What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire (18 page)

sitting in a computer class,

first of two three-hour

sessions.

I am being sucked into the New

Age.

my wife is there too.

there are three others.

the computer-whiz-boy

whisks us through

our paces.

we each sit in front of

a computer

working our mouse,

not wanting to be

left out,

not wanting to seem

dumb,

not wanting to be

found out.

there is a desperation

in that room.

and besides, we've

paid for all

this.

“what!” says a nervous

blonde lady,

“how can I take notes?

I can't keep up!”

“take mental

notes,” says

the computer-whiz-

boy.

he smiles.

the night envelops us as

we work

on.

once an impulse struck

me,

to leap up and

scream:

“shit! that's enough!

I can't handle

this!”

what stopped me

was that I knew that

it was all simple

enough,

it was only a matter

of learning the

routine.

the class actually

rolled on for an

extra hour.

at one rest break

everybody started

talking about

old television

programs which

pissed

me

off

but that finally

abated.

afterwards,

driving away in the

car

my wife asked me,

“well, did you

learn anything?”

“god, I don't know,”

I answered.

“you hungry?” she

asked.

“yeah,” I said,

“we'll eat

out.”

and I drove toward

the Chinese

place

and all about us

in traffic

were people who

knew about

computers or who

would soon know about

computers

and some who were

already

computed

themselves.

control panel.

find file.

select all.

show clipboard.

hide ruler.

insert header.

insert footer.

auto hyphenate.

show invisibles.

show page guides.

hide pictures.

how ya gonna keep us

down on the

farm

if

we can't find it on the

menu?

he sits in the chair across from me.

“you look
healthy
,” he says in a voice that is

almost disappointed.

“I've given up beer and I drink only

3 bottles of white German wine each night,”

I tell him.

“are you going to let your readers know

you've reformed?” he

asks. he walks to the refrigerator and opens

the door. “all these vitamins!”

“thiamine-hcl,” I say, “b-2, choline, b-6, folic

acid, zinc, e, b-12, niacin, calcium magnesium,

a-e complex, papa…and 3 bottles of white

German wine each night.”

“what's this stuff in the jars on the sink?” he

asks.

“herbs,” I tell him, “goldenseal, sweet basil, alfalfa

mind, mu, lemongrass, rose hips, papaya, gotu kola, clover,

comfrey, fenugreek, sassafras and chamomile…and I drink only

spring water, mineral water and my 3 bottles of white
German

wine.”

“are you going to tell your readers

about all this?”

he asks again.

“should I tell them?” I ask.

“should I tell them that I no longer

eat anything that walks on

4 legs?”

“that's what I mean,” he says. “people think you are a

tough guy!”

“oh?” I say.

“and what about your
image?
” he asks. “people don't expect

you to live like this.”

“I know,” I say, “I've lost my beer-gut. I've come down

from a size 44 to a size 38, and I've lost 31 pounds.”

“I mean,” he continues, “we all thought you were a man

walking carelessly and bravely to his death, foolishly but

with style, like Don Quixote and the windmills…all that.”

“we just won't tell anybody,” I answer, “and maybe

we can save my

image or at least prolong it.”

“you'll be turning to God next,” he says.

“my god,” I say, “is those 3 bottles of white German wine.”

“I'm disappointed in you,” he says.

“I still fuck,” I reply, “and I still play the horses and I

go to the boxing matches and I still love my daughter

and I even love my present girlfriend. not that much has

changed.”

“all right,” he says, “we'll keep it quiet.

can you give me a ride back to my place?

my car is in the shop.”

“all right,” I say. “I also still drive my car.”

I lock the door and we walk up the street to where

I'm parked now.

too much

too little

or too late

too fat

too thin

or too bad

laughter or

tears

or immaculate

unconcern

haters

lovers

armies running through streets of pain

waving wine bottles

bayoneting and fucking everyone

or an old guy in a cheap quiet room

with a photograph of Marilyn Monroe.

there is a loneliness in this world so great

that you can see it in the slow movement of

a clock's hands.

there is a loneliness in this world so great

that you can see it in blinking neon

in Vegas, in Baltimore, in Munich.

people are tired

strafed by life

mutilated either by love or no

love.

we don't need new governments

new revolutions

we don't need new men

new women

we don't need new ways

we just need to care.

people are not good to each other

one on one.

people are just not good to each other.

we are afraid.

we think that hatred signifies

strength.

that punishment is

love.

what we need is less false education

what we need are fewer rules

fewer police

and more good teachers.

we forget the terror of one person

aching in one room

alone

unkissed

untouched

cut off

watering a plant alone

without a telephone that would never

ring

anyway.

people are not good to each other

people are not good to each other

people are not good to each other

and the beads swing and the clouds obscure

and dogs piss upon rose bushes

the killer beheads the child like taking a bite

out of an ice cream cone

while the ocean comes in and goes out

in and out

in the thrall of a senseless moon.

and people are not good to each other.

this guy says that for $845 I can

go to Europe and

see all the

plays and

hear all the

operas.

there's drinks on

the plane across

and good conversation

with knowledgeable

people.

I get one free

meal a day and

guided tours to

places of inter-

est.

there's even a pass

to a ski resort

and a chauffeur

is available

plus

free maps and

hand-rolled

cigars. it lasts

2 weeks.

they don't

say

anything about

getting fucked

but you get the

idea that every-

body who goes

will be.

they applaud each work

without fail or thought

and four or five voices respond

with the same ringing

“BRAVO!” BRAVO!”

as if they had heard a fresh

and vital creative

breakthrough.

where have the audiences gone

that were able to select and

discriminate?

now the thought in the collective mind of

the audience is:

we understand

we
know

therefore we

respond

as one.

and afterwards

at the wheels of their automobiles

they dash out of the underground

parking lot

more rude and crass

than any boxing match crowd

than any horse race crowd

cutting off others

swerving

cursing.

the
March to the Gallows
, indeed

Pictures at an Exhibition
, of course

the
Bolero
, yes

The Afternoon of a Faun?

honking

zooming toward the freeways

BRAVO west L.A.

BRAVO Westwood Village

BRAVO the Hollywood Hills

BRAVO Beverly Hills.

Symphonie Pathétique
, indeed.

nobody goes downtown anymore

the plants and trees have been cut away around

Pershing Square

the grass is brown

and the street preachers are not as good

as they used to be

and down on Broadway

the Latinos stand in long colorful lines

waiting to see Latino action movies.

I walk down to Clifton's cafeteria

it's still there

the waterfall is still there

the few white faces are old and poor

dignified

dressed in 1950s clothing

sitting at small tables on the first

floor.

I take my food upstairs to the

third floor—

all Latinos at the tables there

faces more tired than hostile

the men at rest from their factory jobs

their once beautiful wives now

heavy and satisfied

the men wanting badly to go out and raise hell

but now the money is needed for

clothing, tires, toys, TV sets

children's shoes, the rent.

I finish eating

walk down to the first floor and out,

and nearby is a penny arcade.

I remember it from the 1940s.

I walk in.

it is full of young Latinos and Blacks

between the ages of six and

fifteen

and they shoot machine guns

play mechanical soccer

and the piped-in salsa music is very

loud.

they fly spacecraft

test their strength

fight in the ring

have horse races

auto races

but none of them want their fortunes told.

I lean against a wall and

watch them.

I go outside again.

I walk down and across from the
Herald-Examiner

building

where my car is parked.

I get in. then I drive away.

it's Sunday. and it's true

like they say: the old gang never

goes downtown anymore.

getting a car wash today

about 1:30 p.m.

I saw this blue pigeon

come floating through the

air awkwardly

it hit the asphalt

wings spread wide

and lay there shivering

one eye open

it was dying

and I walked away

and stood by my car

where

the fellows were wiping

the windows

and then a Camaro

came fast and

got the pigeon.

turned it into a red stain

and one of the fellows

said, “Christ.”

I couldn't have expressed

it

any better.

I tipped him a quarter

and drove off

east on Hollywood Boulevard

and then I

took a right at

Vermont.

they called Céline a Nazi

they called Pound a fascist

they called Hamsun a Nazi and a fascist.

they put Dostoevsky in front of a firing

squad

and they shot Lorca

gave Hemingway electric shock treatments

(and you know he shot himself)

and they ran Villon out of town (Paris)

and Mayakovsky

disillusioned with the regime

and after a lovers' quarrel,

well,

he shot himself too.

Chatterton took rat poison

and it worked.

and some say Malcolm Lowry died

choking on his own vomit

while drunk.

Crane went the way of the boat

propellor or the sharks.

Harry Crosby's sun was black.

Berryman preferred the bridge.

Plath didn't light the oven.

Seneca cut his wrists in the

bathtub (it's best that way:

in warm water).

Thomas and Behan drank themselves

to death and

there are many others.

and you want to be a

writer?

it's that kind of war:

creation kills,

many go mad,

some lose their way and

can't do it

anymore.

a few make it to old age.

a few make money.

some starve (like Vallejo).

it's that kind of war:

casualties everywhere.

all right, go ahead

do it

but when they sandbag you

from the blind side

don't come to me with your

regrets.

now I'm going to smoke a cigarette

in the bathtub

and then I'm going to

sleep.