Technicolor Pulp (9 page)

“Well… Yeah… You know… Whatever… I’m here, so call me.”

“No, I want to see you RIGHT AWAY. I’ve got the flat to myself this weekend. I’ve got to run but I’ll call back later and
if you’re not there I’ll leave a meeting place. Is tonight OK?”

“Sure.”

“I just need to find out the name of this new place in Soho.”

“Sounds good, Diane… I’m glad you called.”

“Cheers!” and hangs up the phone.

The bottom line is that I’d do anything to get Diane on my arm for a night or a minute or a lifetime. Not that I think it’s
really possible, because I don’t, but these are the kinds of things that keep my dream-state rolling. Diane accepts all the
things that make Lindsey gag. Something about the european vibe, they’re amused by things the american girls cringe over,
like smelly armpits, dirty teeth and greasy hair, bedwetting, no job, no money. It’s more of a game to them. Not a Wall Street
proposal. I mean I feel kind of out of place when I’m with Diane unless we’re on my terms, but that doesn’t mean I’m not willing
to throw my phallic hat in the ring. She’s all the status I ever wanted to pooh-pooh. Some displaced nymphomaniac duchess
looking to round out her sexual calendar with a struggling whatever—me. She seems to see some sort of hope in me. Potential.
I’m all about the future. I’m a regular forecast. Every success story claims they were once as bleak as me. Eating potato
chips, drinking a beer, sitting on the couch, knowing destiny is hiding behind that next Lucky Charms box. Could I be that
guy? Could I fill that role? Could I be that snow-white Mandingo? Is it twenty pounds away or is it twenty years away? Or
is it just another brick in my outhouse of delusion? I’m on a cloud, a cloud of invisible pillows—my ego. Caught somewhere
between love and hate, only ever feeling one or the other. My mood a by-product of my weakness, my genius, my vanity and my
lack of true vision. Dime store, all dime store. A tender moment, a moment of total exception. I’m the exception to the rule
for a brief moment and I love it. I’m the hero of my own epic. A GIRL LIKES ME AND SHE’S HOT!

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, the water’s boiling up over the rim of the pot. I turn off the flame and divide the scalding
water, what’s left of it, into two cups. Lost in my
Ben-Hur
sequence, almost all the water’s boiled away. I stroll over to the spigot and top off the cups. The water out of the tap
is a tad rusty, but it doesn’t matter, since I’m making tea. Doobe’ll never know the difference. I toss a couple of bags in
and watch the water as it takes on more color.

Everyone else is running around the flat, hurrying to get somewhere or another. The air is on the chilly side and I’m hurled
on into more “young guy’s thoughts.” All those, Who am I? What am I? What do I? Where do I? When do I do? Does anybody really
know what time it is? kind of thoughts. I don’t know. I just don’t know! I just want it to be all over! I wanna be somewhere
warm looking back on it all, laughing about it. I wanna be rich and slovenly, hiding out on an island, sitting in a bar with
dirty khakis telling funny stories about it all. I don’t wanna have to GO THROUGH WITH IT ALL. I just want it to be over and
I wanna be back on the beach with a drink in my hand, telling whoppers about it all to a Cajun silicon queen who thinks it’s
all JUST SO CUTE. Right now, I’m knee-deep in the middle of it all and I don’t think I like it. It isn’t fun. There’s too
much pressure knowing that I’ll have to scrub pots again soon. I wanna be retired and lazy. No ambition. I want that idea
or that woman who’s gonna change me to
come along soon and take care of all this. I want… I want… I want and I don’t have. I don’t want the “young guy’s thoughts.”
I want it to be fun. I wanna know the final score of the game so that I can go ahead and start to bet. I want it to be about
fucking and I want, I want, I want!

I take hold of the cups and start climbing the steps. Half way up, I spill scorching tea on my right foot. My foot tingles
and I jolt, spilling liquid on both my hands. My hands hurt more than my foot now and I got no choice but to forge on ahead
up the stairs, half skipping and half crawling. Christ! All I want to do is make a cup of tea for Doobe and I… And look what
happens! Finally reaching the top, I kick open the door with my unburnt foot. Helms is still sleeping with his fake victorian
night-blinders on.

“Wake up, Doober!”

I see a slight quiver of the hand and a toe stretch or two. He’s tired. He’s been running plates of food by night and being
my drinking buddy by day for weeks now. It takes a toll on a guy. It makes morning into afternoon proposition.

“Come on! Wake up, pal! I got some tea I made, almost killed me getting it to ya! We gotta be in good form tonight. That chick
Diane’s calling me back and we’re meeting her tonight in Soho.”

“Diane?” I hear from under the pillow.

“You know, that fine royal-type who thinks I’m some kinna thing waiting to happen.”

“You are SOME KIND OF THING. A HASSLE.”

“Trip to Rio, buddy. Remember that trip to Rio…”

“You’re getting more mileage outta that far off promise than I thought possible.”

“I’m serious. She thinks um like intense like Bobby DeNiro or something….”

“You are…
Raging Bull.
You coulda been his double in
Raging Bull.
They coulda used you to focus the lens on… You BIG HOUSE.”

“Ooch… Last time I bring you your cup of morning tea.”

“Um just kidding, gimme that tea,” pulls off his blinders and reaches for the mug. He takes a sip. I try to suss out by the
look on his face whether or not I’m getting on his nerves. It isn’t like I add that much to the european skyline. I’m more
or less a thorn in his side that needs constant iodine, and that’s on my happy days. If I was Doobe, I’d have kicked me out
a long time ago. He’s still asleep, I figure. The mild disgust on his face, the subtle frown, the squinty eyes are more fatigue
than anything I coulda brought about.

“No, um serious though… She said she’s gonna call back about some marbley kind of new martini bar in Soho.”

“Yeah… I know the place.” Pulls the blinders down over his eyes and flops back down in bed, “Gimme another couple hours… Write
some HAIKU or something and talk with the girls.”

I sit watching TV for a couple hours with the aid of a small chunk of hashish I pirate off the kitchen table. I break small
pieces off every twenty minutes and cook them up under glass. No waste, like a crazed scientist. I can feel Diane Rowan on
my celestial bicycle path. She is near. Sanctuary is just around the corner. Solace. To be wrapped in the arms of a rich hot
british girl is to be OK in the eyes of an ego that’s pushed me around the world. To be warm and yet, wrapped in a blanket
of ice. Swept away by my fantasy… High on top that cliff one more time. Sunbeams shooting off beads of sweat on her shoulders.
She’s the reason men become losers and villains. Fuck Lindsey! I hate that bitch and all her problems! Even if I did give
her a few new ones! Got to get over the curse! The curse of love gone sour! A New Mission. I’m in search of the almighty pink.
Diane is the CURE and London’s the place! She wants to see me and drink martinis, shaken not fucking stirred!

“Boys, boys, boys… Little american boys drinking man’s drinks!” Miss Diane gives me a decent hug. I say “decent,” which is
like getting a blow job
from an american girl. The british are cold, so cold that physical contact in public is almost indecent.

“How ya doin’, Diane… How ya been?” I hug her back, weighing the response, searching the embrace for some sign of where I
stand on the “guys I wanna fuck” list.

“This is my buddy, Doobe, I’ve been tellin’ you about.”

“Hi Diane. It’s a pleasure… Jimi’s told me a lot about you as well.”

“Well, cheers to you, Dink! Jimi said that you were just so sweet and wasn’t he JUST so right!”

“It’s Doobe, Diane. D-O-O-B-E… DOOBE.”

“Well I’m sorry Doobe,” she flutters, “I meant no harm!” and sits down.

A delicate hand through her hair and she orders a glass of chablis. Christ, I could just LOOK at the bitch. The kind of chick
that you look at even when they’re with huge muscle-butt steroid guys because it just doesn’t matter. It’s out of your hands!
You just look at them! They strike… They appear… They vanish… And there’s nothing left to do but loop your mule in memory
of them. They stop you in the middle of a sentence. You look at them right in front of the fat bitch sitting next to you.
Diane becomes the face on all your average-looking fucks. The kind of woman you think you’re willing to pay the price for.
Class… A blue french miniskirted suit… Black leather go-go boots… Dirty-blond hair with still a bit of sun on her pale freckly
skin. It’s hard for me
to believe I boned this woman! No…. She isn’t a woman… She’s a young lady. I wanna lean over and tell this young thing, this
vision, this 900 number sound-alike look-doll, this stroke of luck that she can be my adultress forever. I want to lean over
and tell this 3-D fantasy that she can just go ahead and destroy any relationship I’m ever gonna have. I don’t wanna even
TRY to be her steady man. Too many social events. I just wanna be that token vagabond fuck. She takes a sip of wine and I’m
sure the way she drinks that wine… The way it dances across her tongue and the way she follows it with that magnificent cashmere
lick of the lips and finally, that smile… I’m sure that’s just the way Grace Kelly used to do it, and Grace Kelly was the
most beautiful woman ever. I mean I respect Cary Grant solely for the fact that I once saw him slap Grace Kelly, regardless
of how many young nubile boys he chased around his house in maids’ outfits. She’s so prim and proper and yet I’ll bet she’s
never stayed up a single night worrying about her moral code. Morals are for the masses. I worry about morals! I try to have
morals because somewhere along the line I was tricked into thinking that it fucking mattered! Like there’s a right way to
do things! It’s all just a dirty little spin-the-bottle game to Diane.

We spend the better part of the afternoon drinking at the bar. The martinis flow endlessly like they’re being pissed out of
little cupid-statue-fountains. I snort down half a dozen before I get
up to take my first leak. I do a lot of listening, nodding my head, and dreaming. Diane and Doobe do a lot of yakking. I soak
it ALL in, wondering if I’ll get a chance to hole up, like a pair of deviant Tinker toys, with the duchess in sugar-boy William’s
flat near Hyde Park. I make eye contact. I give a slurry smile and get a little play—a couple of brief pauses in her head
as it turns past me and that’s enough for me. Enough to make me think good thoughts, my only hurdle being the viral uproar
I got south of the navel. Time has been oh so cruel. My rod’s bloomed, looking like a twisted bouquet of O’Keeffe lilies from
the FTD of hell, leaving me highly contagious. You might catch it standing downwind of me in the johns. I’ve never told Diane
that I got the herpes but I figure as long as I’m honest about it, she’ll be cool. She’s a big girl. I just gotta be honest!
In the meantime, I gotta sneak out the door like I’m going to the head and score a pack of King James version Trojans to wrap
my piece in. I got a lucky feeling tonight and I wanna have protection with me as long as my groin still looks like bad pop
art.

Doobe and Diane are going on about some political shit and I make like I’m going to the bathroom, turn a quick hard left and
scoot out the door. I spot a variety store across the street and cop a trusty three-pack at the counter. Still embarrassed
after all these years, I buy a candy bar. I sneak back across the street and duck in next to the two chatterboxes at the bar.

Another couple rounds and a whole lotta laughs later, Diane’s grabbing me.

“Dizzy, I’m taking your friend with me! Is that OK? I’ve got to talk to him a little bit alone but you’re very nice too! We
just haven’t seen each other for awhile!”

“That’s OK with me… I could use a night alone. I need to do some laundry I think,” and he waves. I’m an object.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get him back!” and drags me away.

Boy Wonder Willi’s flat is a sick sort of turn-of-the-century swanky Gatsby pad, nestled in the heart of Mayfair, which I
guess is as good as it gets in Fog Town. The place’s got high, high ceilings and a spiral staircase built only for the likes
of Vivien Leigh, big billowy curtains and all the things that a place like this is supposed to have inside of it. I’m peeking
around every corner, waiting for David Niven to come out and hand me a glass of sherry. Candlelight. Candles going everywhere,
like a Buddhist temple. It’s beyond wealth! Sets of knights’ armor, family crests, the works.

Diane pulls me right up the stairs into the wall-to-wall velvet master bedroom and I figure it’s as good a time as any to
let the evil cat out of the bag.

“Diane, I gotta tell ya something… I got the herpes and I’m having an outbreak… I don’t want you to get it, so we gotta be
really careful.”

“HERPES…” she cries. “OH YOU MUST BE JOKING, REALLY… YOU GOT THE HERPES!
WHY I CAN’T EVEN BELIEVE THAT… HERPES! AND YOU THINK I’M GOING TO SLEEP WITH YOU… HERPES! YOU MUST BE OUT OF YOUR MIND… HERPES!”

Everytime she says the word, I see a giant black crow cawing and shaming me with a treacherous beak. My heart is off to the
races, screaming up at me, telling me to find a ledge and jump. I look at her with that smirking superior mug, sitting perfect
while I nurse my case of sexual chicken pox. Her eyes grow strange, distant. She’s pulling away. The woman that I thought
was my second biggest fan, my believer, turns on me, looks at me like I’m Rock Hudson’s kid brother.

“Look… I chose to be honest with you… and you start to make fun of me?”

“OH, OK THERE… MISTER HERPES SLEAZE MAN! MISTER AMERICAN GIGOLO HERPES SLEAZE MAN!” She laughs.

I can’t believe it, my biggest nightmare come true. First, I get the herpes from some lying rich girl I sleep with, because
I find out she’s from a famous family and I’m trying to smooch my way up through the social-economic ranks. And now… I’m being
condemned by this Limey countess. I’m indignant!