A History of the African-American People (Proposed) by Strom Thurmond (35 page)

You’ll be sorry to hear—I know I was—that Juniper McCloud, whom you have befriended, and very kind of you to do so, as he deserves it, a very nice young man and also well-featured, is laid up in the hospital. His injuries are said to be not critical but extensive. What that means in this case is that another editor here, Ralph Vendetti, a capable but coarseminded man, assaulted him, i.e., beat him up pretty much all over, but not too horribly in any one place.

Why did Vendetti do it? Word is that Juniper sent him an abusive note, though I cannot believe Juniper would do that. However, he probably has provocation, as he is, though you do not know this, working part-time (against my better judgment, which he surely should rely on) for Vendetti. I do not take this as a betrayal, since the project is a low-market thing about whores and such. Juniper is helping a friend. Some friend!

In any case, Juniper is at the 37th Street hospital, not the world’s best, I might add, but the very place our insurance here at S&S lands us. His face is OK, but his jaw isn’t, if you take my meaning. But he can talk. I know because I visited him and vowed to take things into my own hands with Vendetti, which vow I will fulfill, once I determine how best to do it.

Martin

April 1, 2003

Dear Jim and Percival,

I am reclined here in Dante’s 7th circle, enjoying myself greatly, thanks to philanthropic painkillers I wish I had learned to spend time with earlier. I’ll tell you, my dear friends, that these things do a lot more than kill pain. Oh yes. They give you a sense of serenity that recovering alcoholics pray for. I can see why they do. It’s as good as any drunk—a little morphine, some codeine, some pills of some sort. And it’s not lassitude I feel, but exhilaration. I feel like I’m all mind, as if my body were laid to rest somewhere over in the next township and all energy has been deposited in my head. And a happy head it is, filled with plans and promises and resolve to do good.

I should have said I’m here in the company hospital—or some hospital the company allows us to go to. It’s a splendid hospital, a beautiful and even charming place. The nurses are very funny and gifted people, and the food—well, you won’t find many 5-star restaurants to top it. I’m here because Ralph Vendetti took it into his head to punish me for a scurrilous note sent to him by poor Martin. I’ll tell you why poor Martin in a minute.

Anyhow, Martin, driven by forces beyond his control—and most forces are—wrote a note to Vendetti. I said that before, didn’t I? Sorry. I’m just so happy. This letter is being transcribed by Reba, my Venus of a sister, Venus and—[I am simply NOT going to send this part, promise or no promise—R.]. You see, I can make myself understood but not sit up, really, or hold a pen, really. That’s fine. I’m far from complaining. You should try it. I’ll try to sneak some of this stuff for you. Maybe in LA you can get all the codeine you want? Lucky you!

Reba told me I was drifting, which put me in mind of a song, called Drifting Down the River on a Sunny Afternoon, the Sky above, the moon you love, crooning out a tune, the old accordion playing a tune that is a tune, cruising down the river, on a sunny afternoon-noon-noon-noon. I just sang that. Wish you could have heard it. [I do too—R.]

So, Vendetti went after me. I won’t give you details about his motives, as they are perfectly reasonable but I forget what they are. Anyhow, he did. And here I am and there you are and here is Reba in this palace writing down what I say. Only thing bothers me is that I told Vendetti it was Martin who sent it. That was low of me, you’ll say, and I agree. But I was in great pain at the time, I think, though now that’s hard to believe, and I think pain must be an illusion. Still, I was afraid he’d give me more pain and seemed to be honing in on my balls, in fact, so I told him.

I love you and Reba and Reba loves you and me.

Juniper

There’s this very pretty candy-striper kid (girl) comes by and sings. I sing with her. She’s good and doesn’t mind that I don’t know the words. She, Whitney is her name and she’s about 12 I think, says she’s going to write out the lyrics for me. GO, GIRL! I say. Doncha know, baby. Reba says she really loves Whitney too but she’s not going to go on writing this [no, I’m not]. Did I say she really likes Whitney too? [yes] Reba refuses to sing [right].

April 3, 2003

Dear Percival and Jim,

Well, the worst has happened and I knew you’d want to hear all about it. Reba says you couldn’t possibly be interested; she says I’m bothering you. But that’s women for you. Apart from that, she’s a good sort. Actually, I like women a lot, generally. Almost always. I’d much prefer to spend my time with them, no offense. Men are not so comfortable for me, not easy. You know what I mean? It’s funny, though. I’m highly sexed. Reba just said not to tell you that, but why not? My guess is that you two are highly sexed too, though probably not in the same way I am. Here’s how I am: there’s lots of men and women I’d like to have sex with, children too, though that’s for some reason a big no-no in our culture. Why is that? Anyhow, my dilemma is this. Well, my REAL dilemma is that I am so seldom able to arrange circumstances where it turns out that I am sleeping with anybody, never mind man or woman or child. Reba said to say “child” was just a joke. It isn’t a joke, though it’s illegal. I tell her there’s a big difference, though I don’t think most people recognize it.

They changed my medication a bit. It’s even better, if you can believe it. This kind sort of wears off, which is a bummer, but then when they give me another shot oh jesus! I am not sure what it is. They won’t tell me. They told Reba, I think. [Yes they did and I told Juniper but he has a hard time keeping anything straight, as you’ve noticed.]

My dilemma is that there are more men I want to sleep with than women, leaving children out of it. Maybe it’s just the luck of the draw—I mean by that only that the men I have met happen to be more attractive, some of them, than the women I have met, some of them. I don’t have any special proclivities, of that I’m pretty sure. But I prefer being around women. Maybe I just haven’t lived long enough to get it ironed out. I was going to say “get it straight,” but that’s a laugh, isn’t it. But, when you think of it, it isn’t all that funny. Yes it is.

The worst that’s happened, as I said, has happened. Martin is in here, though not in my semi-private room. There’s four of us in here, which lands pretty heavy on the semi part of semi-private, if you ask me. The others sharing my particular privacy are all wonderful and gifted men. Why they are all men I don’t know. If college dorms can be co-ed, why not hospital semi-private rooms? But these guys are magnificent. Two of us, counting me, can’t get out of bed, which means the other two have to initiate the visiting, which they do a lot. One is a football player or maybe polo. But it’s Snell I wanted to tell you about, thanks Reba.

So, probably because I told Mr. Vendetti as he was bashing me with his big fists and then picking me off the floor so he could bash me again—he didn’t kick me, to the best of my recollection and I don’t think he’s the kind of person who would—anyhow I told him Snell had sent the note. Pure cowardice you’re saying. True.

So Vendetti got to Snell, easy enough since their offices are close, not next door but close. Kicked the shit out of him. Not like me but worse, I think. I have tried to call Martin Snell on the phone here, which Reba helps me with. They could do with less stuff or more furniture and drawers is my opinion. The top of this unreasonably small bedside table (otherwise very nice) gets crowded, not that I am a neat freak. But spilling is messy, don’t you think?

But he’s not there, Snell, or, I guess he is; he’s just not answering. Probably he can’t yet. But they tell me he’s going to be OK. I told the nurse to give him what I’m getting. You know what she said? She said, “We only give that juice to the patients we love, sweet cheeks.” Reba doesn’t believe she said that, no you don’t, but she did.

Well, you’re up to date now, as they say. If you know anybody who’d like to have sex with me, I’d be grateful if you’d tell me about them or them about me. It doesn’t matter which way, as it’ll amount to the same thing in the end, and that is not a pun. Man or woman. Child I was just kidding about. OK, Reba?

Love,

Juniper

April 5, 2003

Dear P & J,

I now have my own laptop here with me and can save Reba some trouble. You know that she slept in a lounger here for two nights? What a dearie.

I go home tomorrow, probably. I sure hope so. I actually felt better before today, when they suddenly and mercilessly replaced the wonder drugs I was taking with, get this, Tylenol. What a fraud Tylenol is. Does nothing. Reba says, though, that the other drugs made me effervescent to a degree that others might not understand. Actually, she said they made me nearly incoherent in my bliss. I’m sorry if I gave that impression. Near as I can remember, I’ve never felt so confident or impressed with my own thinking, and I suppose that’s bad. Fun, though!

I will be brief. Mr. Vendetti has been here every day. He hasn’t once said he’s sorry, but he hangs around for 45 minutes or so, being gruff or silent. Reba talks with him a lot, though, and several times I thought I heard Mr. Vendetti laugh. The drugs, you know. With me, though, he mostly stares straight into my face, as if expecting me to tell jokes or make an important announcement. It would embarrass me to do that, just stare at somebody, but it doesn’t embarrass him. I asked him, as politely as I could, if there was something he wanted to say. “If there were, I’d say it.” But he sort of smiled. “Is there something you want me to say?” I probed. “No.” What do you make of that? Sometimes I think he just comes here to see Reba. If so, I wish he’d stare at her rather than me, though I don’t mean to complain. He’s obviously a decent guy. Ugly as hell, though not as much as when I first saw him. There’s a way in which his face has a lot of character, but still, however you cut it, kind of ugly.

The other news is about Septic. She came here yesterday with Reba in the morning and stayed practically the whole day. Actually, that was fine by me. She’s not ugly like Vendetti and she didn’t stare at me. Get this. She’s shy. Turns out Reba had practically dragged her here to talk about her book, CLASS ASS (as you remember).

Well, I was feeling right at the top of my game (or, as Reba would say, prime idiotic) since they hadn’t begun tormenting me with Tylenol yet. I was curious about Septic anyhow, as she hadn’t seemed the sort my sister would befriend. Turns out I was judging Septic only on her name and the title of her book. She looks a little like Audrey Hepburn or somebody just as fragile. I was expecting a motorcycle mama, I guess, or maybe Joan Rivers. But here was a shrinking violet, with blond hair I could tell was natural (I didn’t say she was a duplicate of Audrey Hepburn) and a modest dress that was actually pleated at the bottom with those poofy sleeves. Didn’t know they were in fashion. Probably they are not, as I don’t think Septic has a lot of money or, I’d also guess, interest in fashion.

After a while, I got her talking about her book. I was sure after twenty minutes that it was all fiction. No way this well-spoken girl had been a pimp and prostitute. Wrong. She insisted she had “worked summers” while in college, three summers to be exact, in the body trade. The first two summers she had done tricks; the last one she had moved up to “administration,” which seems to correspond more to Madame than pimp, sort of like second-in-command to Heidi Fleiss.