Hot Water Music (12 page)

Henry took the pillow and bunched it behind his back and waited. Louise came in with toast, marmalade and coffee. The toast was buttered.

“Are you sure you don’t want a couple of soft-boiled eggs?” she asked.

“No, it’s O.K. This is fine.”

“You should have a couple of eggs.”

“All right, then.”

Louise left the bedroom. He’d been up earlier to go to the bathroom and noticed his clothes had been hung up. Something Lita would never do. And Louise was an excellent fuck. No children. He loved the way she did things, softly, carefully. Lita was always on the attack—all hard edges. When Louise came back with the eggs he asked her, “What was it?”

“What was what?”

“You even peeled the eggs. I mean, why did your husband divorce you?”

“Oh, wait,” she said, “the coffee is boiling!” and she ran from the room.

He could listen to classical music with her. She played the piano. She had books:
The Savage God
by Alvarez;
The Life of Picasso
; E. B. White; e. e. cummings; T. S. Eliot; Pound; Ibsen, and on and on. She even had nine of his
own
books. Maybe that was the best part.

Louise returned and got into bed, put her plate on her lap. “What went wrong with
your
marriage?”

“Which one? There’ve been five!”

“The last. Lita.”

“Oh. Well, unless Lita was in
motion
she didn’t think anything was happening. She liked dancing and parties, her whole life revolved around dancing and parties. She liked what she called ‘getting high.’ That meant men. She claimed I restricted her ‘highs.’ She said I was jealous.”

“Did you restrict her?”

“I suppose so, but I tried not to. During the last party I went into the backyard with my beer and let her carry on. There was a houseful of men, I could hear her in there squealing, ‘
Yeehooo! Yee Hoo! Yee Hoo
!’ I suppose she was just a natural country girl.”

“You could have danced too.”

“I suppose so. Sometimes I did. But they turn the stereo up so high that you can’t think. I went out into the yard. I went back for some beer and there was a guy kissing her under the stairway. I walked out until they were finished, then went back again for the beer. It was dark but I thought it had been a friend and later I asked him what he was doing under the stairway there.”

“Did she love you?”

“She said she did.”

“You know, kissing and dancing isn’t so bad.”

“I suppose not. But you’d have to see her. She had a way of dancing as if she were offering herself as a sacrifice. For rape. It was very effective. The men loved it. She was 33 years old with two children.”

“She didn’t realize you were a solitary. Men have different natures.”

“She never considered my nature. Like I say, unless she was in motion, or turning on, she didn’t think anything was happening. Otherwise she was bored. ‘Oh, this bores me or that bores me. Eating breakfast with you bores me. Watching you write bores me. I need challenges.’”

“That doesn’t seem completely wrong.”

“I suppose not. But you know, only boring people get bored. They have to prod themselves continually in order to feel alive.”

“Like your drinking, for instance?”

“Yes, like my drinking. I can’t face life straight on either.”

“Was that all there was to the problem?”

“No, she was a nymphomaniac but didn’t know it. She claimed I satisfied her sexually but I doubt if I satisfied her spiritual nymphomania. She was the second nymph I had lived with. She had fine qualities aside from that, but her nymphomania was embarrassing. Both to me and to my friends. They’d take me aside and say, ‘What the hell’s the matter with her?’ And I’d say, ‘Nothing, she’s just a country girl.’”

“Was she?”

“Yes. But the other part was embarrassing.”

“More toast?”

“No, this is fine.”

“What was embarrassing?”

“Her behavior. If there was another man in the room she’d sit as close to him as possible. He would duck down to put out a cigarette in an ashtray on the floor, she’d duck down too. Then he’d turn his head to look at something and she’d do the same thing.”

“Was it a coincidence?”

“I used to think so. But it happened too often. The man would get up to walk across the room and she’d get up and walk right alongside of him. Then when he walked back across the room she’d follow right by his side. The incidents were continuous and numerous, and like I say, embarrassing to both me and my friends. And yet I’m sure she didn’t know what she was doing, it all came from the subconscious.”

“When I was a girl there was a woman in the neighborhood with this 15-year-old daughter. The daughter was uncontrollable. The mother would send her out for a loaf of bread and she’d come back eight hours later with the bread but meanwhile she would have fucked six men.”

“I guess the mother should have baked her own bread.”

“I suppose so. The girl couldn’t help herself. Whenever she saw a man she’d start to jiggle all over. The mother finally had her spayed.”

“Can they do that?”

“Yes, but you have to go through all kinds of legal procedures. There was nothing else to do with her. She’d have been pregnant all her life.

“Do you have anything against dancing?” Louise continued.

“Most people dance for joy, out of good feeling. She crossed
over into dirty areas. One of her favorite dances was The White Dog Hunch. A guy would wrap both his legs around her leg and hump her like a male dog in heat. Another of her favorites was The Drunk Dance. She and her partner would end up on the floor rolling over on top of each other.”

“She said you were jealous of her dancing?”

“That was the word she used most often: jealous.”

“I used to dance in high school.”

“Yeah? Listen, thanks for breakfast.”

“It’s all right. I had a partner in high school. We were the best dancers in school. He had three balls; I thought it was a sign of masculinity.”

“Three balls?”

“Yes, three balls. Anyhow, we really knew how to dance. I’d signal by touching him on the wrist, then we’d both leap and turn in the air, very high, and land on our feet. One time we were dancing, I touched his wrist and I made my leap and turn, but I didn’t land on my feet. I landed on my ass. He put his hand over his mouth and stared down at me and said, ‘Oh, good heavens!’ and he walked off. He didn’t pick me up. He was a homosexual. We never danced again.”

“Do you have something against three-balled homosexuals?”

“No, but we never danced again.”

“Lita, she was really dance-obsessed. She’d go into strange bars and ask men to dance with her. Of course, they would. They thought she was an easy fuck. I don’t know if she did or didn’t. I suppose that sometimes she did. The trouble with men who dance or hang out in bars is that their perception is on a parallel with the tape worm.”

“How did you know that?”

“They’re caught in the ritual.”

“What ritual?”

“The ritual of misdirected energy.”

Henry got up and began to dress. “Kid, I got to get going.”

“What is it?”

“I just have to get some work done. I’m supposed to be a writer.”

“There’s a play by Ibsen on tv tonight. 8:30. Will you come over?”

“Sure. I left that pint of scotch. Don’t drink it all.”

Henry got into his clothes and went down the stairway and got
into his car and drove to his place and his typewriter. Second floor rear. Every day as he typed, the woman downstairs would beat on her ceiling with the broom. He wrote the hard way, it had always been the hard way:
The White Dog Hunch
…

Louise phoned at 5:30 p.m. She’d been at the scotch. She was drunk. She slurred her words. She rambled. The reader of Thomas Chatterton and D. H. Lawrence. The reader of nine of his books.

“Henry?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, something marvelous has happened!”

“Yes?”

“This black boy came to see me. He’s
beautiful
! He’s more beautiful than you…”

“Of course.”

“…more beautiful than you and I.”

“Yes.”

“He got me so excited! I’m about to go out of my mind!”

“Yes.”

“You don’t mind?”

“No.”

“You know how we spent the afternoon?”

“No.”

“Reading
your poems
!”

“Oh?”

“And you know what he said?”

“No.”

“He said your poems were
great
!”

“That’s O.K.”

“Listen, he got me so
excited
. I don’t know how to handle it. Won’t you come over? Now? I want to see you now…”

“Louise, I’m working…”

“Listen, you don’t have anything against black men?”

“No.”

“I’ve known this boy for ten years. He used to work for me when I was rich.”

“You mean when you were still with your rich husband.”

“Will I see you later? Ibsen is on at 8:30.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Why did that bastard come around? I was all right and then he came around. Christ. I’m so excited, I’ve got to see you. I’m about to go crazy. He was so
beautiful
.”

“I’m working, Louise. The word around here is ‘Rent.’ Try to understand.”

Louise hung up. She called again at 8:20 about Ibsen. Henry said he was still working. He was. Then he began to drink and just sat in a chair, he just sat in a chair. At 9:50 there was a knock on the door. It was Booboo Meltzer, the number one rock star of 1970, currently unemployed, still living off royalties. “Hello, kid,” said Henry.

Meltzer walked in and sat down.

“Man,” he said, “you’re a beautiful old cat. I can’t get over you.”

“Lay off, kid, cats are out of style, dogs are in now.”

“I got a hunch you need help, old man.”

“Kid, it’s never been different.”

Henry walked into the kitchen, found two beers, cracked them and walked out.

“I’m out of cunt, kid, which to me is like being out of love. I can’t separate them. I’m not that clever.”

“None of us are clever, Pops. We all need help.”

“Yeh.”

Meltzer had a small celluloid tube. Carefully he tapped out two little white spots on the coffee table.

“This is cocaine, Pops,
cocaine
…”

“Ah, hah.”

Meltzer reached into his pocket, pulled out a $50 bill, rolled the 50 tightly, then worked it up one nostril. Pressing a finger on the other nostril he bent over one of the white spots on the coffee table and inhaled it. Then he took the $50 bill, worked it up the other nostril and sniffed the second white spot.

“Snow,” said Meltzer.

“It’s Christmas. Appropriate,” said Henry.

Meltzer tapped out two more white spots and passed the fifty. Henry said, “Hold it, I’ll use my own,” and he found a $1 bill and sniffed up. Once for each nostril

“What do you think of
The White Dog Hunch
?” asked Henry.

“This is ‘The White Dog Hunch,’” said Meltzer, tapping out two more spots.

“God,” said Henry, “I don’t think I’ll ever be bored again. You’re not bored with me, are you?”

“No way,” said Meltzer, sniffing it up through the $50 with all his might. “Pops, there’s just no way…”

The phone rang at 3 a.m. Francine got up and answered it and brought the phone to Tony in bed. It was Francine’s phone. Tony answered. It was Joanna long distance from Frisco. “Listen,” he said, “I told you never to phone me here.” Joanna had been drinking. “You just shut up and listen to me. You
owe
me something, Tony.” Tony exhaled slowly, “O.K., go ahead.”

“How’s Francine?”

“Nice of you to ask. She’s fine. We’re both fine. We were asleep.”

“Well, anyhow, I got hungry and went for pizza, I went to a pizza parlor.”

“Yeh?”

“You’ve got something against pizza?”

“Pizza is garbage.”

“Ah, you don’t know what’s good. Anyhow, I sat down in the pizza parlor and ordered special pizza. ‘Give me the very best,’ I told them. I sat there and they brought it and said $18. I said I couldn’t pay $18. They laughed and went away and I began to eat the pizza.”

“How are your sisters?”

“I don’t live with either of them anymore. They both ran me out. It was those long-distance phone calls to you. Some of the phone bills ran over $200.”

“I’ve told you to stop phoning.”

“Shut up. It’s my way of letting myself down easy. You
owe
me something.”

“All right, go ahead.”

“Well, anyhow, I got to eating the pizza and wondering how I was
going to pay for it. Then I got dry. I needed a beer so I took the pizza to the bar and ordered a beer. I drank that and ate some of the pizza and then I noticed a tall Texan standing next to me. He must have been seven feet tall. He bought me a beer. He was playing music on the juke box and it was country western. It was a country western place. You don’t like country western music, do you?”

“It’s pizza I dislike.”

“Anyhow, I gave the tall Texan some of my pizza and he bought me another beer. We kept drinking beer and eating pizza until the pizza was finished. He paid for the pizza and we went to another bar. Country western again. We danced. He was a good dancer. We drank and kept hitting country western bars. Every bar we went to was country western. We drank beer and danced. He was a great dancer.”

“Yes?”

“Finally we got hungry again and we went to a drive-in for a hamburger. We ate our hamburgers and then suddenly he leaned over and kissed me. It was a hot kiss. Wow!”

“Oh?”

“I told him, ‘Hell, let’s go to a motel.’ And he said, ‘No, let’s go to my place.’ And I said, ‘No, I want to go to a motel.’ But he insisted upon going to his place.”

“Was there a wife?”

“No, his wife was in prison. She’d shot and killed one of their daughters, a 17-year-old.”

“I see.”

“Well, he had one daughter left. She was 16 and he introduced me to his daughter, and then we went into his bedroom.”

“Do I have to listen to the details?”

“Let me
talk
! I’m paying for this call. I’ve paid for
all
these calls! You owe me something, you listen to me!”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, we got into the bedroom and stripped down. He was really hung but his pecker looked terribly blue.”

“It’s when the balls are blue, there’s trouble.”

“Anyhow, we climbed into bed and played around. But there was a problem…”

“Too drunk?”

“Yes. But mainly it was that he only got hot when his daughter
came into the room or made a noise—like coughing or flushing the toilet. Any glimpse or sign of his daughter would turn him on, he’d really get hot.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Anyhow, in the morning he told me that I had a home for life if I wanted it. Plus a $300-a-week allowance. He has a very nice place: two-and-one-half bathrooms, three or four tv sets, a bookcase full of books: Pearl S. Buck, Agatha Christie, Shakespeare, Proust, Hemingway, the Harvard Classics, hundreds of cookbooks and the Bible. He has two dogs, a cat, three cars…”

“Yes?”

“That’s all I wanted to tell you. Goodbye.”

Joanna hung up. Tony put the receiver back in the cradle, then set the phone on the floor. Tony stretched out. He hoped Francine was asleep. She wasn’t. “What’d she want?” she asked.

“She told me a story about a man who fucked his daughters.”

“Why? Why should she tell you that?”

“I suppose she thought I’d be interested, plus the fact that she fucked him too.”

“Are you?”

“Not really.”

Francine turned over to him and he slipped his arm around her. Three a.m. drunks, all over America, were staring at the walls, having finally given it up. You didn’t have to be a drunk to get hurt, to be zeroed out by a woman; but you could get hurt and become a drunk. You might think for a while, especially when you were young, that luck was with you, and sometimes it was. But there were all manner of averages and laws working that you knew nothing about, even as you imagined things were going well. Some night, some hot summer Thursday night,
you
became the drunk,
you
were out there alone in a cheap rented room, and no matter how many times you’d been out there before, it was no help, it was even worse because you had got to thinking you wouldn’t have to face it again. All you could do was light another cigarette, pour another drink, check the peeling walls for lips and eyes. What men and women did to each other was beyond comprehension.

Tony drew Francine closer to him, pressed his body quietly against hers and listened to her breathe. It was horrible to have to be serious about shit like this once again.

Los Angeles was so strange. He listened. The birds were already up, chirping, yet it was pitch dark. Soon the people would be heading for the freeways. You’d hear the freeways hum, plus cars starting everywhere on the streets. Meanwhile the 3 a.m. drunks of the world would lay in their beds, trying in vain to sleep, and deserving that rest, if they could find it.