the boys were looking at something in a very short miniskirt. I mean it was SHORT! and she was young and cool. I checked it out. too much. a night in bed would cost me 100. she said she worked as a cocktail waitress somewhere. I moved out with my raggedy clothes and she went up to the bar and bought her own drink.
I had another coffee. I was telling John the Beard the night before that Man usually pays 100 times the worth of a pussy in one way or another. I don’t. the others do. Miniskirt’s pussy was worth about 8 dollars. she was only charging about 13 times the worth. nice gal.
I moved into line for the next play. the board read zero. the race was about off. the fat boy in front of me looked asleep. he didn’t look like he wanted to bet. “call ‘em and move,” I said. he looked like he was stuck in the window. he turned slowly and I armed him good, elbow and side working into him, shoved him from the window. if he said a damned thing I was going to swing. the hangover had me jumpy. I got 20 win on Scottish Dream. a good horse but I was afraid Crane couldn’t drive it. he hadn’t shown me a good ride all meet. so, all right – he was due. they ran an 18 to one shot past him in the stretch. he hung on for second. old Clarence Hansen could still nurse them in.
skid row looked closer all the time. I looked at the people. what were they doing there? why weren’t they working? how did they make it? there were a few rich ones at the bar. they weren’t worried but they had that special dead look of the rich which comes when the struggle goes out of them and there is nothing to replace it – no interest, just being rich. poor devils. yeh. ha, hahaha, ha.
I kept drinking water. I was dry, dry. sick and dry. and hung out. for the taking. cornered again. what tiresome sport.
a well dressed Spanish type who smelled of murder and incest walked up to me. he smelled like a clogged sewer pipe.
“lemme have a dollar,” he said.
I said it very quietly: “go to hell.”
he turned and walked up to the next one. “lemme have a dollar,” he said. his answer came. he’d hit on New York Dutch. “lemme have ten, you jackoff,” Dutch told him.
other people walked around, gypped out of the Dream. broke, angry, worried. slugged, mutilated, tricked, taken, gouged, nailed, fucked. they’d be back for more if they managed to get some money. me? I was going to start picking pockets or pimping or something.
the next race was no better. I was second again, Jean Daily outfinishing me on Pepper Tone. I began to feel more and more that all my years’ experience with racing – the studying for hours at night – was all an illusion. hell, they were just animals and you turned them loose and something happened. I’d be better off at my place listening to something very corny – Carmen in English – and waiting for the landlord to kick me out.
in the 5th race I was second again wtih Bobbijack, Stormy Scott N beating me. Stormy was an even-money underlay on a morning line of 5/2, mostly because of having the leading rider, Farrington, and having closed 11 lengths in his last stretch run.
2nd. again in the 6th. with Shotgun, a good price at 8 to one and they went with him but Pepper Streak had too much. I tore up my ten dollar win ticket.
I finished 3rd in the 7th and was 50 bucks down.
in the 8th I had to choose between Creedy Cash and Red Wave. I got sucked in on the late action on Red Wave, so naturally Creedy Cash won at 8/5 for O’Brien. which was no big surprise – Creedy already having won 10 out of 19 that year.
I had gone heavy on Red Wave and was 90 bucks down.
I went to the men’s room to take a leak, they were all circling in there, ready to kill, snatch wallet. a hoary beaten-looking crew. soon they’d all be walking out, the whole thing over. what a way to go – broken families, lost jobs, lost businesses. madness. but it paid taxes to the good state of California, babe. 7 or 8 percent out of each dollar. some of that built roads. hired Patrolmen to menace you. build madhouses. fed and paid Ronald.
one more shot. I went for an 11-year-old gelding, Fitment, a horse that broke in its last race, finished 13 lengths out against 6500 claimers and now was running against a couple of 12,500 claimers and one 8000. I had to be crazy, and to take only 9 to 2 on it too. I bet 10 win on Urrall at 6 to one as a saver and put 40 win on Fitment. that put me $140 in the hole. 47 years old and still playing around in Never-Never Land. taken like the rawest of country hicks.
I went out to watch the race. Fitment went 2 wide around the first curve, but was running easily. don’t break, sweetheart, don’t break. at least give me a little run, a little tiny run. no need for the gods to always shit on the same man: me. let everybody have their turn. good for their fortitude.
it was getting dark and the horses ran on through the smog. Fitment ran into the lead down the backstretch. his stride was easy. but Meadow Hutch the 8/5 favorite circled around and dropped back in front of Fitment. they ran that way around the last curve and then Fitment pulled out, ran up to Meadow Hutch, hooked him and left him there. well, we’d chopped up the 8/5 favorite, now only 6 other horses to beat. shit, shit, they won’t let me have it, I thought. something will come out of the pack. a wake-up. the gods won’t let me have it. I’ll go back to my room and lay in the dark, lights out, staring at the ceiling, wondering what it was all about.
Fitment held 2 lengths in the stretch and I waited. it seemed a long stretch. god, it WAS long! LONG!
it won’t happen. I can’t hold it. look how dark it is.
140 bucks down. sick. old. stupid. unlucky. warts on the soul.
the young girls are sleeping with giants of body and intellect. the young girls laugh at me as I walk down the street.
Fitment. Fitment.
he held the 2 lengths. he rolled. they stretched it to 2 and 1/2. nothing got close. beautiful. a symphony. even the smog smiled. I saw him go over the line and then I walked over and drank some more water. when I got back they had put the price up. $11.80 for 2. I had 40 win. I took my pen and figured it. return: $236. minus my 140 down. I had made 96 dollars profit.
Fitment. love. baby. love. flower horse.
the ten dollar line was long. I went to the men’s room, threw water on my face. my stride had bounce in it again. I went out and pulled out the tickets.
I could only find THREE tickets on Fitment! I had lost one somewhere!
amateur! stupid! oxhead! I was sick. one ten buck ticket was worth $59. I traced my steps. picking up tickets. no number 4’s. somebody had gotten my ticket.
I stood in line, looking through my wallet. what an asshole! then I found the other ticket. it had slipped behind a crevice in my wallet. that had never happened before. what an asshole wallet!
I picked up my $236. I saw Miniskirt looking at me. oh, no no no NO!! I hustled down the escalator, bought a newspaper, dodged through the parking lot drivers, made it to the car.
I lit a cigar. well, I thought, let’s not deny it: genius just can’t be held down. with that thought I started my ’57 Plymouth. I drove with great care and courtesy. I hummed the Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky Concerto in D major, for violin and orchestra. I had invented a word passage that covered the major theme, the major melody: “Once more, we will be free again. oh, once more, we will be free again, free again, free again ...”
I drove out among the angry losers. their unpaid for and highly-insured cars were all they had left. they dared each other at mutilation and murder, zooming and slashing, not giving the inch. I made it to the exit at Century. my car stalled right at the turnout, blocking 45 cars behind me. I flipped the gas pedal rapidly with my foot, winked at the traffic cop, then hit the starter. it caught up and I moved out, drove on through the smog. Los Angeles wasn’t really a bad place: a good hustler could always make it.
THE BIG POT GAME
the other night I found myself at a gathering – usually an unpleasant thing for me. basically I am a loner, an old sot who prefers to drink alone, maybe only hoping for a little Mahler or Stravinsky on the radio. but there I was with the maddening crowd. I won’t give the reason, for t
hat’s another story, maybe longer, maybe more confusing, but standing alone, drinking my wine, listening to the Doors or the Beatles or the Airplane mixed in with all the voices going, I realized I needed a cigarette. I was out. I usually am. so I saw these 2 young men nearby, arms dangling and swinging; bodies loose, goosey; necks bent; fingers of hands loose – all told, they were like rubber, shredded rubber stretching and pulling and coming apart.
I walked over: “hey, one of you fellows got a cigarette?”
this really started the rubber to jumping. I stood there watching, they turned it on, flipping and flapping.
“we don’t smoke, man! MAN, we don’t ... smook. cigarettes.”
“no, man, we don’t smoke, like that, no, man.”
flipflop. flipflap. rubber.
“we goin’ to M-a-li-booo, man! yeah, we’re goin’ to Malll - i - bOOOO! man, we’re goin’ to M-a-ly-boooooo!”
“yeah, man!”
“yeah, man!”
“yeah!”
flipflap. or, flapflap.
they simply couldn’t tell me that they didn’t have a cigarette. they had to give me their pitch, their religion: cigarettes were for cubes. they were going to Malibu, to some seeming loose and easy shack in Malibu and burn a bit of grass. they remind me, in a sense, of old ladies standing on a corner selling “The Watchtower.” the whole LSD, STP, marijuana, heroin, hashish, prescription cough medicine crowd suffers from the “Watchtower” itch: you gotta be with us, man, or you’re out, you’re dead. this pitch is a continual and seeming MUST with those who use the stuff. it’s no wonder they keep getting busted – they can’t use the stuff quietly for their pleasure; they have to make it KNOWN that they are members. further, they tend to tie it in with Art, Sex, the Drop-out scene. their Acid God, Leary, tells them: “drop out. follow me.” then he rents an auditorium here in town and charges them 5 dollars a head to hear him speak. then Ginsberg arrives at Leary’s side. then Ginsberg proclaims Bob Dylan a great poet. self-advertisement of the potty-chair headline-makers. America.
but let that go, for that too is another story. this thing has a lot of arms and not much head, the way I tell it, and the way it is. but back to the “in” boys, the potheads. their language. groovy, man. like it is. the scene. cool. in. out. square. swinging. making it. baby. daddy. so forth and so on. I’d heard these same phrases – or whatever you call them – when I was 12 years old in 1932, to hear the same things 25 years later doesn’t do much to endear you with the user, especially when he considers them hip. much of the word-age came originally from the users of harder stuff, the spoon and needle set, and also the old Negro jazzband boys. the terminology among the real “in” has changed now but the so-called hip-boys like the duo I asked the cigarette from – these are still talking 1932.
and that pot creates art, si, it’s doubtful, and how. DeQuincy wrote some fair stuff, and “The Opium Eater” was nicely written, tho in parts, dull enough. and it is the nature of most artists to try almost anything. they are explorative, desperate, suicidal. but the pot comes AFTER the Art is already there, after the artist is already there. the pot does not produce the Art. but it often becomes the playground of the established artist, a kind of celebration of being, these pot parties, and also some damn good material for the artist of people caught with their spiritual pants down, or if not down, then perhaps not so guarded.
in the 1830’s Gautier’s pot parties and sex-orgy parties were the talk of Paris. that Gautier wrote poetry on the side was also known. now his parties are better remembered.
jumping out on another arm of this thing: I would hate to get busted for use and/or possession of grass. it would be like being charged with rape for smelling a pair of panties on somebody’s clothesline. grass is simply not that good. much of the effect is caused by a pre-mental state of believing one is going to get high. if a drugless, same-smelling artifice could be substituted, most of the users would feel the same effects: “hey, baby, this is GOOD stuff, real fine!”
for me, I can get more out of a couple of tall cans of beer. I stay clean not because of the law but because the stuff bores me and has little effect. but I will grant that the effects between alcohol and mary are different. it is possible to get high on grass and hardly sense it; with the booze you generally pretty much know that you are there. me, I’m of the old school: I like to know that I am there. but if another man wants grass or acid or the needle I have no objection. it’s his way and whatever way is best for him is best for him. that’s all.
there are enough social commentators with low-level brainpower now. why should I add my high-level snarl? we’ve all heard the old women who say, “oh, I think it’s just AWFUL what these young people do to themselves, all that dope and stuff! I think it’s terrible!” and then you look at the old gal: no eyes, no teeth, no brain, no soul, no ass, no mouth, no color, no flux, no humor, nothing, just a stick, and you wonder what her tea and cookies and church and home on the corner have done for HER. and the old men sometimes get quite violent about what some of the young are doing – “hell, I worked HARD all my life!” (they think this is a virtue, but it only proves a man is a damn fool.) “these people want everything for NOTHING! sitting around wrecking their bodies with dope, hoping to live off the fat of the land!”
then you look at HIM:
amen.
he’s only jealous. he’s been tricked. fucked-out of his good years. he’d really like to have a ball too. if he could do it over. but he can’t. so now he wants them to suffer like he did.
and generally, that’s about it. the potheads make too much about their damned pot and the public makes too much about their using their damned pot. and the police are busy and the potheads get busted and holler crucifixion, and liquor is legal until you drink too much of it and are caught on the street and then you’re jailed. give the human race anything and they’ll scrabble and scratch and pewk all over it. if you legalize pot the u.s. will be a little more comfortable, but not much better. as long as the courts and the jails and the lawyers and the laws are there, they are going to be used.
to ask them to legalize pot is something like asking them to put butter on the handcuffs before they place them on you, something else is hurting you – that’s why you need pot or whiskey, or whips and rubber suits, or screaming music turned so fucking loud you can’t think. or madhouses or mechanical cunts or 162 baseball games a season. or Vietnam or israel or the fear of spiders. your love washing her yellow false teeth in the sink before you screw.
there are basic answers and there are ticklers. we are still playing with the ticklers because we are not yet men enough or real enough to say what we need. for some centuries we thought it might be Christianity. after throwing the Christians to the lions we let them throw us to the dogs. we found Communism might be a little better for the average man’s belly but did little for his soul. now we play with drugs, thinking it will open doors. the East has been on the stuff longer than gunpowder. they find they suffer less, die more. to pot or not to pot. “we goin’ to M-a-li-booo, man! yeah, we’re goin’ to Malllll-i-bOOOOO!”
pardon me while I roll a bit of Bull Durham.
wanta drag?
THE BLANKET
I have not been sleeping well lately but this is not what I am getting at exactly. It is when I seem to go to sleep that it happens. I say “seem to go to sleep” because it is just that. More and more of late I appear to be alseep, I sense I am asleep and yet in my dream I dream of my room, I dream that I am sleeping and everything is just where I left it when I went to bed. The newspaper on the floor, an empty beer bottle on the dresser, my one goldfish circling slowly at the bottom of his bowl, all the intimate things that are as much a part of me as my hair. And many times when I am NOT asleep, in my bed, looking at the walls, drowsing, waiting to sleep, I often wonder: am I still awake or am I already asleep, dreaming of my room?
Things have been going bad lately. Deaths; horses running poorly; toothache; bleeding, other unmentionabl
e things. I often get the feeling, well, how can it get worse? And then I think, well, you still have a room. You are not out in the street. There was a time when I did not mind the streets. Now I can not bear them. I can stand very little any more. I have been pin-pricked, lanced, yes even bombed ... so often, I simply want no more; I cannot stand up under it all.
Now here’s the thing. When I go to sleep and dream I am in my room or whether it is actually happening and I am awake, I do not know, only things begin to happen. I notice that the closet door is open just a bit and I am sure it was not open a moment ago. Then I see that the opening in the closet door and the fan (it has been hot and I have the fan on the floor) are lined up in a direct point that ends at my head. With a sudden whirl I rage away from the pillow, and I say “rage” because I usually curse some most vile thing at “those” or “it” that is trying to remove me. Now I can hear you saying, “The lad is insane,” and indeed, I might be. But somehow I do not feel it is so. Although this is a very weak point in my favor, if a point at all. When I am out among people I am uncomfortable. They speak and have enthusiasms that are not a part of me. And yet it is when I am with them that I feel strongest. I get this idea: if they can exist on just these fragments of things, then I can exist too. But it is when I am alone and all comparisons must fall upon a comparison of myself against the walls, against breathing, against history, against my end, that the odd things begin to happen. I am evidently a weak man. I have tried to go to the bible, to the philosophers, to the poets, but for me, somehow, they have missed the point. They are talking about something else entirely. So long ago I stopped reading. I found some small help in drinking, gambling and sex, and in this way I was much like any man in the community, the city, the nation; the only difference being that I did not care to “succeed,” I did not want a family, a home, a respectable job and so forth. So there I was: neither an intellectual, an artist; nor did I have the saving roots of the common man. I hung like something labeled in between, and I guess, yes, that is the beginning of insanity.
Tales of Ordinary Madness Page 24
