Kill Two Birds & Get Stoned

by Kinky Friedman

  It was late morning now, the day of Teddy's big coronation, which I looked forward to as much for the chance to hang out with Clyde as anything else. I poured a cup of fresh coffee and studied Stanton Malowitz's business card as if it contained some deep secret regarding the meaning of life. To help Clyde with this latest amusement of hers was the least I could do. After all, it might have meant the world to Jonjo, but whatever happened to the Unicorn did not really impinge upon my life in any significant way. The only things I seemed to care about lately were the novel and its two principal characters. I sipped the coffee, picked up the phone, and punched in the number on Stanton Malowitz's business card.

  "Northwest Properties," said the receptionist's impassive voice.

  "Stanton Malowitz, please," I said.

  "He's away on business, sir. Can I take a message?"

  "Do you know when he'll be back?"

  "I have no idea, sir."

  "Maybe you can help me then. Where is this area code that I'm calling?"

  "It's Seattle, sir," said the receptionist. She appeared to be running out of charm.

  "And this is a real estate office?"

  "This is Northwest Properties, sir. You'll have to speak with Mr. Malowitz if you want more information."

  "But he gave me this card," I said, fabricating a trivial piece of fiction. A writer of fiction needs to keep in practise.

  "I'm sure he did, sir. Would you care to leave a message?"

  "Yes. But can you tell me something? Just exactly what does Northwest Properties do? Whom do they represent?"

  "Sir," said the receptionist, beginning to vent a slight irritation with the caller, "you'll have to speak with Mr. Malowitz."

  "And you don't know when he'll be back?"

  "No, sir. Is that all, sir?"

  I left the woman my name and number and I hung up the phone but I definitely felt something wasn't quite kosher here. If I'd been more alert, I might have seen what is sometimes called a red flag. But I wasn't an amateur sleuth and I wasn't writing a detective novel (except, of course, in the sense that all good novels are in some fashion detective novels, or at least mystery novels. The real mystery is how they are created, what ingredients are used, and how in the world a writer himself hasn't a clue as to where his life is going). I was, however, slightly put off by the tone and timbre of the receptionist at Northwest Properties. I'd always understood that real estate outfits were extremely customer friendly, eager for clients and business of all manner. The woman I had talked to sounded almost defensive. Strange, I thought. Passing strange. But stranger things, indeed, were about to happen.

  The big black stretch limo picked me up again early that evening and drove me out to the Old Armory. A curtain of dark gray was coming down over the city and by the time I got there, the building itself seemed to somehow blend into the melancholy milieu. The driver tipped his cap again and I walked up the weatherbeaten old steps without seeing a sign of life, homeless or otherwise. Maybe I had the wrong night, I thought. Or the wrong lobby. Or maybe I had the wrong hobby. Then I opened the big wooden door and I couldn't believe my eyes. The place looked, at least at first glance, like a fancy ballroom scene from Dr. Zhivago.

  Long tables with white linen tablecloths stretched across the big hall as far as the eye could see. Banners and streamers and elaborate floral arrangements were everywhere. If you didn't look too closely, the affair had the appearance of a lavish wedding or possibly an upscale bar mitzvah. There were waiters in tuxedos bearing food on silver trays. An entire orchestra was tuning up on the far side of the room. It was a gala event all right, by any standard. There was so much noise and excitement in the air, in fact, that I was taken quite aback when I felt a pair of child-size but definitely womanly hands cupped over my eyes from behind me.

  "Guess who, Sunshine!" a voice shouted above the din.

  "Sylvia Plath?"

  "Guess again, Walter."

  "Mother Teresa?"

  "Guess again, you bastard."

  "Well, let me see. Since there are over a thousand men here—”

  "Over two thousand—”

  "-and of the only two women I saw, one was playing a harp and the other was carrying a tray of caviar, it appeared. That leaves only the gorgeous, fun-loving, irreplaceable—"

  "Keep going, Sunshine."

  "—woman I love, Clyde."

  And then she turned me around and suddenly she was in my arms, her hands caressing the back of my neck, kissing me hotly, just as the orchestra started to play.

  "Care to dance?" she said when she came up for air.

  "I never learned the bossa nova," I said.

  "Never mind. We'll dance later. But, Sunshine, look around you! We really pulled it off! We did it!"

  I looked around admiringly. I wasn't exactly sure what it was that we'd done. There was a man with no teeth trying to eat a lobster. There were other men ferociously devouring caviar with their fingers. There was a man who looked like Rumpelstiltskin throwing up his toenails in a silver punch bowl. Two men were fighting over a leg of lamb. Another man was urinating on the floor, off to the side where a klezmer band was starting to warm up. I didn't know it, but things were going to get a lot worse before the coronation of King Teddy would ever get off the blocks. Clyde, of course, was totally oblivious to all this and seemed to be in a state of great euphoria. Whether she was happy because hungry men were eating or whether it was because she'd scammed Trump into unknowingly picking up the tab, I did not know. Very possibly, it was a combination of the two. The men were definitely putting away a lot of food and the cuisine was of a decidedly lavish nature.

  "Isn't it wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Some of these men probably haven't eaten in a week and now they're dining on caviar, truffles, lobster, and leg of lamb."

  "I don't know if 'dining' is the operative word here," I said.

  Clyde did not seem to hear me. I looked at her eyes all asparkle and her stunning, crooked smile and, in the admittedly brief time I'd known her, I'd never seen her appear to be so happy. It was a strange road to happiness, I thought, and many of us, including myself, often got lost along the way. Who was I to impugn her little hobbies? Many of them were illegal, of course, but they did seem to skew toward favoring the poor, the downtrodden, the underdog, and that rarest of all commodities, justice, which, if left to God and the law seems to be dispensed only in an arbitrary, haphazard, and sometimes downright perverse fashion. Who was I to condemn Clyde? I, who loved her. I, who'd become a vegetarian and accomplice in crime because of her. I, who needed strength that I wasn't sure she had. I, who needed and stole her for a work of fiction. My reflections, such as they were, were suddenly brought to a halt by a sharp pounding on the back and I turned to see Fox Harris, who looked as reckless and exhilarated as a drunken sailor on his last night of shore leave.

  "Party's only starting, Walter," he shouted above the din. "Wait'll you see what happens next!"

  What happened next was fairly predictable since, according to Fox, he'd taken twenty-four cases of Dom Pérignon and poured them into the large yellow plastic water barrels that ringed the hall. Alcohol, of course, was not permitted in the shelter. Tonight, however, was a special night and, again, according to Fox, absolutely nothing had been spared.

  Before our eyes, the scene began to degenerate at a staggeringly rapid pace. Fights broke out up and down the banquet hall. Tables were overturned. Men were puking and pissing and coughing their guts out and singing and dancing. And, like its counterpart on the Titanic, the orchestra continued to play. The feverish scene, and Fox's and Clyde's reaction to it, are things I will never forget. And, like the orchestra, I played along.

  "Now I'd like to dance," said Clyde.

  "Are you crazy?" I blurted out.

  She looked at me then in the strangest way and I instantly regretted the remark. It's very hard to abandon the person you've always been and it takes some of us longer than others.

  "I hope so," she said.

  S
he took my hand. I held her close to me. And we danced.

  It was good while it lasted but it didn't last long. Fox cut in. Then a guy who looked like he could be Jack the Ripper. Then half a dozen homeless men in succession who, I have to say, looked to the untrained eye pretty much like what we used to call bums. Then the orchestra took a break, the klezmer band unleashed its own brand of dervishlike music, and the whole scene descended, if possible, even further into chaos and madness. By the time Teddy walked regally into the hall, fully prepped by Fox for his grand coronation, the place looked like the French Revolution had hit it at a hundred miles an hour.

  Before anybody knew it, Teddy had made his way up to a podium and was majestically striving to silence the klezmer band, which was no small feat if you've ever had a close encounter with a klezmer band. Teddy wore purple robes, and on the way to the podium, Fox had caught up with the striding monarch just in time to place a gleaming crown of gold upon his head. There was something vaguely Christlike about the whole operation, but I wasn't sure what it was. Maybe it was Fox hurriedly placing the crown upon his head. Maybe it was just the idea of feeding the starving multitudes. Or maybe it was the simple spirit of goodwill toward his fellow man that always seemed to emanate from this large homeless creature called Teddy.

  "He even looks like a king!" said Clyde excitedly. "Fox got those robes out of his closet."

  "I didn't realize Fox had a closet," I said.

  Clyde started to say something else but the klezmer band had now ceased operations and Teddy's voice could be heard booming with resonance and purpose throughout the great hall.

  "My loyal subjects," he began. "It is with great humility that I accept the burden of the throne. As you may well know, I have in the past been one of you and now I will strive unceasingly to promote your health, education, and welfare in my new role as your king."

  The response to this magnanimous statement was less than overwhelming. Indeed, it seemed not dissimilar to the sound of one hand clapping. In addition, Teddy's subjects did not much resemble a tribe of Masai warriors. Many of them, apparently, had made a few too many visits to the Dom Pérignon barrels and were now mumbling incoherently to themselves, panhandling other panhandlers, or passed out in their goose pates. None of this, however, appeared to derail Teddy's zealotry.

  "You may well ask," he continued, "who is this new King Teddy? What does he stand for? Thus, I will tell you now, my loyal subjects, exactly what I, King Teddy, stand for. I stand for fireworks on the Fourth of July! I stand for the virtuous pursuit of keeping my place in a line for a free hot meal! I stand for the purpose of stretching my legs after too long a period of sitting on my ass! I stand for hemorrhoidal relief! I stand for the chance to gladly give my place on the subway to a person more weary than myself! I stand for bridges and beans and booze and memories and hopes and dreams and handouts and hand-me-downs and happiness and cigarettes and Good Samaritans and friendly whores and fat, easygoing cops and leftovers and stray dogs and stray cats and strays in general and park benches and Indian summers and redemption and salvation for every soul in pain! I stand for a better view of the spectacle of life! I stand for all these things, my loyal subjects, and for much, much more, because every time I stand, I stand for the dignity of man!"

  Unfortunately, very few in the hall appeared to be listening to Teddy's words. But I could see that Fox was. And Clyde, I noticed, was standing in rapt attention with tears in her eyes. And, I suppose, you could say that I, too, was listening. The problem was simply that then, as now, I knew that I didn't stand for anything.

  nineteen

  It isn't that difficult for two soulful, mercurial individuals to come along and take over your life, especially if you don't have a life. Or at least if you didn't really have one until they came into it.

  Now you suddenly find yourself swept mightily along by currents that flow from places you know not and go to places beyond your imagination. It is not an unpleasant feeling to tumble off the wagon and into the arms of your comrades as you leave the passing parade far behind and learn new ways of looking at things, new feelings you didn't know you could have, and new and exciting hobbies that might very well destroy the world as you know it. But you never really knew it, did you? That's the whole point, I guess. Unless you write it down on paper, it sounds as if you're telling it all to a shrink or something. The truth is, of course, it's fun to be out of control until the shit hits the fan. By then, unfortunately, you've lost whatever nonlife you never had in the first place.

  What truly seemed to be anchoring my existence at this time was the fact that I was writing the novel. Events in the casino of fiction, indeed, were hurtling by at a far greater pace than any world progress I'd ever witnessed from my basement window. The novel, incredibly, was taking on a life of its own and, in so doing, was taking me along with it for the ride of a lifetime. There were times, of course, like the period immediately following Teddy's coronation, that I had to virtually type like a madman in the night in order to capture in words the events of the previous day. At times like those, I wrote like a man with his hair on fire, like Oscar Wilde behind bars, to do poetic justice to what was the reality of my experience. At other times, the Land of Counterpane was a far friendlier, more facile place than the world in which we all inhabit. My relationship with Clyde, for instance, was a great deal more intimate in fiction than in actuality. But somehow I managed to remain myself in both areas. I suppose you could say that was my saving grace, if in the end I was actually able to save any. Gracewise, it was just about as bad an ending as you could imagine. The novel itself ended rather cleverly, I thought. In real life and in fiction, in fact, the author came out relatively unscathed by subsequent events. The other characters, both on the page and off, I regret to say, did not fare nearly as well. I do not blame myself for what happened, however. I leave the assessment of blame, as all fiction writers must eventually do, to God and small children.

  Two nights after Teddy's grand coronation party, the three principal troublemakers gathered for a cheerful little postmortem celebration at the Unicorn. The place was uncharacteristically packed that night and we proceeded to drink our way through a rolling, smooth brown ocean of Guinness in a very short period of time. If it hadn't been for my two central characters, Clyde Potts and Fox Harris, I reflected as I glanced around the seedy, crowded bar, I wouldn't have been drinking and I wouldn't have been writing. In an odd way, I thought, the two of them had saved my life as well as my career. I never really got to thank them for it, but when you think about it, how can you thank people for being themselves? Also, I said to myself, if the flesh-and-blood Clyde and Fox hadn't run into Walter Snow, they never would have passed into the hallowed casino of fiction in the first place. By the time our little trinity had become undone, however, there would be more than enough gratitude and more than enough blame to go around. Their lives, of course, would be ruined and my career would be established, but believe me, I did not know this as we sat in the Unicorn cheerfully, hopefully, obliviously toasting each other that fateful night.

  "Never above you," said Clyde, standing up and toasting Fox and myself simultaneously. She held her Guinness slightly higher than ours as we clinked glasses. Fox and I exchanged rather quizzical glances.

  "Never below you," said Clyde, this time holding her glass slightly lower than Fox's and mine.

  "Always by your side," said Clyde, clinking her glass square on with the two of us. We drained our pints and Fox put his arms around Clyde and she put her arms around me and the three of us stood there in an intimate circle with our arms around each other in the middle of the crowded little bar. It was a moment to savor, and moments, according to Fox, were the vessels for great and beautiful things. According to Fox, that's why they lasted forever.

  "Sunshine," said Clyde. "Should we say hello to Jonjo?"

  "Sure," I said. "If we can find him."

  It was true that Jonjo was barely visible to the naked eye. The leprechaun was totally obscur
ed by customers crowding around the little bar.

  "Business looks good," said Clyde. "What did you find out about those wankers Jonjo was so worried about?"

  "Well," I said, "I have done a bit of detective work but so far I've run into a brick wall. I got Jonjo to give me a business card from one of his enemies—who could be completely imaginary, it's always a possibility. Anyway, I called this guy named Stanton Malowitz at a company called Northwest Properties. They're based in Seattle. But I must say, they did not sound like any real estate company I've ever dealt with."

  "You think it's a front for something?" asked Fox, eager not to be left out of anything.

  "It's certainly possible," I said. "The woman was almost dismissive of me. More than anything, she seemed to want to protect Malowitz from anybody contacting him. It was strange. I thought those kinds of outfits would be very client friendly. I thought they always tried to keep the customer satisfied."

  "Keeping the customer satisfied went out with the buggy whip," said Fox rather cynically. "That's the way big corporations do business these days."

  "Maybe," said Clyde. "Still, it is strange."

  "Maybe I'll go to the men's room," said Fox. "Me and a little bit of Malabimbi Madness."

  "Maybe I'll come along," I said.

  "Maybe I'll go over and try to see Jonjo," said Clyde.

  "Maybe you'll need a periscope," said Fox, as the two of us got up and headed for the head.

  The place was packed tighter than a can of smoked oysters, which was odd for the Unicorn on a weeknight. I wondered about it as I followed Fox's lanky form threading its way through the crowd to the men's room. Once I'd gotten in the can with Fox, bolted the door, and had a few rounds with the one-hitter, I didn't think anything more about it. As usual, I didn't think anything more about anything.