to

  her, said, listen, let’s

  be quiet, he’s got some

  rights.

  FUCK YOU, YOU ASSHOLE!

  she screamed

  at me.

  the guy began pounding

  on the wall

  again.

  she was right and he was

  right.

  I walked the bottle over

  to the window and

  looked out into the

  night.

  then I had a good roaring

  drink

  and I thought, we are all

  doomed

  together, that’s all there is

  to

  it. (that’s all there was

  to that particular drink, just

  like all the

  others.)

  then I walked

  back to her and

  she was asleep in

  her

  chair.

  I carried her to

  the bed

  turned out the

  lights

  then sat in the

  chair by the

  window

  sucking at the

  bottle, thinking,

  well, I’ve gotten

  this far

  and that’s

  plenty.

  and now

  she’s sleeping

  and

  maybe

  he can

  too.

  the finest of the breed

  there’s nothing to

  discuss

  there’s nothing to

  remember

  there’s nothing to

  forget

  it’s sad

  and

  it’s not

  sad

  seems the

  most sensible

  thing

  a person can

  do

  is

  sit

  with drink in

  hand

  as the walls

  wave

  their goodbye

  smiles

  one comes through

  it

  all

  with a certain

  amount of

  efficiency and

  bravery

  then

  leaves

  some accept

  the possibility of

  God

  to help them

  get

  through

  others

  take it

  straight on

  and to these

  I drink

  tonight.

  close to greatness

  at one stage in my life

  I met a man who claimed to have

  visited Pound at St. Elizabeths.

  then I met a woman who not only

  claimed to have visited

  E.P.

  but also to have made love

  to him—she even showed

  me

  certain sections in the

  Cantos

  where Ezra was supposed to have

  mentioned

  her.

  so there was this man and

  this woman

  and the woman told me

  that Pound had never

  mentioned a visit from this

  man

  and the man claimed that the

  lady had had nothing to do

  with the

  master

  that she was a

  charlatan.

  and since I wasn’t a

  Poundian scholar

  I didn’t know who to

  believe

  but

  one thing I do

  k
now: when a man is

  living

  many claim relationships

  that are hardly

  so

  and after he dies, well,

  then it’s everybody’s

  party.

  my guess is that Pound

  knew neither the lady or the

  gentleman

  or if he knew

  one

  or if he knew

  both

  it was a shameful waste of

  madhouse

  time.

  the stride

  Norman and I, both 19, striding the streets of

  night…feeling big, young young, big and

  young

  Norman said, “Jesus Christ, I bet nobody

  walks with giant strides like we do!”

  1939

  after having listened to

  Stravinsky

  not long

  after,

  the war got

  Norman.

  I sit here now

  46 years later

  on the second floor of a hot

  one a.m. morning

  drunk

  still big

  not

  so young.

  Norman, you would

  never guess

  what

  has happened to

  me

  what

  has happened to

  all of

  us.

  I remember your

  saying: “make it or

  break it.”

  neither happened and

  it

  won’t.

  final story

  god, there he is drunk again

  telling the same old stories

  over and over again

  as they push him for

  more—some with nothing

  else to do, others

  secretly snickering

  at this

  great writer

  babbling

  drooling

  in his little white

  rat