Tales of Ordinary Madness (24 page)

I got the dishpan and put some newspaper in it. Then I got a paring knife. I put the dishpan on the floor. Then I sat in the chair. I put the blanket on my lap. And I held the knife. But it was hard to cut into the blanket. I kept sitting there in the chair, the night wind of the rotten city of Los Angeles coming in on the back of my neck, and it was hard to cut. How did I know? Maybe that blanket was some woman who had once loved me, finding a way to get back to me through that blanket. I thought of 2 women. Then I thought of one woman. Then I got up and walked into the kitchen and I opened the vodka bottle. The doctor said any more hard stuff and I was dead. But I had been practicing on him. A thimbleful one night. 2 the next, etc. This time I poured a glassful. It was not the dying that mattered, it was the sadness, the wonder. The few good people crying in the night. The few good people. Maybe the blanket had been this woman either trying to kill me to get me into death with her, or trying to love as a blanket and not knowing how ... or trying to kill Mick because he had disturbed her when she tried to follow me at the door? Madness? Sure. What isn't madness? Isn't Life madness? We are all wound-up like toys ... a few winds of the spring, it runs down, and that's it ... and we walk around and presume things, make plans, elect governors, mow lawns ... Madness, surely, what ISN'T madness?

I drank the glass of vodka straight down and lit a cigarette. Then I picked up the blanket for the last-time and THEN I CUT! I cut and cut and cut, I cut the thing into all the little pieces that were left of anything ... and put the pieces into the dishpan and then I put the dishpan near the window and turned on the fan to blow the smoke out, and while the flame was starting I went into the kitchen and poured another vodka. When I came out it was going red and good, like any old Boston witch, like any Hiroshima, like any love, like any love at all, and I did not feel well, I did not feel well at all. I drank the second glass of vodka down and felt almost nothing. I walked into the kitchen for another one, carrying the paring knife with me. I threw the knife on the sink and unscrewed the cap from the bottle. I looked again at the paring knife on the sink. Upon its side was a distinct smear of blood.

I looked at my hands. I searched my hands for cuts. The hands of Christ were beautiful hands. I looked at my hands. There was not a scratch. There was not a nick. There was not even a scar.

I felt the tears coming down my cheeks, crawling like heavy senseless things without legs. I was mad. I must truly be mad.