‘Once.’
‘Another painter?’
‘Oh, nah.’
‘You interested in painting, Sarge? You know this guy’s work?’
‘Nah.’
‘Hmp.’
‘You an artist, uh, McKinney?’
‘Nah. Like it though. Spent a lot of time in art museums during school. And in Europe after the war. Seen the great ones.’
‘That so?’
‘Yeah.’
‘This guy, this, uh, stiff here. He good?’
‘Not great. Good. Derivative, they said. You know Soutine?’
‘Saltine? Nah.’
‘Soutine. Chaim Soutine. French. Expressionist, but not dark like the Germans. Sensual. Brilliant colors. Lousy with color, Soutine was. This guy’s got a lot of his vitality but none of his message.’
‘Huh.’
‘Also a bit Rouault. Georges Rouault.’
‘Another frog?’
‘Yeah. Colorful too. Deeply religious. This poor sap was religious, too. Shows up in his most recent canvases.’
‘Well, he’s beyond earthly help now.’
‘Any idea why he did it?’
‘Cunt trouble most likely. That’s what gets most of them.’
‘Most of whom, Sarge?’
‘Suicides. Some damn dame jacks him around, sleeps with his friends, talks about it. That kind of thing. Next thing you know there’s a big vein open.’
‘Dame, huh?’
‘Wouldn’t doubt it.’
‘Lot of recent stuff here. Room fairly packed with freshly painted canvases. Looks like a flurry of activity near the end.’
‘Heard footsteps maybe.’
‘Could be. Like Pollock.’
‘Eh?’
‘Jackson Pollock. Killed in a car accident, probably suicide, but worked like the devil was after him his last few months.’
‘This Pollock ever do anything like this?
‘Well, ha, sort of.’
‘Pretty, huh?’
‘Found him like this, did you? Stretched out on the canvas like this.’
‘Yep. Blood and brains all around him.’
‘Gesso still damp. Looks a bit like a sunrise around him, doesn’t it?’
‘Sunset more likely.’
‘His last work.’
‘Brilliant use of red, eh?’
‘Yep. Like Calder, maybe.’
Where’s the Game?
Where’s the game?
Crosstown, Civic Center.
Who we got?
Joe, Mark, Larry.
Count me in.
Good. Thanks. Jump shot working?
I’m breathing.
Right.
Everything else good?
Sure, sure.
What is it?
Nah.
What is it?
Oh, you can guess. Female.
Holland?
Mm.
C’mon Nick. It’s Mikey.
Yeah. It’s just—I don’t know. There’s something going on.
Another guy? Nah—
No, not that. She’s—well, distant. She doesn’t meet my eye.
And this to you is a problem. What’s the difference?
I don’t know. I want—Communion. Validation.
As a lover.
Yes.
As a—
Yes.
Ok.
She—Helen—she’s such an enigma anyway.
Really? Helen Holland. An enigma? She
You don’t see it.
I don’t.
Huh.
She’s—I mean, you know, she’s a—cheerleader.
That doesn’t define her.
No?
I don’t think so. She’s—I wanna say more than that. She’s—is deep the right word?
Deep?
Nah.
She’s—what?
Spiritual. I think. I think she’s spiritual.
Huh.
I don’t know. She’s so beautiful—
She is. Helen Holland is beautiful.
Thin as a rose petal.
Nice.
She’s nice, too. Sweet.
I know. I meant—
Yeah.
So, what? What’s the dig—I don’t—
She’s—quiet.
When you’re together.
Yes.
And that’s bad?
I don’t know.
She—you—I mean, you’ve—
Oh, yes. I mean, yes. We—
I thought so—I just—
I know.
You’ve never said.
Well—
I know. That’s good. Really. That’s good. It’s—
Private.
Naturally.
Ok.
So—
But, she—when—she—
What? When you’re—
Yes.
She—
Turns away. She—turns away—
When—
Yes.
Well, I don’t see—
You don’t—
No, I mean. Girls—you know—
They—turn away—
No, not always. Not all of them. But—
You’re saying it’s likely.
No, I mean—I don’t know. She turns away when—
We start—
Ok.That’s not the worst—
I know.
She loves you. You know—
She does. I think she does.
She—Helen—yes, she does.
Ok.
But she turns away—
Yes.
And you think—
I don’t know. She seems—
She—
Far away. She’s far away from me.
When—
No, always.
She’s far—
Away. From me, always. Yes.
Ok.
It’s—hurtful—
I see.
Do you? Do you, Mikey?
Yes.
Ok. Good. That’s good.
So—
The game. Right. Where—
Its’—
Civic Center.
Yes.
Yes.
Your jump shot.
Yes.
Your jump shot is a thing of beauty.
Yes.
A sweet geometry.
Yes.
As natural as—
Yes.
The turning of the wheel—the wheel—
The cosmic wheel.
Yes.
Thanks. Thank you, Mikey.
Ok.
Let’s play. Let’s go beat some street toughs at the sweet sport of basketball. Let’s do that.
Let’s. At least that.
Yes.
Helen—
Loves—
Yes.
Ok, Mikey. Ok.
Chin-Chin on Golgotha
Jesus on the cross turned to his new friend, Gestas, and confided, ‘I’m no masochist, you know.’ The thief squinted into the sun and nodded toward the rabble. ‘Tell it to someone who cares,’ he said. Jesus smiled that secret smile he had and the thief spit on the ground. The crowd booed. ‘I love you,’ Jesus said to the thief and Gestas began wishing he had Barabbas to talk to. Now there was a guy who understood a good retribution. Later, as the sun was setting, the thief softened a little and turned toward the carpenter from Nazareth. ‘Wanna hear something funny?’ he asked in a whiskery voice. Not really, Jesus thought, not just now, but he smiled his encouragement anyway. He was a damn good listener, Jesus was.
The Lita Conversation
What’s her name?
Hers?
That’s what I want to know.
Lita.
Lita.
Just so.
Glimmers, doesn’t it? Fairly sparkles.
Yes.
And she’s—
Bucky’s woman.
Hm.
Hence, unapproachable.
Well, not, perhaps, unapproachable.
Trust me.
Because of Bucky.
Well, sure.
Bucky Bustard.
That’s what I’m saying.
He’s, what, obdurate?
As obsidian.
A hard guy, a crackback.
Right.
Tell me more about this Lita.
You still wanna know.
I do.
She’s stuff. She’s the goddamn feminine ultima thule, she’s fucking Eve.
Eve.
Like Adamand.
Oh, I thought you meant Eve, like Marie Saint.
That’s Eva.
You sure?
Yes.
Huh.
Yes, no, I meant like In the Garden Eve.
The first woman.
Right, she’s the template, the mold.
Well, maybe not like alluvium mold.
Wordman, Term-splitter.
Right.
She’s made of finer stuff, honey, soft gold.
This universal? This what everyone thinks?
Far as I know.
Huh.
Yeah.
I’m gonna talk to her.
You’re fucking well not.
I am.
What are you gonna say?
I’ll make it up.
Of course, you’ll make it up. What are you gonna say?
You’re lovely.
That’s it? That’s what you’ve got?
Starters.
Right. She’ll give you dog’s portion.
What’s that?
A smell and a lick. Fuckall.
What would you say?
I wouldn’t. See, I wouldn’t. It’s not just Bucky Bustard, ok? It’s, she’s finer than fine, she’s the woman you don’t talk to. Get it? You see her, you nod, your heart opens like an over-ripe peach, split like a fired shell, and you dream about her the rest of your life. That’s it. That’s her, that’s Lita.
I’m gonna talk to her.
Right.
I’m going to. Now, I’m going to.
***
She shot you where it hurts, right?
She’s swell.
Whadyou say?
Like you should know. Like I’m telling you.
You’re fucking telling me, I’m telling you.
She said-nah—she said—you sure you wanna hear this?
I do. I do, Dullswift.
She said, sweetly, demurely, with her eyes atwinkle, her hair ahalo, she said—who’s your friend?
Write Em Right:
A Colloquy
I remember the way it was.
I remember.
Not so many of us left now.
Count em on one hand. Specially my hand.
Roman Rebus, Old Willy Lowman, the Jones brothers, Squeaky Joint and Gooseneck, Blind Pete, the Shawcross brothers.
Annie Divine, Red Rolly...
He dead.
Rolly dead?
The cancer. Last year.
Declare.
Taken some good ones. Taken some heels.
Ha. Lou Washboard Miller, Hank the Horn, Seven Finger Tucker...
Thas me.
Jus sayin. You still with us.
Yes. For a little while longer. Yourself.
Well....That white boy, sang like a big bander, deep voice.
Don' know who you mean.
Big guy, gassed back hair, white hair almos'. Sang ‘Chicken Finger Blues.’ Sang ‘Write Em Right.’
‘Mississippi Low down Blues.’
That was Guy Jimmy, dead these sixteen years. Dead of the drink.
Yes.
Fucked Big Bill's gal, skinny do nothin.
Bill shot him, oh yeah. Bill shot him till he was dead.
Whas his name?
Don' know.
You know him.
Nope.
Hillbilly somethin'.
You thinkin a Hillbilly Thomas. Not the same cat. Hillbilly sang with Big Bill, played slide with a thimble. Died a broken man, died in Philly.
Naw.
I'm tellin you.
How he die?
Broken.
You said that. How?
Woman took off on him, couden play no more, voice gone. Sat down an died. I'm told.
Huh. Didden know.
Yeah.
So whom I thinkin of?
Who?
Big white guy, gassed back hair. Sang ‘Write Em Right.’ Sang ‘The Gal Messed Me Up, She Messed Me Up Good.’
Don' know that one.
What?
That las one. ‘The Gal Messed Me Up...’
You know it.
Naw.
‘The gal messed me up.
She messed me up good.
The gal messed me up.
She messed me up good.
Well, that gal messed me up...’
You know?
Don' recollect it.
Tucker. You righteous fool.
Right, right. You playin? You playin tonight?
Hah. Where dat be? Newby's? Club 666? They gonna open those doors wide for me. You?
Got me a gig.
You don' say.
Sure. Playin at a church, a white church.
Yeah.
Payin. Thas what I know. Wanna resurrect the ol days, they say. Wanna make up for the in-justice. I say, you payin?
Ha. Yeah, yeah. You need backin? You need somebody?
Aw, don' need nobody, Mister. You hurtin?
Naw. Itchin to play is all.
You got your guitar?
I get one.
Sure. Yeah, sure. You come play with me, you come tonight, Mister.
You sure?
Sure. Yeah.
What you know?
The ol ones, the good tunes.
You doin ‘Silver Dollar?’ You doin ‘Her Ass Moves I Moan?’
I ain't doin Her Ass, naw. I do ‘Silver Dollar.’
Good, good.
You wanna get somethin to eat? You hungry?
Sure. Where to?
Mickey's wife always cookin.
So I hear.
Haw, haw. You right there.
White Bobby Hawkins.
Who dat?
White Bobby Hawkins. The cat with the hair, the big white guy.
Not to be confused with Black Bobby Hawkins.
Thas the guy.
Sang ‘Write Em Right.’
Yeah.
He dead.
Naw.
Yeah, the blood or somethin. Dead long time.
Huh.
***
Thought you said Bill shot him?
Thas some other guy.
You hungry?
Yeah, I could eat.
Wanna go to Mickey's.
Mickey aint there. Mickey, he's in Cincinnati.
Yeah.
Haw, haw.
Wanna go now.
Sure. Sure now.
Chin-Chin At The Pearly Gates
‘Listen,’ he said.
‘I’m all ears,’ I assured him, smilingly.
‘You’re time’s up, that’s the first thing.’
‘I figured that,’ I said, really just to say something. The conversation was surprisingly phatic for such a penultimate tête-à-tête.
‘We do have some welcoming gifts. We’ll get to that.’
‘Gifts?’
‘The finished The Last Tycoon. Tickets to the Celtics/Lakers game. That toy rocket launcher your father broke on Christmas morning. Instructions on how to contact all the girls from your past. Um, this week we’re offering gift baskets with all the world’s cheeses, smoked eagle, dates.’
‘Hey, tell me, did my ex-wife go to the nasty place?’
‘There is no nasty place. Our little secret.’
‘Huh.’
‘Yes,
it’s really just so the clergy has something to talk about. Now’
‘Where’s God?’ I interrupted him.
‘Oh. Well. Not quite there yet, Pilgrim.’
‘He is here, though. Presumably.’
‘Most assuredly so.’
‘Biggest office.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Sign on the door says, ‘The Doctor is Always In.’
‘Heh. You will have your little joke.’
‘Say, is that a unicorn?’
‘Yes. Mr.—’
‘Have you seen any of the films that depict you?’
‘Of course, yes, lets—’
‘Edward Everett Horton.’
‘I get that a lot.’
‘You really do—’
‘I know. Please let’s move on.’
‘Ok.’
‘Now, soon you’ll be following all these others here. That’s your line there.’
‘Everyone is in hospital gowns.’
‘We’ve found that it’s comforting somehow.’
‘Huh.’
‘So, you’ll follow them—’
‘The woman there, handing out poppies from a tray—’
‘Grace Kelly.’
‘You’re fucking kidding me.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Pardon my Franklin Mint.’
‘All words are beautiful, sir.’
‘Ok.’
‘Now—’
‘Grace Kelly.’
‘Yes. Once you get in—if you get in—you may kiss her if you like.’
‘Pull the other one.’
‘Please. You may kiss anyone here. And etc.’
‘Etc.! Fucking Et Cetera!’
‘Quite. This is paradise.’
‘Huh.’
He was scribbling with a quill pen in a large ledger. They had that right, the ledger. However, I thought the quill was a pretentious touch and was about to tell him so. But, he spoke first.
‘Now, Mr. Dylan, I think you’ll find Heaven awaits you. You may be more famous here even than you were down in the kiddie world, what we sometimes call The Shallow End. Your work is honored here. Appreciation that goes beyond simple fawning. I believe Mr. Joyce and Ms. Woolf and Mr. Coltrane have planned a little surprise party for you tonight. Not a word that I spilled. Ok? Ok, I believe I’ve finished here. Just put your Bob Zimmerman underneath where I’ve written.’
I didn’t correct him. Hell, it was my first time here.
Punk Band
Chuck calls me. It’s been months.
‘I’ve got a great idea,’ he says.
‘Ok,’ I bat back.
‘A punk band.’
‘That is a great idea,’ I say, facetiously. Chuck.
‘What?’
‘They’ve already thought of them.’
‘No, fuckhead, we start one.’
‘We can’t play any, you know, musical instruments.’
‘Right,’ Chuck says in that over confident way he has that is sometimes endearing and sometimes grating. ‘That’s punk.’
‘Ok,’ I say.
‘You sing,’ he thinks to add.
‘I can’t carry a tune in, what?, a crackpot.’
‘I don’t know what that is, but, that’s my point. You’re our word guy. The poet of the obscene.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’m gonna play bass.’
‘Have you ever even seen a bass?’
‘Sure. On TV.’
‘Right.’
‘Hey, Sid Vicious did it.’
‘Somehow I thought we’d get around to that.’