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

  I work for a

  lawyer and

  if you’re ever in

  town

  please call me.”

  “I met you

  after your reading

  at the Troubadour

  we had a night

  together

  do you remember?

  I married

  that man

  you told me had a

  mean voice

  when you phoned and

  he answered

  we’re divorced now

  I have a little

  girl

  age 2

  I am no longer in

  the music

  business but

  miss it

  would like to

  see you

  again…”

  “I’ve read

  all your books

  I’m 23

  not much

  breast

  but have great

  legs

  and

  just a few

  words

  from you

  would mean

  so much

  to me…”

  girls

  please give your

  bodies and your

  lives

  to

  the young men

  who

  deserve them

  besides

  there is

  no way

  I would welcome

  the

  intolerable

  dull

  senseless hell

  you would bring

  me

  and

  I wish you

  luck

  in bed

  and

  out

  but not

  in

  mine

  thank

  you.

  the lady in the castle

  she lived in this house

  that looked like a

  castle

  and when you got inside

  the ceilings were so very

  high

  and I was poor

  and it all rather

  fascinated

  me.

  she

  was no longer

  young

  but she had

  masses

  of hair

  that damn near

  went down to her

  ankles

  and

  I thought about

  how strange

  it would be

  doing it

  with all that

  hair.

  I drove up there

  several times

  in my old

  car

  and she had fine

  liquors to

  drink

  and we sat

  but I could

  never quite get

  near her

  and though I didn’t

  push at

  it

  something about

  not

  connecting

  did offend my

  ego

  for ugly as I was

  I had always been

  lucky with the

  ladies.

  it confused me

  and I suppose

  I needed

  that.

  she liked to

  talk about

  the arts and

  about

  film making

  and listening

  to all that

  only made me

  drink

  more.

  I

  finally

  just

  gave her

  up

  and a good year

  or so

  went by

  when

  one night

  the phone

  rang: it was the

  lady.

  “I want to come see

  you,” she said.

  “I’m writing now, I’m

  hot…I can’t see

  anybody…”

  “I just want to come

  by, I won’t bother you,

  I’ll just sit on the couch,

  I’ll sleep on the couch, I

  won’t bother you…”

  “NO! JESUS CHRIST, I

  CAN’T SEE ANYBODY!”

  I hung up.

  the lady who was actually

  on the couch

  said, “oh, you’re all

  SOFT now!”

  “yeah.”

  “come here…”

  she took my penis

  in her hand

  flicked out her

  tongue

  then

  stopped.

  “what are you writing?”

  “nothing…I’ve got writer’s

  block…”

  “sure you have…your pipes are

  clogged…you need to get

  cleaned out…”

  then she had me in her

  mouth

  and then the phone rang

  again…

  in a fury

  I ran over to the

  phone

  picked it

  up.

  it was the lady in the

  castle:

  “listen, I won’t bother you,

  you won’t even know I’m

  there…”

  “YOU WHORE, I’M GETTING A

  BLOW JOB!”

  I hung up and

  turned back.

  the other lady was walking

  toward the

  door.

  “what’sa matter?” I

  asked.

  “I can’t STAND that

  term!”

  “what term?”

  “BLOW JOB!” she

  screamed.

  she slammed the door and

  was gone…

  I walked to where the

  typewriter sat

  put a new piece of paper

  in there.

  it was one

  a.m.

  I sat there and

  drank scotch and

  beer chasers

  smoked cheap

  cigars.

  3:15 a.m.

  I was still sitting

  there

  re-lighting old

  cigar stubs and

  drinking ale.

  the new

  piece of paper was still

  unused.

  I switched out the

  lights

  worked my way toward

  the bedroom

  got myself on the

  bed

  clothes still

  on

  I could hear the toilet

  running

  but couldn’t get up

  to tap the handle

  to end that

  sound

  my god damned pipes were

  clogged.

  relentless as the tarantula

  they’re not going to let you

  sit at a front table

  at some cafe in Europe

  in the mid-afternoon sun.

  if you do, somebody’s going to

  drive by and

  spray your guts with a

  submachine gun.

  they’re not going to let you

  feel good

  for very long

  anywhere.

  the forces aren’t going to

  let you sit around

  fucking-off and

  relaxing.

  you’ve got to do it

  their way.

  the unhappy, the bitter and

  the vengeful

  need their

  fix—which is

  you or somebody

  anybody

  in agony, or

  better yet

  dead, dropped into some

  hole.

  as long as there are

 
human beings about

  there is never going to be

  any peace

  for any individual

  upon this earth (or

  anywhere else

  they might

  escape to).

  all you can do

  is maybe grab

  ten lucky minutes

  here

  or maybe an hour

  there.

  something

  is working toward you

  right now, and

  I mean you

  and nobody but

  you.

  their night

  never could read Tender Is the

  Night

  but they’ve made a

  tv adaptation of the

  book

  and it’s been running

  for several

  nights

  and I have spent

  ten minutes

  here and there

  watching the troubles of

  the rich

  while they are leaning

  against their beach chairs

  in Nice

  or walking about their

  large rooms

  drink in hand while

  making

  philosophical

  statements

  or

  fucking up

  at the

  dinner party

  or the

  dinner dance

  they really have no

  idea

  of what to do with

  themselves:

  swim?

  tennis?

  drive up the

  coast?

  down the

  coast?

  find

  new beds?

  lose old

  ones?

  or

  fuck with the

  arts and the

  artists?

  having nothing to struggle

  against

  they have nothing to struggle

  for.

  the rich are different

  all right

  so is the ring-

  tailed

  maki and the

  sand

  flea.

  huh?

  in

  Germany France Italy

  I can walk down the streets and be

  followed by

  young men laughing

  young ladies

  giggling and

  old

  ladies turning their noses

  up…

  while

  in America

  I am just another

  tired

  old man

  doing whatever

  tired old men

  do.

  oh, this has its

  compensations:

  I can take my pants

  to the cleaners or

  stand in a

  supermarket line

  without any

  hubbub at

  all:

  the gods have allowed me

  a gentle

  anonymity.

  yet

  at times

  I do consider my

  overseas fame

  and

  the only thing

  I can come up with is

  that

  I must have some

  great motherfucking

  translators.

  I must

  owe them

  the hair on my

  balls

  or

  possibly

  my balls

  themselves.

  it’s funny, isn’t it? #1

  we were standing around

  at this birthday party

  at this fancy

  restaurant

  and

  many

  special people were

  about

  preening their

  fame.

  I wanted to run

  out

  when a man

  standing near by

  said something

  exactly appropriate

  to the

  occasion.

  “hey,” I said to

  my wife, “this

  guy’s got

  something. when we are

  seated

  let’s try to

  sit next to

  him.”

  we did and as

  the drinks were

  poured

  the man began

  talking

  he began on a

  long story

  which was

  building toward a

  punch

  line.

  my problem was that

  I could guess

  what the

  punch line

  was

  going to

  be.

  and

  he talked

  on and

  on

  then

  dropped the

  line.

  “shit,” I

  told him, “that

  was

  awful, you’ve

  really

  disappointed

  me…”

  he

  only began

  on another

  story.

  I walked over to

  another table

  and stood behind

  the now

  great

  movie star.

  “listen,

  when I first met

  you

  you were just a nice

  German boy.

  now

  you’ve turned into

  a

  conceited

  prick. you’ve

  really

  disappointed

  me.”

  the great movie

  star (who was a

  man

  mighty of

  muscle) growled

  and

  shook his

  shoulders.

  then I walked over to

  the table

  where the birthday lady

  sat

  surrounded by

  all these

  media

  folk.

  “looking at you

  people,” I said, “makes

  me feel like

  vomiting

  all over

  your

  inept

  plausibilities!”

  “oh,” said the lady

  to her

  guests, “he

  always talks

  that

  way!”

  and she gave a

  laugh, poor

  dear.

  so

  I said, “Happy

  birthday,

  but

  I warned you

  never to

  invite me to these

  things.”

  then

  I walked back to

  my table

  motioned the waiter

  for

  another

  drink.

  the man

  was telling

  another

  story

  but

  it was not

  nearly

  as good

  as

  this

  one.

  it’s funny, isn’t it? #2

  when we were kids

  laying around the lawn

  on our

  bellies

  we often talked

  about

  how

  we’d like to

  die

  and

  we all

  agreed on the

  same

  thing:

  we’d all

  like to die

  fucking

  (although

  none of us

  had

  done any

  fucking)
/>   and now

  that

  we are hardly

  kids

  any longer

  we think more

  about

  how

  not to

  die

  and

  although

  we’re

  ready

  most of

  us

  would

  prefer to

  do it

  alone

  under the

  sheets

  now

  that

  most of

  us

  have fucked

  our lives

  away.

  the beautiful lady editor

  she was a beautiful woman, I used to see photographs of

  her in the literary magazines of that

  day.

  I was young but always alone—I felt that I needed the

  time to get something done and the only way I could buy time

  was with

  poverty.

  I worked not so much with craft but more with getting down

  what was edging me toward madness—and I had

  flashes of luck, but it was hardly a pleasurable

  existence.

  I think I showed a fine endurance but slowly then

  health and courage began to leak away.

  and the night arrived when everything fell apart—and

  fear, doubt, humiliation entered…

  and I wrote a number of letters using my last stamps

  telling a few select people that I had made a

  mistake, that I was starving and trapped in a small

  freezing shack of darkness in a strange city in

  a strange

  state.

  I mailed the letters and then I waited long wild days and

  nights, hoping, yearning at last for a decent

  response.

  only two letters ever arrived—on the same day—

  and I opened the pages and shook the pages looking for

  money but there was

  none.

  one letter was from my father, a six-pager telling me that

  I deserved what was happening, that I should have become

  an engineer like he told me, and that nobody would ever read

  the kind of stuff I wrote, and on and on, like