Come On In (11 page)

the male reviewer writes that he

misses the poems about

the drinking bouts and the hard

women and the low

life. 

the female reviewer says that

all I write about

is drinking and puking and bad

women

and a life nobody could

ever care

about. 

their reviews are

on the same page

and are about

the same book 

and

this is a poem

about

book reviewers. 

as a young man

he went skinny-dipping with

Kafka

but it was too much

for him:

the sun burned him badly

and he was in bed

for two days

with a high

fever.

he was fat

and in great pain

as he twisted in the

sheets. 

now Kafka didn’t get burned

and he visited the fat

boy

and the fat boy’s

mother

gave Kafka

hell.

and life continued. 

and the fat boy

went on to write many

books and he became

famous in his own

time

while Kafka only wrote

a few books and remained

unknown. 

the fat boy

even went on to live

comfortably in Paris

with a wife of some

importance

and they mixed with

many of the

great artists of their

day 

while Kafka remained

unknown

and life continued. 

pushing my cart through the supermarket

today

the thought crossed my mind

that I could start

knocking cans from the shelves and swiping

at rolls of towels, toilet paper and

silver foil,

I could throw oranges, bananas, tomatoes

into the air, I could take cans of

beer from the refrigerator and roll

them down the aisle, I could pull up

women’s skirts and grab their asses,

I could ram my shopping cart through

the plate glass window.

then another thought occurred to me:

people generally consider the consequences

before they do something

like that.

I pushed my cart along.

a young woman in a checkered skirt was

bending over in the pet food section.

I seriously considered grabbing her

ass

but I didn’t, I rolled on

by.

I had the items I needed and I pushed

my cart up to the checkout stand.

a lady in a red smock with a nameplate

waited on me.

the nameplate indicated her name was

“Robin.”

Robin looked at me: “how you doing?”

she asked.

“fine,” I told her.

and then she began tabulating and

bagging my purchases

with no idea that

the fellow standing there before her

had just two minutes ago been

one small step away from the

madhouse.

through early evening

I

sit alone

listening to the sound of

the heater;

I fall into myself

like a rock dropped into some

ungrand canyon.

it hits bottom. I

lift my drink. 

unfortunately

my hell is not any more hell

than the hell of a

fly. 

that’s what makes it

difficult. and

nothing is less

profound than a

melancholy

drunk. 

I must remember:

the death or the murder of a

drunk matters

less

than

nothing.

spider, on the wall:

why do you take

so long?

is young, quite young,

and the boys are lined up on the bench

waiting for a table

as she waits on customers. 

the boys say sly and

daring things to her

in very low voices. 

they all want to

bed down with her

or

at least

get her

attention. 

she hears the

whispered remarks,

really likes hearing them

but says,

again and again,

“shut up! oh, you shut up!” 

it goes on and

on:

the boys continue and

she continues:

“oh, shut up!” 

in a voice without

grace or melody

in a voice

without warmth or humor

in a voice

remarkably

ugly:

“
oh, shut up now!”

but the eager boys

are not aware of her

tone of

voice 

and the one who will

finally live with that

voice

is probably not yet sitting

there. 

her husband of the

future

will finally understand

the horrible reality of

that voice 

(remember,

the voice is the window

to the soul)

and he will think:

oh my god

oh my god

oh my god

what have I

done? 

won’t

she

ever

shut up? 

men on 2nd and 3rd.

first base was open.

one out.

we gave Parker an

intentional walk.

we had a 3- to- 2

lead.

last half of the

9th, Simpson on the

mound.

Tanner up.

Simpson let it go.

it was low and

inside.

Tanner tapped it

to our shortstop,

DeMarco.

perfect double play

ball.

DeMarco gloved it,

flipped it to Johnson

our 2b man.

Johnson touched 2nd

then stood there

holding the ball as

the runners were

steaming around

the bases.

I screamed at Johnson

from the dugout:

“DO SOMETHING WITH THE

GODDAMNED BALL!”

the whole stadium was

screaming.

Johnson just stood there

a funny look on his face

with the ball.

then

he fell forward

still holding the ball.

he was

stretched out there as

the winning run

scored. 

the dugout emptied

as we ran

to Johnson.

we turned him

over.

he wasn’t moving.

he looked

dead.

the trainer took

his pulse and

looked at me.

then he started

mouth-to-mouth. 

the announcer asked

if there was a

doctor in the

stands.

two of them came

down.

one of them

was drunk. 

the tiny crowd started

coming

out on the field.

the ushers pushed

them back. 

somebody took the

ball out of Johnson’s

hand. 

they worked on him

for a long time.

there was a

camera flash.

then another.

then the doctor

stood up: 

“it’s no good.

he’s gone.” 

the stretcher

came out and

we loaded Johnson

onto the stretcher.

somebody threw a

warm-up

jacket

over his face. 

the stadium was

almost deserted as

they carried Johnson

off the field

through

the dugout

and into

the locker room. 

I didn’t go

in.

I took a cup of water

from the cooler

and

sat alone on the bench. 

Toby the batboy

came over.

“what’s going to happen now, Mr.

Quinn?” he asked. 

“our 2nd baseman is

dead, Toby.” 

“who you going to play

there now?” 

“I don’t think that’s

important right now,” I

told him. 

“yes, it is, Mr. Quinn!

we’re 2 games out of

first place

going into September!” 

“I’ll think of something,

Toby …” 

then I got up and went

through the door

to the locker room,

Toby following right

behind. 

since my last name was Fuch, he said to Raymond, you can

believe the school yard was tough: they put itching

powder down my neck, threw gravel at me, stung me

with rubber bands in class, and outside they called

me names, well, one name mainly, over and over,

and on top of all that my parents were poor, I wore

cardboard in my shoes to fill in the holes in the

soles, my pants were patched, my shirts thread-

bare; and even my teachers ganged up

on me, they slammed my

palm with rulers and sent me to the principal’s office as

if I was really guilty of something;

and, of course, the abuse kept coming from my classmates;

I was stoned, beaten, pissed on;

the little girls hissed and stuck their tongues out

at me … 

Fuch’s wife smiled sadly at Raymond: my poor darling husband had such

a
terrible
childhood!

(she was so beautiful it almost stunned one to look at

her.) 

Fuch looked at Raymond: hey, your glass is empty. 

yeah, said Raymond. 

Fuch touched a button and the English butler silently

glided in. he nodded respectfully to Raymond and in his

beautiful accent asked, another drink, sir? 

yes, please, Raymond answered.

the butler went off to prepare the drink. 

what hurt most, of course, continued Fuch, was the name-

calling. 

Raymond asked, have you never forgotten it? 

I did for a while, but then strangely I began to

miss the abuse … 

the butler returned carrying Raymond’s

drink on a silver tray. 

here is your drink, sir, said the butler. 

thank you, said Raymond, taking it off the tray. 

o.k., Paul, Fuch said to the butler, you can

start now. 

now? asked the butler. 

now, came the answer. 

the butler stood in front of Fuch and screamed:

fucky-
boy! fucky-
baby! fuck-
face! fuck-
brain!

where did your name come from, fuck-
head?

how come you’re such a fuck-
up?

etc…. 

they all started laughing uncontrollably

as the butler delivered his tirade in that

beautiful British accent. 

they couldn’t stop laughing, they fell out of their

chairs and got down on the rug, pounding it and

laughing, Fuch, his lovely young wife and Raymond

in that sprawling mansion overlooking the shining sea. 

that I was

in my room 

having been

shot in the belly

by some tart. 

snakes crawled the

floor 

while outside

a schoolmaster

sang

an old school

song

then 

the curtains

went up in

flame 

the phone

rang 

everything

seemed

in a hurry

to die 

so I

decided to

die

which made all the

bad poets

happy

and all the good poets

glad 

as they

rushed in

to fill

the vacancy 

then the dream

was

over 

I awakened

and I was 

the Bad Boy

of poetry 

all over

again. 

they were an old couple

and she slept with her

head at one end of the

bed

and he with his head

at the other

end.

they explained that

in case somebody

came in to murder

them

at least one of them

would have a

better chance to

escape. 

when he died

she had a stuffed replica

made of his

body

and she slept with

her head at one end

of the bed

and the replica’s

head was down at the

other. 

and just like in the

past,

at least once every

night, 

she would awaken

in a fury and

scream,

“STOP

THAT

GODDAMNED

SNORING!”