“If I ever open another club, and I’m thinking about doing that down in the Keys, I’m going to call it the Salt Lick, because you keep coming back to a salt lick,” he said.
Victoria went and got another movie. This one was called Venus and starred Peter O’Toole. Clarence loved it. He said it was his favorite movie of all time. He also said that after Blade Runner, and I suspect he says it after every movie he watches.
The next day after his morning exercise, which to my eye was indeed like torture, we sat in the living room and talked story.
“You’re going to be incredibly healthy when you get out of here,” I said. “You can’t drink, you can’t smoke dope, and you can’t eat any bad shit. I hope it doesn’t kill you.”
“Me, too,” he laughed. “Actually I stopped smoking dope a while ago, and I stopped drinking while I was getting ready for this.”
“You keep this up and we’ll have to change the name of the book to Middle-Sized Man,” I said.
He laughed again and sat back in the chair. I thought he had fallen asleep but he was just thinking.
“Nobody wins a war,” he said, apropos of nothing. “Somebody just loses less.”
“You have a tendency to speak in T-shirt captions,” I said.
“Missed my calling,” he said.
“I don’t think so.”
“I could go for an Italian beef sandwich,” he said. “There’s this place in Chicago called Al’s on Taylor Street that has the best ones.”
“Be cold by the time it gets here,” I said.
“We could heat it up but it wouldn’t be the same,” he said.
Victoria went online, found a Chicago themed restaurant nearby, and ordered three Italian beef sandwiches to be delivered.
“Cell phones have gotten stupid,” said Clarence. “I was in an airport men’s room last week and heard a guy talking to his wife while he was taking a shit. How much respect do you think he has for this woman? How much esteem does he hold her in when he’s grunting and farting his way through ‘Yeah, I love you, too.’ Sweet Jesus. You should be allowed to shoot a motherfucker like that. You should be allowed to do it in the name of preserving mankind.”
“There’d be too many dead people,” I said.
I went into the kitchen and got myself a beer. When I came back he had switched into a more reflective mood.
“I think about death a lot more lately,” he said. “Course that makes sense, given my age and my medical condition. I’m thinking of reading the Bible more often. I think of it as cramming for my finals.”
Like a lot of people, Clarence has deep religious beliefs but needs to be forgiven a lot.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “The death thing fucks everything up.”
Outside we could hear the sounds of New York City. The horns and the sirens. People coming and going, some for the first time and some for the last. It was getting darker out.
“I thought Magic was a great title for the last album,” he said. “Course I happen to love magic. I think people need to be amazed, and magic is one of the few things left that can do that. We’ve lost our capacity to wonder, and that’s just sad. But when you watch somebody do sleight-of-hand—I’m talking about somebody good—you become a participant in the trick. The magician uses your instincts against you. I read this fascinating article about it in the New York Times. It said that ‘magic exposes the inseams, the neural stitching in the perceptual curtain.’ Isn’t that fantastic? Isn’t that magical?”
He didn’t really want an answer. His face was filled with the wonder he found missing in others. He shines from within and radiates a kind of… goodness. You don’t really care if Albert Einstein got laid a lot (he did); you just want to hear the Big Man tell the story. He has the ability to distract you from the bitcheries of life. He can do it with music and he can do it with words. He creates something out of nothing. If that’s not magic, then what is?
About a week later he was back in the hospital with more complications. I went there and sat with him one afternoon. He was on a lot of painkillers and was in and out of it the whole time. But still we talked and laughed the way we usually do. It started to get late and I was about to leave.
“I was going to say something,” he said.
“About what?”
“I don’t know, it’s gone,” he said. “I forget everything nowadays.”
He was quiet for a few seconds and I thought he’d drifted off again.
“But the things I remember,” he said with his eyes closed.
I’m not at all sure that he was talking to me or if he even knew that I was still there. A smile spread across his face and he spoke again.
“The things I remember…,” he said.
The Legend of Clarence’s Last Visit with Norman Mailer, Paradise Island, Bahamas, 2001
Of all the stories in the book this is my favorite. It feels so real that sometimes I think it actually happened. If I close my eyes I can feel the sun on my face and I can hear the ocean. But that might be due to the fact that I’m writing this at the beach. —C.C.
Clarence and Norman Mailer sat on the beach in front of the One and Only Ocean Club. They were in low beach chairs, which had been draped with thick, white towels from the hotel. Although it was January, the beach wasn’t crowded with snowbirds. It was a beautiful day, albeit a little windy. It was an onshore wind.
Clarence wore white shorts, a gauzy, loose-fitting white shirt, and the Panama hat he got in Puerto Rico a long time ago.
Norman wore only cargo shorts and blue-tinted sunglasses.
Both men had their eyes closed and were facing the ocean. They kept their eyes closed as they spoke.
“I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told another human being,” said Norman.
“Why?” said Clarence.
“Why? What do you mean, ‘why’?” said Norman.
“Why shouldn’t be a difficult question for a literary giant,” said Clarence.
Norman opened his eyes and looked at the big man, who remained motionless. Buddha-like.
“You believe in God, right?” said Norman.
“Is this the thing you’ve never told anybody before?” asked Clarence, eyes still closed.
“No, I’ll get back to that,” said Norman. “This is something else.”
“Yes,” said Clarence. “I believe in God.”
“Okay,” said Norman. “And I would assume you subscribe to the theory that God can do anything.”
“Yes,” said Clarence.
“Good,” said Norman, sitting forward in the chair, shoulders hunched, rounded… a fighter’s position. “So, could He create a rock that was so heavy that He couldn’t lift it?” He smiled, his face flooding with amusement but showing no teeth.
“Freshman philosophy,” said Clarence.
“So what?” said Norman. “We’re not doing anything else, and it’s a perfectly good question. So what’s your answer, smart guy? Mr. Smarty Pants.”
“Yes,” said Clarence.
“Yes what?” said Norman.
“Yes, He could,” said Clarence.
“It’s not a yes or no question,” said Norman.
“Yes, it is,” said Clarence, opening his eyes for the first time. He took his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. “You said, ‘Could He do it?’ and I said yes.”
“Yes, but the question is a conundrum. If your answer is really yes, then there’s a rock out there someplace that your God, who can do anything, I remind you, can’t lift. The two things are inconsistent, you see. You can’t be able to do everything but be unable to do something at the same time. Even a musician has to see that,” said Norman.
“He would change physics,” said Clarence.
“How?” said Norman.
“You wouldn’t understand,” said Clarence.
“Try me,” said Norman.
“Nobody would understand,” said Clarence. “God would do something only God could do and he would change the l
aws of physics, which I remind you are man-made laws, so that He could lift a rock that He couldn’t lift.”
“That defies logic,” said Norman.
“He’d change logic, too,” said Clarence.
A beach boy wearing shorts and a hotel shirt approached them and they ordered beers. He was the same color as Clarence.
Time passed and they listened to the waves. They listened to the beach sounds. Finally, after what seemed like a long time, Norman spoke.
“Three guys get stuck in the city,” he said.
“What city?” asked Clarence.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Norman. “New York City.”
“If it doesn’t matter why did you pick New York?” said Clarence.
“Because I love New York,” said Norman.
“Okay,” said Clarence.
“There’s a snowstorm or something and they can’t get home, so they go to a hotel,” said Norman.
“Three guys go to a hotel,” said Clarence.
“Right,” said Norman. “The desk clerk says, ‘There’s only one room left. It’s thirty bucks a night,’ and the guys say, ‘Okay, we’ll take it,’ and they give the desk clerk ten bucks apiece.”
“Stop right there,” said Clarence, turning to him. “A hotel room in New York City for thirty bucks a night? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“For the sake of this story, yes. It’s a thirty-dollar hotel room in New York City,” said Norman.
“But that defies logic,” said Clarence, smiling.
“I know,” said Norman. “I’m changing logic.”
“Go ahead,” said Clarence.
“So they each give the guy a sawbuck and go up to the room,” said Norman.
“Three guys together. Are they gay?” Clarence asked.
“They could be,” said Norman. “Is that important?”
“I don’t know, it’s your story,” said Clarence.
“No, they’re straight but curious,” said Norman.
“Okay, they go up to the room,” said Clarence. “Then what happens?”
“Then the desk clerk realizes he made a mistake; the room is only twenty-five dollars,” said Norman.
“This gets better and better,” said Clarence.
“So he gives the bellboy five singles and tells him to bring them up to the guys,” said Norman.
“Why not a five-dollar bill?” asked Clarence. “Why singles?”
“ ’Cause if it’s not singles there’s no fucking story,” said Norman.
“Tell me more,” said Clarence.
“On the way to the room the bellboy says, ‘Why should I give them all five dollars? I’ll give them three and keep two for myself,’ ” said Norman.
“Who does he say that to?” asked Clarence.
“Himself,” said Norman. “Do you want to hear the rest of this or do you want to ask another stupid question?”
“I object to the word stupid, but, yes, I can’t wait to hear the rest of this,” said Clarence.
“So.” Norman half turned so he was facing Clarence, who was facing the sea. “That’s what he does. He gives each guy a one-dollar refund. Therefore each guy has now paid nine dollars for the room, right?”
“Right,” said Clarence.
“Three times nine is twenty-seven,” Norman began. “The bellboy has two dollars, which makes twenty-nine. What happened to the other dollar?”
Norman smiled, sat back in his chair, and closed his eyes. “Take your time,” he said.
Clarence didn’t move. He looked like a statue. A full minute passed. Norman opened his eyes and looked over at Clarence.
“Well?” he said.
“Well what?” said Clarence.
“What happened to the dollar?” said Norman.
“Who gives a fuck?” said Clarence.
“You don’t know, do you?” said Norman.
“I know that I don’t give a fuck,” said Clarence. “It’s just a dollar.”
“So then where is it?” said Norman.
Clarence turned slowly and looked at him. “You’re like a child,” he said. “You get these little things, these games and these puzzles, and they delight you as they would a five-year-old.”
Norman smiled his cherub smile. “Where’s the dollar?” he said.
“I’ve got it,” said Clarence.
“No, you don’t,” said Norman, who was filled with joy. It was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud.
“Look,” said Clarence sighing. “There’s twenty-five dollars downstairs with the desk clerk, the bellboy has two, each guy has one, so that’s thirty. You only ‘lose’ a dollar when you verbally combine an addition problem with a multiplication problem. It’s a linguistic trick and it’s stupid.” Clarence sat back and closed his eyes. Norman continued to stare at him.
“I hate you,” Norman said.
“Fine,” said Clarence.
“Fine,” said Norman, sitting back and closing his eyes.
The waiter approached, trudging through the sand holding two silver buckets, each containing bottles of beer and crushed ice. One bucket held Heinekens, the other Budweisers.
“You sign for the beer,” said Norman.
Three beers later:
“You ever seen Eddie Izzard’s act?” asked Clarence.
“Never heard of him,” said Norman.
“He’s a part-time transvestite comedian and actor,” said Clarence. “He’s good.”
“I’ll check him out,” said Norman. “He sounds interesting.”
“He is,” said Clarence.
They each opened another beer.
“Engelbert Humperdinck got killed today in a car crash,” said Clarence.
“No,” said Norman. “Where?”
“Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu,” said Clarence. “I saw it on CNN just before I came down here.”
“That’s a shame,” said Norman. “How old was he?”
“I don’t know,” said Clarence.
“Too bad,” said Norman. He sipped from the fourth bottle of Bud and thirty seconds passed.
“I’m kidding,” said Clarence. “He didn’t die.”
“He didn’t?” said Norman.
“No, I made it up,” said Clarence.
“You asshole,” said Norman, smiling.
“No, actually he did die. I was just fucking around, I’m sorry. He is dead,” said Clarence seriously.
“Is he dead or not?” said Norman.
“Yes,” said Clarence. “He was killed in a car crash on the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu.”
“Shit,” said Norman.
Clarence took the bottle of Heineken out of the melting ice and took a pull. “He’s not dead,” he said.
Norman looked at him.
“Yes, he is,” said Clarence, looking out to sea.
Norman continued to stare at him.
“No, he’s not,” said Clarence.
Norman waited.
“Yes,” said Clarence. “No,” said Clarence. “Yes,” said Clarence.
Norman stared at him.
Clarence shook his head no, then nodded yes.
“Fuck you,” said Norman, turning away.
“You sail, don’t you?” asked Clarence.
“I do,” Norman answered.
“How come you don’t own a boat?” said Clarence.
“That would violate one of my four rules for a happy life,” said Norman.
“Which rule would it violate?” asked Clarence.
“Number four,” said Norman.
“Which is what?” said Clarence.
“If it floats, flies, or fucks, rent it, don’t buy it.”
Clarence laughed. “What’s number three?” he asked.
“Try jiggling the handle,” said Norman.
“And number two?” asked Clarence.
“One should never be where one does not belong,” said Norman.
Clarence laughed and shook his head. “You are the funniest white man I kno
w,” he said. “People have no idea how funny you are.”
“I know,” said Norman. “I’m stealth funny.”
“Okay, I’ll ask,” said Clarence. “I’ll play straight man. What is your number one rule for living a happy life?”
“Never eat fish from a truck,” said Norman.
Later they moved up to the beautiful, open-air bar above the beach and ordered conch fritters and more beer. Everything in the world felt right. They sat at one of the tables along the far side of the place next to the sea. There were huge white clouds on the horizon.
“The thing I’ve never told anybody before—,” began Norman.
“I was wondering if you’d get back to that,” said Clarence.
“—is that I’m a compulsive liar,” said Norman.
“Is that true?” asked Clarence.
“Good question,” said Norman. “Yes, it’s true that virtually nothing I say is true. I’ve been this way all my life. Even as a child I’d just make shit up. I turned it into a career. Now I make shit up for money. But I do it even when there’s no reason to do it. I’d simply rather lie. Maybe rather is the wrong word, because it implies choice and I have no choice. As I said at the outset, it’s a compulsion. It makes me quite unique. A rara avis, a squonk’s tears, a trumpeter swan sandwich.”
“Outset,” said Clarence. “Good word.”
The fritters came in a small basket lined with a linen napkin. They each ate one. A woman with two children entered and sat on the other side of the bar. She wore some kind of sheer cover-up over a blue, one-piece bathing suit, which was not flattering. The kids, both boys around six or seven each, sported Prince Valiant haircuts.
“That’s it?” asked Norman. “I tell you my deepest, darkest secret, and you have no comment?”
“Is it really your deepest, darkest, secret?” asked Clarence.
“Maybe,” said Norman, popping another fritter into his mouth and wiping his fingers on the napkin. He smiled.
Clarence took off his sunglasses, tilted his Panama hat back, and leaned toward Norman. He reminded Norman of a lion.
Big Man Page 30
