place
Frankel
began talking
again.
there were 4
other people
and we
listened.
it wasn’t so bad
because we
all knew him
and the house
was set far
back,
not too close
to the
neighbors.
but we had
6 cats and they
all ran off,
out through the
door,
or they jumped
out of the
window.
the night went
on and Frankel
expounded loudly upon
the strange and
funny things in
his life, what
he said to
somebody and
what they
replied.
he used different
voices for the
different
people.
well, the night
finally wound
down
and we said
goodbye to
Frankel and his
friend
at the doorway.
they both said
they had had
a good
time.
then they were
in their car
and backing
out the
drive.
we sat down
for a quiet
nightcap.
the silence was
glorious.
it seeped through
us and we began
to recover.
then the cats
returned
one by one,
looking around
cautiously,
lifting their feet
delicately.
life was returning
to normal.
nobody said
anything.
enough (had been)
said.
the bard of San
Francisco
don’t old poets ever
die?
this one fellow,
you can see him every
morning
in the coffeehouse
at his own table
sipping a white wine and
reading The New York
Times.
then he’ll go down to
the pool for a
swim.
they say he has the most
beautiful blue eyes in
America.
he dashes off on little
trips to Paris and
Madrid,
then returns.
he still gives poetry
readings, reads
well, has no fear of
his audience.
does, just for something
to do.
he is not embittered,
refuses to
gossip.
he wears all manner
of hats, caps, head
gear,
and whatever he
puts on,
he never looks
ridiculous.
rather, he looks
dashing, he looks
like royalty.
he’s thin, he’s
straight, he’s
tall,
and if the sun is
shining anywhere,
it shines on
him.
and his books
still sell,
handsomely.
the male poets
talk about him,
they use much of
their time
talking about him
and
rather
unkindly.
the lady poets
adore him.
and the other
ladies
adore him.
he is often seen
with a new
woman.
he is very composed
about it
all.
and with death
looking over his
shoulder
he still manages
to write
decent
poetry.
on biographies
if you’re dead
they don’t
matter.
most biographers,
of course,
imagine things
about their
subjects
that aren’t
true.
worse, they take
your jokes as
fact
and the other
way
around.
and in interviewing
ladies from your
past
they will accept
their
pronouncements
without
question.
biographies
about writers
are mostly
tomes of literary
gossip.
and if it is about
a living writer,
by then
he is often
almost physically
dead
and
in most cases
absolutely
spiritually
dead.
he will accept any
amount of praise,
ignore any
criticism,
congratulate his
biographer
on a job
well
done
and wonder
what
took them
so god-damned
long
to do
it,
anyhow.
a real break
I’ve heard it said that you
give a real lively
performance
and there really isn’t
much going on
in this
town,
so we’ll fly you
down,
put you up in a nice
hotel,
you can have
all you want to
drink,
we can rent this
hall,
it holds a real
bunch,
and you’d be
surprised
how many people
around here
know about
you,
we’ll pack them
in
and we promise
you
25% of the
gate.
we love you,
man!
how about
it,
huh?
avoiding humanity
much of my life has been dedicated
to just that.
and still is.
even today at the track,
I was sitting alone between races,
in a dumb dream-state
but dumb or not,
it was mine.
then I heard a voice.
some fellow had seated himself
right behind me.
“I’ve come where it’s nice and
quiet,” he said.
I got up, walked about 150 yards
away and sat down
again.
I felt no guilt, only the return of a
more pleasant state of
being.
for decades I have been
bothered by door-knockers,
phone-ringers, letter-writers; and
strangers in airports and bars,
boxing matches, cafes, concerts,
libraries, supermarkets, jails,
hospitals,
hotels, motels,
pharmacies, post offices,
etc.
I am not a lonely person.
I don’t want to be embraced, cajoled,
told jokes to, I don’t want to share
opinions or talk about the
weather and/or etc. and
etc.
I have never met a lively, original
interesting soul by accident and
I don’t expect to.
all I have ever met are a herd of
dullards who have wanted to project
their petty frustrations upon me.
for some time women fooled
me.
I would see a body, a face, a
seeming aura of peace and
gentleness, a cool refreshing lake
to splash in,
but once they spoke
there was a voice like
chalk scratching a blackboard,
and what came forth as
speech
was a hideous and crippled
mind.
I lived with dozens of these.
wait.
the phone is ringing now.
but I have a message
machine.
they are leaving
one.
this one wants to see
me.
it wants to invite
itself over.
a reason is given,
some pretense.
it is hardly a worthy
one.
the last words are,
“Please let me know.”
why do they want to see
me?
I don’t want to see
them.
can’t they sense
this?
am I the only one in the
world who finds being
alone to be a blessing, a
miracle?
must I always be kind to
those who would wallow
in my hours?
am I an ugly soul?
unkind?
unappreciative?
misanthropic?
a misogynist?
a crackpot?
a bastard?
a murderer of hope?
do I torture animals?
am I without love?
do I reek of bitterness?
am I unfair?
am I the wrecking ball of dreams?
am I the devil’s encore?
do I put glass in the sandbox?
am I without morals or mercy?
if so, why do they want to keep
seeing me?
I would never want to see
anybody like that.
especially
when I am
shaving.
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LOVING, LAUGHING GIRL IN THE GINGHAM DRESS?
Harry reached over and switched off the table lamp. It had been a wasted night: nothing on tv as usual, nothing to read. It was 12:30 a.m. At least, he hadn’t gotten drunk. But maybe he should have. At least that would have been an accomplishment. But some nights you just wasted, and some days and some weeks and some years. He’d had some rough years but here he was, still alive, and some might even consider him a financial success but money meant little to him. He had no desire for possessions, trinkets, travel. One thing he liked was solitude and another thing he liked was the absence of trouble of any kind. Harry had had more than his fill of trouble. At times, when he looked back, it was amazing to him that he was still alive. But there were many lives such as his, he was sure of that.
Well, sleep had always been one of his favorite escapes. Sleep was the grand healer, the equalizer. Harry slept well, he slept almost with a vengeance.
Harry noted the full moon through the window, closed his eyes, inhaled, exhaled. A man didn’t really need too much. Just some ease of mind, a gentleness for the spirit. He was almost asleep when the phone rang. He turned on the table lamp, picked up the receiver. It was Diana.
“I’ve got a flat tire! Jesus Christ, I don’t know what to do! I’ve got a flat tire! I decided to go to the 7-11 for some cat food and I got this god-damned flat!”
“Listen,” Harry said, “you’ve got your Auto Club card. Phone them and they’ll come out and change your tire.”
“I’ve tried, I’ve tried!” Diana screamed. “I keep getting a busy signal or they put me on hold! And when you finally get through to them it takes them hours to come! I’m terrified! A gang of guys drove by in a car and hollered at me! I might get raped!”
“Look,” Harry said, “just phone the Auto Club once more. I’ve always had luck with them. Ten or fifteen minutes at the most. Meanwhile, I’ll get dressed and come over.”
“I’m not going to call them again! I’ve used up all my change! This is the last call I can make!”
There was some further cursing interspersed by screams. At the first opportunity Harry spoke.
“Listen, I told you I was coming over. It will be all right. Please calm down.”
“But you don’t know where I am! How are you going to find me?”
“Tell me where you are.”
“But you have no sense of direction! You’re always getting lost! How are you going to find me?”
“I’ll find you. Tell me where you are.”
“I’m on Ocean Street!”
“I know where that’s at. That’s where you live.”
“I’m not near where I live! I’m on a different part of Ocean Street!”
“What’s the nearest cross street?”
“Sepulveda! Do you know where Sepulveda is?”
“Of course.”
“You asshole, you’ve been living in this area for years and you probably don’t know where Sepulveda is!”
“I’ll get there. Sepulveda and Ocean. I’ll find you.”
“But you don’t know what corner I’m on!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll see your car.”
“Tell me exactly how you’re going to get here!”
“I’ll take Western to Pacific Coast Highway, take a left, then take a right on either Crenshaw or Hawthorne, drive until I hit Sepulveda, take a left and go until I hit Ocean.”
“Do you know where Lomita is?”
“The street or the city?”
“The street, you asshole!”
“I thought you were at Sepulveda and Ocean?”
“I am! But Lomita is the first street you come to before you get to Sepulveda!”
For a moment Harry felt like hanging up. Instead he said, “All right, I’m coming over but after I get you out of this one, I never want to see you again. You got that? This is it!”
There was a long scream. Then:
“No, no, no! I’m going to kill myself! I’ll kill myself right now!”
Diana screamed again. When she finished and began to sob Harry said, “All right, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’ll be right out. I have to get dressed first.”
Diana reverted right back to her old self. “All right, do you know exactly where I am?”
“Yes, I’ll find you. Now, calm down. We can fix this whole thing.”
“Oh, you asshole!”
“Now what is it?”
“It’s just that you’re so fucking calm!”
“Listen, Diana, I’ll be right over. I’m going to hang up. I’m on the way.”
Harry picked his shorts up off the floor, got into them, got into his pants, his shoes without stockings, then stopped at the refrigerator, got a beer, uncapped it, drank it. It went down like a thimbleful. Then he went in and forced a piss so that he wouldn’t have to piss on Sepulveda, made his way to the car and drove off.
As he drove up Western he looked at the people in other cars. They seemed quite rational. It was all very strange. Almost every woman he had ever dated had done time in a madhouse, or had madness in the family, brothers in jail, sisters who suicided. Harry drew these types to him. Even in the schoolyards, the mad and
the strange and the misfits had been drawn to him. It was his curse. But he didn’t have the cure, he just had the problem. And Diana was an extremist. Each time she got ill, she thought she was dying. She would scream and rant. “Jesus Christ,” Harry had told her once, “when I was on my god-damned deathbed I didn’t make all this fuss. All you can do is die.” The message had been wasted.
Finally he was on Sepulveda. That was a relief. Sometimes Diana almost had him believing his own assholeness. Harry drove along, watching for Ocean. Then he saw the car. An Alfa Romeo. He had purchased it for Diana. Sky blue. Diana loved sky blue. He pulled up and parked behind the Alfa Romeo. There was no movement within the car. He opened his door, got out, walked up to the car. Diana was sitting there, staring straight ahead. Harry knocked on the window. Diana rolled it down.
“O.K.,” Harry said, “I’m going to phone the Auto Club. I’ll be right back.”
“You’re not going to leave me here! I’m going with you!”
She leaped from the car door, stood on the pavement, hair in eyes, hands dangling oddly.
“No, wait! We’re not going to phone the Auto Club. It takes them hours! We can do it ourselves!”
Diana ran to the back of the car, came back with a tiny jack, plus a lug wrench about the size of an ordinary can opener. Harry tried the lug wrench, knowing ahead of time that it was useless. The nuts were frozen. They’d probably been tightened with an electric lug wrench. Harry got his own lug wrench and tried it on the wheel. It didn’t fit.
“We’re going to have to phone the Auto Club,” Harry said.