“Well, what ya gonna do?” Blackwell asks me.
“Do? I’ll just get rid of the girl. I’m too old now to take any more gorings. I feel like an old matador who wants to hang it up.”
“You’ve lived with a dozen women in the last 15 years. How ya gonna break the habit?”
“How can you eat that raw meat?” I ask Blackwell. “Don’t you feel as if you’re eating something alive?”
“Better that than the other way around.”
“Pardon me, I’ve got to piss. Order me another beer, will you?”
I get up and walk toward the rear. There is Fellini leaning against the wall. Not that Fellini. This one is a waiter. Whenever Fellini sees me he unfurls this great big smile but it’s almost always as if he was laughing at me.
“How are the ponies going, buddy?” he asks me.
“Night harness racing right now…”
“I know, but there is also the thoroughbreds down at Del Mar. I was there last Sunday. Didn’t make much. $280. Had my wife along. She spoiled my concentration.”
Fellini always wins, he says.
I go in to piss, I do, then wash my claws, come out. Fellini is still standing there. Still smiling like a blazing sunset.
I stop.
“Reminds me,” I tell him. “Damndest thing happened at the harness races the other night. Got a lot of things on my mind, you know. For example, I got these 3 creatures in my front hedge, large as cats. They come out every night and raid my vegetable garden. Anyhow, it’s the last race, I’m a few bucks in the hole, maybe 5, and I decide to go $50 win, and besides being distracted by the hookers with no panties on, I get a toothache. I’m also trying to get the late action, I’m watching my horse, and at the last flash my horse drops from 5/2 to two-to-one and I run up to the window and bet $50 win.”
“What happens?” Fellini asks, still smiling.
“What happens? I look down at my ticket later and I realize I’m really fucked!”
“Oh yeah?” he smiles.
“Yeah. I had gone up and hollered out, ‘Fifty-to-win on the 2!’ I had been thinking odds, you know what I mean? I had mistakenly bet on the two horse and he was reading fifty-to-one on the board!”
“A guy will always find a way to lose,” smiles Fellini.
“Only,” I say, “the 2 gets up in the last jump and pays $108.40. I get back $2,710.00.”
Fellini’s face darkens. The smile jumps from that physiognomy, runs into the men’s room and slithers down the nearest latrine.
I walk back to the table feeling good, sit down and Blackwell is still slicing at his red death lunch. I take a pull of beer.
“The old matador returns,” chews Blackwell.
“What?”
“You called yourself the old matador, said you didn’t want to be gored anymore.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get rid of her. Just finish your kill.”
“Reminds me,” he says, “I had a horrible hangover the other morning. Been drinking red wine and scotch. I can’t get out of bed. I kick on the tv. And there’s one of those old movies they’ve shown over and over. Anyhow, I watched. It was about an old matador…”
“Uh…”
“I watch, and the way I get it, the old matador had been or was, the greatest.”
“Huh…”
Then Blackwell looks at me, “Aren’t you gonna finish your turkey sandwich?”
“Not today…”
“Can I have it?”
I shove the sandwich toward him.
“How about the fries?” he asks.
“No, I’m keeping my fries.”
“Oh,” says Blackwell. “…Anyhow, where I come in on this film the old matador is very upset. He’s in his dressing room, sitting in front of the mirror, arranging himself, getting ready, you know. His handlers are running around like sissies. Suddenly the old matador rips off his fake pigtail and throws it to the floor. ‘What the hell’s the matter?’ one of his handlers asks him.”
Blackwell stops. “Hey, listen, buddy, isn’t that Jonathan Winters over there, sitting at that table?”
I look: “Yes, it is…Don’t stare. He’s been in the funny farm, you know. Don’t stare. Let him eat in peace.”
Blackwell sighs, “Well, anyhow the old matador says, ‘I’m not going on!’ ‘What? What? What?’ the 3 or 4 handlers ask. ‘I’m getting out of here!’ the old matador screams. He knocks down his handlers and runs out the door.”
I look up. It’s Fellini. He’s still not smiling. He looks at me: “I don’t believe that story you told me about the 50-to-one shot.”
“Are you our waiter?” I ask him.
“No.”
“Then, will you please inform our waiter that I wish another beer and that my friend here would like a glass of Corvo Salaparuta White, and if you don’t have that, then please, the nearest thing…”
Fellini walks off to find Swanney, our waiter. Swanney is a real nice fellow, he’s always consoling me about those animals in my front hedge who eat the red cabbage, the carrots, the zucchini and the eggplant.
“Where was I?” asks Blackwell.
“The way I see it, the old matador has decked a few of his boys and is running out the door…”
“Oh, yeah, he has decided not to fight at the arena that day with the rising young matador on the same card. There’s been so much said about the young matador, and on top of that the old matador had just recently seen his best friend killed in the ring, another old matador…”
“You must have been really sick to keep watching that movie.”
“Yeah. Mixing the drinks like that.”
“Here come our drinks. Good old Swanney!”
He puts down the drinks, looks at me. “Are those animals still eating your celery stalks?”
“Yes, Swanney. I am considering Capital Punishment.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“All right,” continues Blackwell, “the old matador leaps into his car and drives away, but guess what?”
“What?”
“He’s followed by…Jonathan Winters is leaving.”
“We all must, at some time, do that.”
“You’re right. Anyhow, the old matador is being followed by this lovely rich redhead. They met casually one time down by the bull stables, the rich redhead turning it on and the old matador hardly noticing. I mean, why should he? Don’t those guys get a gift of a virgin after every great performance?”
“Here,” I say, “take my fries…”
“Oh. All right. So, the rich redhead follows him. Her car is faster. The old matador can’t elude her. He stops his car. He gets out. ‘Why are you following me?’ he asks.”
Fellini is back. “Listen,” he says to me, “I wasn’t meaning to be impolite. What I was inferring was that maybe we both exaggerate about the horses…”
“Fellini,” I say, “show me a horseplayer who doesn’t and I’ll show you a liar…”
Fellini leaves.
“So,” says Blackwell, “she switches on her car radio while the old matador is standing there and he hears the mob at the arena, they are going crazy with sorrow and anger because the old matador has run off…”
“He rushes back to the arena?” I suggest.
“No. She looks at him. She says, ‘We need to talk. Follow me!’ And then she leaps into her sports car, spins it around in the dirt road as he watches her. Then he leaps into his car and follows…”
I flag Swanney for refills as Blackwell consumes my last fry and continues. “They get to her place, a mansion. They walk through the mansion and go out to a garden patio, sit at a table. The servant arrives with refreshments.”
“Now,” I suggest, “they will begin to commiserate with each other about his tormented soul and that commiseration will lead to further torment…”
“Do you think everybody has bad luck with women like you do?”
After that we fall into 4 minutes of silence. Sw
anney comes with more drinks and Blackwell orders a plate of fries. He looks at me. “Eating is better than fucking, it takes longer and you can do it more often.”
“Do tell me more about the old matador…”
“O.K. They are in the patio and the old matador looks around. ‘You own all this?’ he asks. The redhead nods in the affirmative. He explains, ‘I admire wealth.’”
“That’s when you turn the set off?”
“Right. I get up, puke. Then I mix half a bottle of beer with the same amount of tomato juice, sprinkle in a touch of paprika and ground pepper, drink some and switch the set back on…”
“They’re drunk?” I ask, “and she’s holding a red tablecloth and he’s charging it like a bull?”
“No, there’s been a passage of time. The old matador has been living there 3 or 4 days when his new rival, the young matador, arrives. The rich redhead asks the young matador what he wants. ‘I know that he is here, Senora!’ he replies. And he goes on to make a speech about how he has worshipped the old matador since he was a boy and he has dreamed of fighting on the same card with him…”
“How terribly dull. Can I have one of your french fries when they arrive?” I ask.
“Sure…”
“The young matador and the rich redhead stare at each other. Then the young matador says, ‘I must go!’ He seems to be a dull fellow but I guess all you need to be a bullfighter is a lack of imagination and good reflexes…”
“Oh,” I say, “please tell me what happens next!”
“Sure. Before the young matador can leave the old matador steps up and tells the redhead, ‘I must go back!’”
“It is a great moment,” I say.
We fall into another 4 minutes of reflective silence. The skid row of Hollywood Boulevard bakes in the sun outside as we sit lost in the heart of Mexico. The fries arrive. Blackwell passes the plate. I spear the biggest, fattest, yellowest of them all, bite off a hot end as Blackwell continues.
“So, of course, the next scene we are there. The bull ring. The young matador goes on first. He makes glorious and impossible movements as the bull charges—such innovative classicism. Again and again. And then—the perfect kill.”
“One more fry and I won’t bug you anymore.”
Blackwell passes the plate. “Say, wasn’t that Allen Ginsberg who just walked in?”
“No, that was Andy Warhol.”
“Well,” says Blackwell, “next scene. On walks the old matador to a chorus of boos, pure hatred.”
“Is there any other kind?” I ask.
“Hell, I don’t know. Anyhow, the old matador just stands there. He looks pitiful like he can’t get off the dime. His buttocks are all bunched up and quivering…”
“On a woman that wouldn’t be bad.”
“I know,” says Blackwell. “Anyhow, the old matador draws the meanest bull of them all: ‘Muerto.’”
I flag Swanney for a new set of drinks. (When I want to get a waiter’s attention I always wrap a napkin around a fork and wave. When I am with the ladies it always disgusts them, but waiters respond when they see it.)
“Anyhow,” continues Blackwell, “the old matador draws Muerto but the picadors screw up the banderilla job—very sloppy about it. When Muerto makes his first charge at the old matador, the picadors hardly touch him as Muerto rushes past the old matador, who almost fertilizes his shorts.”
“No shit?”
“The old matador shakes the cape through the laughter of the crowd and Muerto charges again. This time the old matador is a bit more graceful.”
“Ah…”
“Yes. The crowd grows quiet. As Muerto moves in again the old matador seems to find his legs, his youth, his courage…he executes a perfect Digaxxello!”
“A what?”
“Forgive me. It’s been 40 years since I’ve read Barnaby Conrad or Hemingway…”
“Do you know that Faulkner used to drink here at Musso’s?”
“Yeah, anyhow, the old matador has Muerto charmed. Muerto moves in again to be baffled by the soundless Tearasouloh…”
“As the crowd roars?”
“…wildly, remembering the old matador at his best, but never…like this! The massive and beautiful bull, an instrument of the old matador’s will…”
“Andy Warhol just left,” I say. “I think we’ve been here a long time too…”
“He’s probably going back to New York,” says Blackwell.
“I hope,” I say, “so.”
“Anyhow,” says Blackwell, “there are more brave and symphonic moves by the old matador. Now, Muerto the magnificent bull is helpless. The time for the kill has come.”
“And here,” I say, “come our drinks.”
They are set down before us. We nod, pick up our drinks, click a toast in the Spanish manner.
“…Up high in the stands, sitting in a box with the President of Mexico, the rich redhead’s eyes glisten with love for the old matador.”
“He know where she sits?”
“Yes. And in the midst of a Figeralla he looks up and catches her eye, smiles, waves, and that’s all the opportunity Muerto needs. He gets the left horn in, guts the matador, lifts him high, shakes him like a sawdust doll, shows him to the sun…”
“Shit…”
“But he’s not quite dead. Don’t you go to the movies?”
“Mostly just to eat popcorn in the dark.”
“Well, the next scene is in the infirmary. The old matador is stretched there on a table with many people milling around. The old matador raises his hand and gestures for them to leave…and they do…and he’s left alone with the redhead. She looks into his eyes. She says, ‘You were beautiful!’”
“The old matador,” I ask, “smiles?”
“Yes, and she kisses him on the mouth, hard. Then she straightens and looks sadly down at him as the people file back in.”
“Great timing.”
“She turns, tells them, ‘The matador is dead…’”
“You know,” I tell Blackwell, “when I’m in a real depressed mood—which is most of the time—it’s always great to listen to you tell some long story which fails to make me laugh.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe we can try again sometime?”
“Sure. But what was it you wanted to see me about today?”
“Hey,” says Blackwell, “I thought you wanted to see me…”
Out in the parking lot I can’t quite find my car. I’ve lost my parking ticket. I feel like the old matador, I am surely much older than the old matador.
I find my car, get in. It starts.
The sun is going down.
I drive out of there more depressed and alienated than ever. The beautiful people are useless and everybody else is dull.
I cut south on Cherokee, wait at the red light as some dried-up, worked-over, unimaginative 8 or 9 helpless citizens walk this way and that. I get the green light, move through the warm evening, get onto the freeway where I immediately incite a challenge from 3 kids in a souped-up Chevy. So I step on it, and here they come after me, leering, giving me the finger, as a shitty afternoon turns into a shitty evening. I luck out. They run into a traffic jam. I find the free lane inside, jump up to 85, 90, then check the rearview mirror, see them caught back there, and I am in San Pedro.
I find my place, pull into the driveway, park it, get out, just another old matador. But inside, as I open the door, my favorite white cat, The Jinx, leaps up into my arms and suddenly I am in love again.
the gods
I sit here on the 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.
some damned gall,
at 71,
my brain cells eaten
away by
life.
rows of books
behind me,
I scratch my thinning
hair
and search for the
word.
I have infuriated the
ladies,
the critics,
the university
suck-toads.
they all will soon have
their time to
celebrate.
“terribly overrated…”
“gross…”
“an aberration…”
my hands sink into the
keyboard
of my
Macintosh,
it’s the same old
con
that scraped me
off the streets and
park benches,
the same simple
line
I learned in those
cheap rooms,
I can’t let
go,
sitting here
on this 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.
the gods smile down,
the gods smile down,
the gods smile down.
floss, brush and flush
sitting, talking through the
night, it’s a
malfeasance trying to
feel good, the empty
beer and wine bottles
gathering, the ashtrays
runneth over,
twice-told jokes are
told again,
somebody’s religiosity
is hurt,
politics limp in and out,
death comes in with heavy
shoes and kicks holes in
the air,
somebody complains of
bad luck,
forgotten movies are
discussed that would
rather have remained
Betting on the Muse Page 21
