The Most Beautiful Woman in Town (15 page)

To take someone standing up, their size must have a certain relationship to your size. I remember one time almost dying in a Detroit hotel room. I tried a standup and it didn't quite work. What I mean is, she took her legs
off
the floor and wrapped them around me. Which meant I was holding up two people on two legs. That's bad. I wanted to quit. I was only holding her up with two things: my hands under her asshole and my cock.

But she kept saying, “God, you've got powerful legs! God, you've got beautiful and strong legs!”

Which is true. The rest of me is mostly shit, including my mind and all the rest. But somebody had placed these huge and powerful legs upon my body. No bullshit. But it damned near killed me — that Detroit hotel fuck — because your leverage, the moving of the cock back and forth into that thing, takes a special movement from that position. You are holding up the weight of two bodies. All the motion must therefore be transferred to your spine or backbone. It's a rough and murderous maneuver. Finally we both came and I just tossed her off somewhere. Threw her away.

But with the one at Andre's, she kept her feet on the floor, which allowed me to do tricks — rotate, spearfish, slow down, speed up, and the various.

So there I finally finished her off. I was in a bad position — my pants and my shorts down there dripping around my shoes. I just let go of Wendy. I don't know where the hell she fell, nor did I care. Just as I was reaching down to pull up my shorts and my pants, the guy, the kid walked up and stuck the middle finger, right hand, straight and hard into my asshole. I screamed, turned around and punched him in the mouth. He went flying.

Then I got my shorts and pants up and sat in a chair, drinking wine and beer, glowering, not saying anything. They finally got themselves together.

“Good night, Andre,” he said.

“Good night, Andre,” she said.

“Watch the steps now,” I said. “They get very slippery in the rain.”

“Thank you, Andre,” he said.

“We'll watch it, Andre,” she said.

“Love!” I said.

“Love!” they both answered at once.

I closed the door. God, it was so nice to be an immortal French poet!

I walked to the kitchen, found a good bottle of French wine, some anchovies and some stuffed olives. I brought it all out and set it upon the wobbly coffee table.

I poured a tall glass of wine. Then I walked to the window which overlooked the world and the ocean. That ocean was nice: it kept on doing what it was doing. I finished that wine, had another, ate some of the stuff, then I was tired. I took my clothes off and got into the middle of Andre's bed. I farted, looking out at the sun, listening to the sea.

“Thank you, Andre,” I said. “You're a pretty good guy after all.”

And my talent was not yet finished.

ALL THE GREAT WRITERS

Mason had her on the phone. “yeh, well, listen, I was drunk. I don't remember WHAT I said to you! maybe it was true and maybe it wasn't! no, I'm NOT sorry, I'm tired of being sorry … you what? you won't? well, god damn you then!”

Henry Mason hung up. it was raining again. even in the rain there was always trouble with women, there was always trouble with

...

it was the intercom buzzer. he picked up the phone.

“there's a Mr. Burkett, a James Burkett...”

“will you tell him that his manuscripts have been returned? we mailed them back yesterday. so sorry, all that.”

“but he insists on seeing you personally.”

“you can't get rid of him?”

“no.”

“all right, send him in.”

a bunch of damned extroverts. they were worse than clothing salesmen, brush salesmen, they were worse than …

in cames James Burkett.

“sit down, Jimmy.”

“only my friends call me ‘Jimmy.' ”

“sit down, Mr. Burkett.”

you could tell by looking at Burkett that he was insane. a great self-love covered him like a neon paint. there was no scrubbing it off. truth wouldn't do it. they didn't know what truth was.

“listen,” said Burkett, lighting a cigarette and smiling around his cigarette like a temperamental & goofy bitch, “how come ya didn't like my stuff? your secretary out there sez ya sent it back? how come ya sent it back, man, huh? how come ya sent it back?”

then Mr. Burkett gave him the direct, the so direct look in the eye, playing at having SOUL. you were supposed to LOVE to do, so very hard to do, and
only
Mr. Burkett didn't realize this.

“it just wasn't any good, Burkett. that's all.”

Burkett tapped his cigarette out in the ashtray. now, he
rammed
it out, jamming it and twisting it in the tray. then he lit another cigarette, and holding the match out in front of him, flaming, he said:

“hey, listen, man, don't give me that SHIT!”

“it was terrible writing, Jimmy.”

“I said only my FRIENDS call me ‘Jimmy'!”

“it was shitty writing, Mr. Burkett, in our opinion, only, of course.”

“listen, man, I KNOW this game! you SUCK up right and you're in! but you've got to SUCK! and I don't SUCK, man! my work stands alone!”

“it certainly does, Mr. Burkett.”

“if I were a Jew or a fag or a commy or black it would be all over, man, I'd be in.”

“there was a black writer in here yesterday who told me that if his skin were white he'd be a millionaire.”

“all right, how about the fags?”

“some fags write pretty good.”

“like Genet, huh?”

“like Genet.”

“I gotta suck dick, huh? I gotta write about sucking dick, huh?”

“I didn't say that.”

“listen, man, all I need is a little promotion. a little promotion and I'll go. people will LOVE me! all they gotta do is SEE my stuff!”

“listen, Mr. Burkett, this is a business. if we published every writer who demanded that we do so because his stuff was so great, we wouldn't be here very long. we have to make the judgment. if we're wrong too many times we're finished. it's as simple as that. we print good writing that sells and we print bad writing that sells. we're in the selling market. we're not a charity, and frankly, we don't worry too much about the betterment of the soul or the betterment of the world.”

“but my stuff will GO, Henry …”

“ ‘Mr. Mason,' please! only my friends …”

“what are you trying to do, get SHITTY with me?”

“look, Burkett, you're a pusher. as a pusher, you're great. why don't you sell mops or insurance or something?”

“what's wrong with my writing?”

“you can't push and write at the same time. only Hemingway was able to do that, and then even he forgot how to write.”

“I mean, man, what don't you
like
about my writing? I mean, be DEFINITE! don't give me a lot of shit about
Hemingway
, man!”

“1955.”

“1955? Whacha mean?”

“I mean, you were good then, but the needle's stuck. you're still playing 1955 over and over again.”

“hell, life is life and I'm still writing about LIFE, man! there
isn't
anything else! what the hell you giving me?”

Henry Mason let out a long slow sigh and leaned back. artists were intolerably dull. and near-sighted. if they made it they believed in their own greatness no matter how bad they were. if they didn't make it they still believed in their greatness no matter how bad they were. if they didn't make it, it was somebody
else's
fault. it wasn't because they didn't have talent; no matter how they stank they always believed in their genius. they could always trot out Van Gogh or Mozart or two dozen more who went to their graves
before
having their little asses lacquered with Fame. but for each Mozart there were 50,000 intolerable idiots who would keep on puking out rotten work. only the good quit the game — like Rimbaud or Rossini.

Burkett lit another cigarette, once again holding the flaming match in front of him as he spoke:

“listen, you print Bukowski. and he's slipped. you know he's slipped.
admit
it, man! hasn't Bukowski slipped, huh? hasn't he?”

“so, he's slipped.”

“he writes SHIT!”

“if shit sells then we'll sell it. listen, Mr. Burkett, we aren't the
only
publishing house. why don't you try somebody else? just don't accept our judgment.”

Burkett stood up. “what the hell's the use? you guys are
all
alike! you can't
use
good writing! the world has no use for REAL writing! you couldn't tell a human being from a fly! because you're dead! DEAD, ya hear? ALL YOU FUCKERS ARE DEAD! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!”

Burkett threw his burning cigarette on the rug, turned about, walked to the door, SLAMMED it and was gone.

Henry Mason got up, picked up the cigarette, put it in the tray, sat down, lit one of his own. no way of giving up smoking on a job like this, he thought. he leaned back and inhaled, so glad that Burkett was gone — those guys were dangerous — absolutely insane and vicious — especially those who were always writing about LOVE or SEX or the BETTER WORLD. jesus, jesus. he exhaled. the intercom buzzer rang.

he picked up the phone.

“a Mr. Ainsworth Hockley to see you?”

“what's he want? we sent him his check for LUSTS AND BUSTS ON THE CAMPUS.”

“he says he has a new story.”

“fine. tell him to leave it with you.”

“he says he hasn't written it.”

“o.k., have him leave the outline. I'll check it out.”

“he says he doesn't have an outline.”

“wutz he want, then?”

“he wants to see you personally.”

“you can't get rid of him?”

“no, he just keeps staring at my legs and grinning.”

“then, for Christ's sake. pull your dress down!”

“it's too short.”

“all right. send him in.”

in came Ainsworth Hockley.

“sit down,” he told him.

Hockley sat down. then jumped up. lit a cigar. Hockley carried dozens of cigars. he was afraid of being a homosexual. that is, he didn't know whether he was a homosexual or not, so he smoked the cigars because he thought it was manly and also dynamic, but he still wasn't sure of where he was. he thought he liked women too. it was a mix-up.

“listen,” said Hockley, “I just sucked a 36 inch COCK! gigantic!”

“listen, Hockley, this is a business. I just got rid of one nut. what do you want with me?”

“I want to suck your COCK, man! THAT'S what I want!”

“I'd rather you didn't.”

the room was already smoggy with cigar smoke. Hockley really shot it out. he jumped out of the chair. walked around. sat down. jumped out of the chair. walked around.

“I think I'm going crazy,” said Ainsworth Hockley. “I keep thinking of cock. I used to live with this 14 year old kid. huge COCK! god. HUGE! he beat his meat right in front of me once, I'll never forget it! and when I was in college, all these guys walking around the locker rooms, real cool-like ya know? why one guy even had BALLS down to his KNEES! we used to call him BEACHBALLS HARRY. after BEACHBALLS HARRY came, baby, it was all OVER! like a waterhose spurting curdled cream! when that stuff dried … why, man in the morning he'd have to beat the sheets with a baseball bat, shake the flakes off before he sent it to the laundry …”

“you're crazy, Ainsworth.”

“I know, I know, that's what I'm telling YA! have a cigar!”

Hockley poked a cigar at his lips.

“no, no, thank you.”

“maybe you'd like to suck MY cock?”

“I don't have the slightest desire. now what do you want?”

“I've got this idea for a story, man.”

“o.k., write it.”

“no, I want you to hear it.”

Mason was silent.

“all right,” said Hockley, “this is it.”

he walked around shooting smoke. “a spaceship, see? 2 guys and 4 women and a computer. here they are shooting through space, see? days, weeks go by. 2 guys, 4 women, the computer. the women are getting real hot. they want it, see? got it?”

“got it.”

“but you know what happens?”

“no.”

“the two guys decide that they are homosexuals and begin to play with each other. they ignore the women entirely.”

“yeah, that's kind of funny. write it.”

“wait. I'm not done yet. these two guys are playing with each other. it's disgusting. no. it
isn't
disgusting! anyhow, the women walk over to the computer and open the doors. and inside this computer there are 4 HUGE cock and balls.”

“crazy. write it.”

“wait. wait. but before they can get at the cocks, the machine shows up with assholes and mouths and the whole damned machine goes into an orgy with ITSELF. god damn, can you imagine?”

“all right. write it. I think we can use it.”

Ainsworth lit another cigar, walked up and down. “how about an advance?”

“one guy already owes us 5 short stories and 2 novels. he keeps falling further and further behind. if it keeps up, he'll own the company.”

“give me half then, what the hell. half a cock is better than none.”

“when can we have the story?”

“in a week.”

Mason wrote out a check for $75.

“thanks, baby,” said Hockley, “you're sure now that we don't want to suck each other's cocks?”

“I'm sure.”

then Hockley was gone. Mason walked out to the receptionist. her name was Francine.

Mason looked at her legs.

“that dress is pretty short, Francine.”

he kept looking.

“that's the style, Mr. Mason.”

“just call me ‘Henry.' I don't believe I ever saw a dress quite that short.”

“they get shorter and shorter.”

“you keep giving everybody who comes in here rocks. they come into my office and talk like crazy.”

“oh, come on, Henry.”

“you even give me rocks, Francine.”

she giggled.

“come on, let's go to lunch,” he said.

“but you've never taken me to lunch before.”

“oh, is there somebody else?”

“Oh, no. but it's only 10:30 a.m.”

“who the hell cares? I'm suddenly hungry. very hungry.”

“all right. just a moment.”

Francine got out the mirror, played with the mirror a bit. then they got up and walked to the elevator. they were the only ones on the elevator. on the way down, he grabbed Francine and kissed her. she tasted like raspberry with a slight hint of halitosis. he even pawed one of her buttocks. she offered a token resistance, pushing against him lightly.

“Henry! I don't know what's gotten
into
you!” she giggled.

“I'm only a man, after all.”

in the lobby of the building there was a stand which sold candy, newspapers, magazines, cigarettes, cigars …

“wait a moment, Francine.”

Mason bought 5 cigars, huge ones. he lit one and let out an immense spray of smoke. they walked out of the building, looking for a place to eat. it had stopped raining.

“do you usually smoke before lunch?” she asked.

“before, after and in between.”

Henry Mason felt as if he were going just a bit insane. all those writers. what the hell was wrong with them?

“hey, here's a place!”

he held the door open and Francine walked in. he followed her.

“Francine, I sure like that dress!”

“you do? why thank you! I've got a dozen similar to this one.”

“you have?”

“umm hummm.”

he pulled up her chair and looked at her legs as she sat down. Mason sat down. “god, I'm hungry. I keep thinking of clams, I wonder why?”

“I think you want to fuck me.”

“WHAT?”

“I said, ‘I think you want to fuck me.' ”

“oh.”

“I'll let you. I think you're a very nice man, a very nice man, really.”

the waiter came up and waved the smoke away with his menu cards. he handed one to Francine and one to Mason. and waited. and got rocks. how come some guys got nice dolls like that while he had to beat his meat? the waiter took their orders, wrote them down, walked through the swinging doors, handed the orders to the cook.

“hey,” said the cook, “whatcha got there?”

“whadya mean?”

“I mean, ya got a horn! in
front
there! stay away from ME with that thing!”

“it's nothing.”

“nothing? you'll kill somebody with that thing! go throw some cold water on it! it just don't look nice!