Come On In (7 page)

you’re a screwed-up Romantic, she said,

you read all the old philosophers and you

listen to Wagner and Mahler and you think

the ancient Chinese poets were hot shit, yet

you’re depraved, you’re at the racetrack

every day and you know that’s sick, and

all that wine you drink, it’s eating

your brain away, and when you get drunk

you talk about what a great fighter you

used to be, even though you admit you

took more beatings than you gave.

you dislike people and love animals.

I really don’t know what the hell you’re

all about—you just
grab
at things, you rely

solely on instinct and your prejudices

and sometimes I think you’re
retarded.

it was your childhood, you didn’t get any

love so it’s hard for you to give any,

you just get drunk and call every woman a

whore. 

listen, I said, isn’t there any more

beer?

and where the hell are the cigarettes?

there were 3 on this table a moment ago and

now they’re all

gone! 

I know this fellow, he is

amazing, so terribly

dull

but get him in a room full of

women

and he will find the easy

one

and they will begin

talking

and eventually they will

vanish

and they will

fuck. 

his conversation is quite

banal:

“oh, did your mother

come from Michigan? I had a

brother who went to the

University of Detroit!” 

what all this means is

that he will talk and talk

about anything and listen and

listen forever to

everything. 

the ladies really

ate

it

up. 

most of us are

unable to accomplish

this kind of thing

but this fellow

can talk

dumb crap for hours

and much later

after completing his

coitus

he will walk in

with the smiling lady

like a Lion King

as if the

whole thing

was

an endearing adventure

and somehow

fulfilling

for us

all. 

you had gotten out of

jail earlier that morning.

you got home about 4:30 a.m.

and started drinking with those

two dykes.

when I got there around 9 a.m.

you were lying on the couch with them

in your shorts and

undershirt

smoking an old cigar

and holding a beer can in your

hand,

you were a mess,

you had pennies and beer caps

stuck to your back

and the floor was covered with

bottles. 

“hi, kid,” you said,

“I just got out … we’re celebrating.” 

you were totally gone.

I’d heard some terrible things about you

and finally

I believed them. 

she told me that I was insensitive

that I didn’t revere God or love

animals. even flies have souls,

she told me. 

we were in a motel room at Laguna

Beach. she was overweight and

so was I and maybe in the

great all-encompassing nature of things

we both had souls

like flies. 

I lifted my drink

and emptied it. 

“shit,” she said, “William drank too much

too. don’t you know that life can be

beautiful?”

“yes, that’s why I drink.” 

“don’t you love the beauty of nature?” she

asked. “don’t you ever think of the miracle

of birth?”

“I think of the miracle of death.” 

“I used to think you were a great poet,”

she said, “but now that I’ve met you and

know you better, I don’t think that anymore.

you can’t fuck

me.” 

“I don’t have the desire to fuck

you,” I answered, “and you know it.” 

it was 3 a.m. and I walked out of the

motel room with a new drink in my hand.

I was dressed in my shorts and I

finished the drink and dropped myself

into the swimming pool. all the lights

were out. the manager stepped out as

I dog-paddled about in the dark. 

“what the hell are you doing?” he

screamed.

“turn on the pool lights,” I screamed back. 

the lights came on and I paddled around for

5 minutes more, then climbed out and walked

back into the motel room. 

she had her back turned to me in the bed.

I got in with a new drink and looked at

my feet sticking out from under the covers.

I decided that I had the most beautiful feet

of any man on earth.

then the pool lights went out and all I

could see was the glowing end of my cigarette.

I decided that in the great all-encompassing

nature of things it must certainly have

a soul too. 

we were having lunch

at Hal’s Diner.

“you know,” he told me, “after we made love

the last time

she lay in my arms and cried. she said,

‘oh my god, I miss him so!’

she was talking about you, Hank.” 

“that’s just the way it is, Jack, with all

my women: while I’m with them they hate

me but after I leave them they love

me.

I’m never tempted to go back to them, however, I don’t even

consider it.” 

“you don’t mind that I slept with her,

Hank?” 

“did she cook you a good breakfast afterwards,

Jack?”

“I don’t remember.”

“well, I’ll tell you: she didn’t.” 

“is that the reason you left her:

because she couldn’t cook

a good breakfast?”

“I never eat breakfast, Jack.”

“then what happened?”

“too often, after we made love, she

began crying in my arms about how she

missed some other guy.”

“well,” he said, “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch.” 

“don’t be,” I said, “just pass the salt and

pepper.” 

I’ve seen old married couples

sitting in their rockers

across from one another

being congratulated

for staying together 60 or 70

years,

either of whom

would

long ago have

settled for something

else, anything else,

but fate

fear and

circumstances have

bound them

eternally together;

and as we tell them

how wonderful

their great and enduring love

is

only they

really know

the truth

but they don’t tell us

that from the first day they

met

somehow

it didn’t mean

all that much:

like

waiting for death

now

it was just an endless determination to

endure. 

she lived in Venice

on some 2nd floor

and I’d knock and she’d

let me in

and there was no bed

just a mat on the floor

and candles

everywhere

there was even a

piano

and there was also a

guitar

and while we sipped

white wine

she’d sit on the

floor

and play the

guitar

and sing songs

her own lyrics

godawful stuff

about the

soul

and I’d go to the

window

and look out and

say

“nice view but let’s

work out.” 

“work out?”

she’d ask. “what

do you mean?” 

“I mean

I’ll suck your tits

and stuff.” 

“I want you to hear

this new

song.” 

she’d start right

in. 

she had an awful

voice but

nice long

hair. 

I’d get playful

and hammer on the

piano

just so I wouldn’t

have to listen

to

her. 

I was in a bad

way: in between

real women

and just

doing time

with

her. 

one night I

asked her,

“listen, how do you

make it?”

“make it?” 

“I mean

how do you pay the

rent, all

that?” 

“oh, I’m a marriage

counselor.”

“really?”

“yes.”

“you been married?”

“3 times.”

I finally stopped going

to her

place

but somehow

she found out where

I lived

and then came

to see

me. 

she said we couldn’t have

sex

because she was going to

be married again

and didn’t want to be

untrue

to him. 

she described

her boyfriend

in detail

to me

then took out her

guitar

and started

singing. 

later that night

I sodomized her

and told her

not to

come

around any

more. 

I got lucky:

she

didn’t. 

soon after that

I met a plump

Jewish girl

who promised

she’d

save me from

myself. 

I thought

that would be

a very good

idea. 

there were 4 of them between the ages of 30 and 45 and

all they talked about was men and sex, I mean,

it was all-consuming, to them there wasn’t anything

else. 

I was living with the youngest sister and she had me

performing sexual acts I had never even heard of

before.

“now, let’s try this.”

“all right.” 

at first it was lively, adventurous, even

humorous

but

as the months passed and the nights added up I

began to resent it, like—oh, here we go with SEX

again!

(she also liked to do it in strange places like public

parks or in automobiles while I was driving.) 

I began to feel that all the sisters were crazy; in fact,

one of them had been in a madhouse (the one I was with). 

the sisters had boisterous, screeching laughs, really

rather ugly laughs

and I began drinking more so I could tolerate

them and their laughter. 

the drinking made the sister I was with quite angry

because sometimes I would just go to sleep

instead of performing. 

I finally told my lady that I couldn’t take it anymore

and that it was over and she seemed to accept that at first

but finally it was not to be so:

she began to phone me continually, mostly at night,

around 3 or 4 a.m.: “YOU’VE GOT SOMEBODY THERE,

HAVEN’T YOU?” 

she followed me everywhere. once I took some clothes in

to the cleaners and when I came out my car was nearly

destroyed—ripped upholstery, shattered windows, torn

dashboard, all within 3 or 4 minutes.

it looked as if a tiger had been in the car. 

another time I was making love to another lady when my

bedroom window was

smashed open and there was the sister’s face, twisted, spitting

at me, “YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” then she was

gone. 

the lady in bed was terrified, trembling. “what was

that?”

“nothing, baby, nothing.”

the sex sister also tried to murder me a couple of times in a couple

of different ways and just missed both

times.

let me tell you that the police weren’t much

help, they picked her up but she somehow convinced

them that I was at fault. 

“there’s nothing wrong with that lady,” they told me,

both times.

two squads of officers. 

maybe she had sex with the whole gang of

them? 

fortunately, as the months went on she gradually abandoned her

terrorist attacks until finally it was just a weepy

phone call or two and then a letter or two, then

silence. 

she probably found somebody who could perform all the tricks that

she had taught me and could probably perform them

better. I hope

so. 

and I just hope he likes sex

62 times a

month.