Tales of Ordinary Madness (5 page)

WOULD YOU SUGGEST WRITING AS A CAREER?

The bar. Sure. It overlooked the takeoff ramp. We sat at the bar but the bartender ignored us. Bartenders in airport bars are snobs, I decided, just like porters on trains used to be snobs. I suggested to Garson that rather than scream at the man, which is what he (the bartender) wanted, that we take a table. We took a table.

Well-dressed thieves all about, looking comfortable and dull, sipping at drinks, talking quietly and waiting on their flight. Garson and I sat and looked at the barmaids.

“Shit,” said Garson, “look – their dresses are cut so that you can see their panties.”

“Ummm hum,” I said.

Then we made comments about them. That one had no ass. The other one's legs were too thin. And they both looked stupid and thought they were hot shit. The one without the ass walked over. I told Garson to name his and then I ordered a scotch and water. She went off for the drinks, then came back. The drinks weren't higher than at an ordinary bar but then I had to tip her well for seeing her panties – up close like that too.

“You scared?” asked Garson.

“Yes,” I said, “but what about?”

“Flying for the first time.”

“I thought I might be. But now, looking at these–” I waved about the bar “– it doesn't matter ...”

“How about the readings?”

“The readings I don't like. They're stupid. Like digging a ditch. It's survival.”

“At least you're doing what you like to do.”

“No,” I said, “I'm doing what you like to do.”

“All right, then, at least people will appreciate what you're doing.”

“I hope so. I'd hate to get lynched for reading a sonnet.”

I reached into my travel bag, put the bag between my legs and refilled my drink. I had that, then I ordered Garson and myself one more.

The one without the ass in ruffled panties: I wondered if she wore other panties
under
those ruffled panties? We finished our drinks. I gave Garson a 5 or a ten for the ride in and we went upstairs for my seat on the plane. I no sooner sat down in the last seat, last row, when the plane began to roll. Close.

It seemed to take a long time to get off the ground. An old grandma had the window seat next to me. She looked calm, almost bored. Probably took 4 or 5 flights a week, ran a string of whorehouses. I couldn't get the safety belt quite right but since nobody else was complaining, I let mine dangle rather loosely. It would be less embarrassing to get thrown out of my seat than to ask the stewardess how to fasten the belt.

We were in the air and I hadn't screamed. It was calmer than a trainride. No motion. Boring. We seemed to be doing 30 miles an hour; the mountains and clouds didn't hurry by at all. 2 stewardesses walked up and down, smiling smiling smiling. One of them didn't look too bad but she had these huge cords of veins running up and down her neck. Too bad. The other stewardess didn't have any ass.

We ate and then the drinks came around. One dollar. Not everybody wanted a drink. Strange turds. Then I began hoping the plane would lose a wing and then I'd really get to see what the faces of the stewardesses looked like. I knew the one with the cords would scream very loudly. The one without the ass – well, who knew? I'd grab the one with the cords and rape her on the way down to our death. A quickie. Clutching, finally, in mutual ejaculation just before we hit the ground.

We didn't crash. I had my second allowable drink, then sneaked an extra one right in front of grandma. She didn't flinch. I did. A full glass. Straight down. No water.

Then we were there. Seattle ...

I let them all get off first. I had to. Now I couldn't get
out
of my seatbelt.

I called to the one with the big veins in her neck.

“Stewardess! Stewardess!”

She walked back.

“Look I'm sorry ... but how do you ... open this damn thing?”

She wouldn't touch the belt or get close to me.

“Turn it over, sir.”

“Yes?”

“Just pull on that little clip on the back ...”

She walked away. I pulled at the little clip. Nothing. I pulled and I pulled. Oh, Christ! ... then, it gave.

I grabbed my flightbag and tried to act normal.

She smiled at me at the gangplank door.

“Good afternoon and come again, sir!”

I walked down the runway. A young boy with long blonde hair was standing there.

“Mr. Chinaski?” he asked.

“Yes, is that you, Belford?”

“I kept watching the faces ...” he said.

“That's all right,” I said, “let's get out of here.”

“We still have a few spare hours before the reading.”

“Great,” I said.

They were tearing up the airport. You had to take a bus to get to the parking lot. They let you wait. There was a big crowd waiting for the bus. Belford started to walk toward them.

“Wait! Wait!” I said. “I just can't
stand
there among all those damned people!”

“They don't know who you are, Mr. Chinaski.”

“How well I know. But I know who they are. Let's stand here. When the bus comes we'll dash up. Meanwhile how about a little drink?”

“No thanks, Mr. Chinaski.”

“Look, Belford, call me Henry.”

“I'm Henry too,” he answered.

“Oh yes, I forgot.” ...

We stood and I drank.

“Here comes the bus, Henry!”

“O.k., Henry!”

We ran for the bus ...

After that, we decided that I was “Hank” and he was “Henry.”

He had an address in his hand. A friend's cabin. We could lay up there together until the reading. His friend was gone. The reading wasn't until 9 p.m. Somehow Henry couldn't find the cabin. It was nice country. Sure, it was nice country. Pines and pines and lakes and pines. Fresh air. No traffic. It bored me. There wasn't any beauty in me. I thought, I'm not a very nice fellow. Here's life the way it should be and I feel as if I were in jail.

“Nice country,” I said, “but I suppose some day they'll get to it.”

“They will,” said Henry. “You ought to see it when the snow comes down.”

Thank god, I thought, I'm spared that ...

Belford stopped outside a bar. We went in. I hated bars. I'd written too many stories and poems about bars. Belford thought he was doing me a favor.

You can get just so much out of bars and they won't go down anymore. They come up. People in bars were like people in 5 and dime stores: they were killing time and everything else.

I followed him in. He knew some people at a table. Lo, here was a professor of something. And there was a professor of something. And there was this and there was that. A tableful of them. Some women. Somehow the women looked like margarine. Everybody sat there drinking this green poison beer in big mugs.

A green beer arrived in front of me. I lifted it, held my breath and took a pull.

“I've always liked your work,” said one of the profs, “You remind me of ...”

“Pardon me,” I said, “I'll be right back ...”

I hustled toward the crapper. Naturally it stank. A nice quaint place.

Bar ... coming up!

I didn't have time to get a toilet door open. It had to go into the urinal. Further down the urinal from me was the bar clown. The town “mayor.” In his red cap. Funny guy. Shit.

I let it go, gave him the dirtiest look I could, then he walked out.

Then I walked out and sat in front of my green beer.

“You're reading tonight at .............?” one of them asked me.

I didn't answer.

“We'll all be there.”

“I'll probably be there too,” I said.

I had to be. I'd already cashed and spent their check. The other place, the next day, maybe I could get out of that.

All I wanted to do was get back to my room in L.A., all the shades down while drinking COLD TURKEY and eating hard-boiled eggs with paprika, and hoping for some Mahler on the radio ...

9 p.m.... Belford guided me in. There were little round tables with people sitting at them. There was a stage.

“You want me to introduce you?” Belford asked.

“No,” I said.

I found the steps that led up to the stage. There was a chair, a table. I put my traveling bag up on the table and started taking things out.

“I'm Chinaski,” I told them, “and this is a pair of shorts and here are some stockings and here is a shirt and here is a pint of scotch and here are some books of poetry.”

I left the scotch and the books on the table. I peeled the cellophane from the scotch and had a drink. “Any questions.”

They were quiet.

“Well, we might as well begin then.”

I gaeve them some of the old stuff first. Each time I took another drink the next poem sounded better – to me. College students were all right anyhow. They only asked one thing – that you didn't purposely lie to them. I thought that was fair.

I got through the first 30 minutes, asked for a ten minute break, got down off the stage with my bottle and sat at a table with Belford and 4 or 5 other students. A young girl came up with one of my books. God o mighty, baby, I thought, I'll autograph anything you've got!

“Mr. Chinaski?”

“Sure,” I said with a wave of my genius hand. I asked her name. Then wrote something. Drew a picture of a naked guy chasing a naked woman. Dated it.

“Thanks very much, Mr. Chinaski!”

So this was how it worked? Just a bunch of bullshit.

I took my bottle out of some guy's mouth. “Look mother, that's the 2nd hit you've taken. I've got to sweat another thirty minutes up there. Don't touch that bottle again.”

I sat in the middle of the table. Then I took a pull, sat it back down.

“Would you suggest writing as a career?” one of the young students asked me.

“Are you trying to be funny?” I asked him.

“No, no, I'm serious. Would you advise writing as a career?”

“Writing chooses you, you don't choose it.”

That got him off me. I had another drink, then climbed back on stage. I always saved what I preferred for last. It was my first college reading but I'd had a drunken two night stand at an L.A. bookstore for a warmup. Save the best for last. That's what you did when you were a kid. I read it on out, then closed the books.

The applause surprised me. It was heavy and it kept on. It was embarrassing. The poems weren't that good. They were applauding for something else. The fact that I'd made it through, I suppose ...

There was a party at this professor's house. This professor looked just like Hemingway. Of course, Hemingway was dead. The professor was rather dead too. He kept on talking about literature and writing – of all the disgusting fucking subjects. No matter where I went he trailed me. He followed me everywhere but to the bathroom. Everytime I turned around, there he was –

“Ah, Hemingway! I thought you were dead!”

“Did you know that Faulkner was a drunkard too?”

“Yeh.”

“What do you think of James Jones?”

The old boy was sick: he never got off it.

I found Belford. “Listen, kid, the refrigerator is dry. Hemingway doesn't stock much shit ...”

I gave him a 20. “Look, you know anybody who can go out and get some more beer, at least?”

“Yes, I know somebody.”

“Fine, then. And a couple of cigars.”

“What kind?”

“Any kind. Cheap. Ten or 15 cents. And thanks.”

There were 20 or 30 people there and I had already stocked the refrigerator once. So this is the way this bullshit works?

I picked out the finest looking woman in the house and decided to make her hate me. I found her in the breakfastnook sitting at a table alone.

“Baby,” I said, “that damned Hemingway is a sick man.”

“I know it,” she said.

“I know he wants to be nice but he can't let go of Literature. Christ, what a disgusting subject! You know, I never met a writer I liked? They're all little figs, the worst of human crap ...”

“I know,” she said, “I know ...”

I pulled her head around and kissed her. She didn't resist. Hemingway saw us and walked into the other room. Hey! The old boy had some
kool!
Remarkable!

Belford got back with the stuff and I piled a bunch of beer in front of us and I talked, and kissed and fondled with her for hours. It wasn't until the next day that I found out she was Hemingway's wife ...

I awakened in bed, alone, on a second floor somewhere. I was probably still in Hemingway's house. I was more seriously hungover than usual. I turned my face away from the sunlight and closed my eyes.

Somebody shook me.

“Hank! Hank! Wake up!”

“Shit. Go away.”

“We've got to leave now. You're reading at noon. It's a long drive. We'll barely make it.”

“Let's not make it.”

“We've got to make it. You signed a contract. They're waiting. They're going to put you on t.v.”

“T.v.?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god, I might vomit in front of the camera ...”

“Hank, we've got to make it.”

“All right, all right.”

I got out of bed and looked at him. “You're all right, Belford, to look after me and take all my shit. Why don't you get angry and cuss me or something?”

“You're my favorite living poet,” he said.

I laughed. “God, I could probably take my pecker out and piss all over you ...”

“No,” he said, “it's your words not your piss that I'm interested in.”

There, he had properly put me down and I felt good for him. I finally got on what I had to and Belford helped me down the stairway. There was Hemingway and his wife.

“God, you look awful!” said Hemingway.

“I'm sorry about last night, Ernie. I didn't know it was your wife until ...”