Chapter 26
Something Calls to the Fan Man, Faintly
It is morning, Horse Badorties, what a wonderful sun shining morning, wait a second, man, it is afternoon, I overslept. I must hurry, man, if I am to get up to Van Cortlandt Park and back down again for the last rehearsal before the great Horse Badorties Love Chorus Concert. Don’t fuck around in your trash pile, man, just grab your satchel and umbrella and screw out of the store.
OK, man, I am going straight out the door, without breakfast, without looking around, without fucking off, without looking over my piles of stuff. I am in the actual sunlight of the street already, man, closing my store, and walking along. Man, I must be straightening out my life, if I am able to leave my store-pad so easily. I must be shaping up, man, becoming a superman, man!
Have I forgotten anything?
Sunglasses, tape recorder, fan, umbrella, satchel, it looks like I have everything I need, man, for a day in wonderful Van Cortlandt Park. It is finally happening, man. My life is coming together in coordinated units.
Getting on the subway, man, and riding, riding, up the long lonely tunnel, man, back to my childhood.
Riding, riding, tunnel lights flashing past. A solitary Horse Badorties am I, carrying satchel and holding gigantic umbrella, on the way to the trees and paths of Van Cortlandt Park. And tomorrow night, man, I will conduct the Love Chorus before the eyes of the world. A great new day is dawning for you, Horse Badorties, filled with fans and …
… we’re coming up out of the underground tunnel, man, the subway train is rising up on the old familiar stilts, climbing the elevated framework, and there, sprawling out below me, man, is the Bronx. I must take a picture of this view, man, through the window, with my Japanese super plastic camera, man. I bought the entire kit, with little plastic developing tank and trays and fluid. It is so wonderful, man, to take pictures and then develop them and see floating up before my eyes in the stop bath, nothing at all, man, just black shadows, maybe, and a little spray of faint streaks.
Shaking back and forth subway car, maybe fall over, topple down onto street. There, man, down there was where I used to live … no, wait a second, man, it’s up further.
You’re wrong, man, this IS the stop, quick, man, hold the door the phone …
… here I am, man, on the platform in the Bronx. Everything is clicking, man, everything is going off smoothly. And now, man, it is down the steps and up the street and directly into mystical, magical Van Cortlandt Park, man, which stretches on out for many miles of secret trails.
Walking along through green trees and then upwards, man, getting higher, higher. Standing on a plateau, man, at the edge of the park, looking down at the distant buildings. I am Merlin, man. The mystery of the old park is mine to contemplate again. What a wonderful idea to come here, man, on the day before the Love Concert. The primal surge of childhood. I used to wander here, man, a spaced-out little Horse Badorties.
Coming into a meadow, man, leaving all sight of buildings behind. Pastoral mood, going into the high grass with satchel and umbrella, the wandering Knight of the Hot Dog pauses for a smoke.
All time is mine, man. What time is it, man, by the large alarm clock in my satchel? It is four o’clock, man, plenty of time before rehearsal, time to wind on, and go down this mysterious tunnel that only rabbits, mad hatters, and Horse Badorties know. Carrying mad satchel, going down, under the highway, and entering further into the park, man, on the lost muddy trails of youth. No threat from the environment, down through here, there is a little swamp, with birds and frogs. Dreams, man, all long-lost dreams awakening again.
Jesus, man, here it is, here is the very tree against which I laid my first chick … no, wait a second, man, it was this one over here. Here it is, man, I had the wrong tree.
There’s the golf course, man, guys driving little balls, and I am driving my dream on out over time.
Here, man, are the old railroad tracks that run through the park, and here, man, is where I am going to slip down into the bushes and relax, man. The sun is on me, and this, man, is my long-awaited day. Tomorrow afternoon about this time, man, I will become a public artist.
“Where’s Horse, man?”
“I don’t know, man, don’t worry, he’s always late”
“Have you fellows seen Horse?”
“No, Father.”
“Well, his fans arrived at the church this morning. We might as well take them over to Tompkins Square. I suppose he’s probably there already.”
“I’ll try to get him on the walkie-talkie, Father… Hello, man … hello, Horse … can you hear me, man. it’s concert time, man, where are you?”
“All right, everyone, let’s go now, over to the park.”
“Horse, man, come in, man … we are leaving the church, man, and are heading up the street toward the Square. Where are you, man? Come quick, over.”
Yes, man, this is the life of my childhood, lying up here in Van Cortlandt Park by the railroad tracks, dreaming deep into my ancient feelings, man. Different lifetimes gathering around, and I go in and out, man, of ever-widening bands of sensitive awareness. What a wonderful day in the park, man. This is just the preparation I need for my debut tomorrow afternoon. This, man, was one of your best ideas. It shows improvement of character and development of will power.
“Hello, Horse, come in, man. We are walking into Tompkins Square, man, and NBC is here, man. Big vans, man, and cameras and tape machines and cables all over the fuckin place. There’s a huge audience, man, all kinds of people, man. We’ll stall them off, man, hurry on and get here, over.”
I was a Chinese cat once, man, I’m certain of this as I sit here by these railroad tracks. I can’t forget a thing like that, man. My memory, man, is composed of perfectly integrated forms. I have the missing centuries in my grip, man, brought back into consciousness through musical discipline. I’ve studied it all, man, I know the music of the ages. A memory like this is a great power, man, to be used for the good of the world. I will have to open a special Memory School, man, and train people to remember all of their lifetimes, or money back.
“Hello, Horse, man … please, man, where are you… ? I can’t hold them off any longer, man. The NBC director is gettin nervous, man, over… .”
“You can’t reach him, Frank?”
“No, Father, he’s out of walkie-talkie range.”
“Well, I suppose we shall just have to sing without him. It will be difficult without a conductor, won’t it?”
“I guess I can conduct it, Father.”
“What about those neighborhood boys playing drums at the foot of the bandstand?”
“I’ll have to ask them to knock it off.” Puerto Rican drummers, man, wailin on the conga, the bongo drums. Go over, man, and tell them to knock it off, get my head knocked off. Horse, man, where are you? “Hey, man, how about shuttin down your drums for awhile, man, so we can sing?”
BUM BUMP BUM BUM BUM
BUM BUMP BUMP BUM BUM
“You dig, man, we got a show, man, to do, sing a couple songs, man, it won’t take long, how about givin us a break, man?”
ROCK-A-TOCKA-TOCKA-TOCKA-ROCKA BUM BUMP BUM BUM BUM
Horse Badorties remembers, man, he remembers sweet and innocent childhood here in the park. When I was a little kid, man, I used to see strange thing in my head, man. Used to see guys in turbans, chanting. And Chinese cats, man, playing flute. And a mountain, man, in Tibet, where they were blowing twenty-foot horns, man. I came into this world, man, remembering where I’d been. And that is why, man, the Love Concert is so important to me, man, because of all the music I have ever done, man, in a thousand million lifetimes, it is the most beautiful. Tomorrow afternoon, man, the world will hear what it has not heard for five hundred years, man, and it will then REMEMBER! Yes, man, all those lifetimes. Which one have I left out, man? Something seems to be calling me from afar.
RICKA-TICKA-TICKA-TOCK
BUM BUMP BU
M BUM
“Look, man, if you’ll just knock it off, man, for a few minutes till I get the singers lined up, man, we can do this fuckin concert together, man. You can do the rhythm in the background, man, drum it along with us, whattya say, man? We’ll work it out together.”
“OK, mon. Hombres silencio!”
“Cool, man, that’s great. When I’m set up there on the stage, man, I’ll give you the downbeat, and you and the boys come in soft, man, dig?”
“I deeg, mon. Me and de boys play you some drum.”
“Alright, chorus on stage. Here are your fans, everyone. Take one from the box.”
“Do we have to hold these fans, Frank?”
“Look, baby, that’s how Horse wanted it, man, and that’s how he’ll get it. Everybody hold their fan up in one hand, that’s it, point it at your face. Everybody’s fan workin? All right, sing with the little note of the fan and we’ll all be pitched together. Hey, NBC, man, we’re ready, man.”
“CUE ANNOUNCE.”
“A single moment of prayer, Frank?”
“Right, Father.” Where are you, Horse, you motherfucker, I never directed no chorus before, man, and my hand is shakin.
Yes, man, I, Horse Badorties, abominable footprint and freak, have for the first time in my life neatly arranged and carefully executed Master Plan A. With one more solid night of rehearsal, man, the Love Chorus will be ready. My mission, man, the mission for which I came back to Earth, man, is nearing completion. I’m rising up from the railroad bank, man, and I am walking through the trees, a whole person, at last.
“OK, here we go everyone . . one and two and three and… .” Perfect, man, everybody together, now man, just keep them rollin along like Horse does, man, wavin your arms like a big bird, man, bring in the drums, man, and …
… NOW …
Now, hombres, le’s hob de drum, das eet, ni’ and soft.
OK, man, there are the drums, they roll by themselves, man, island drums, man, in the background, right in the groove. And way out behind me, man, I can hear the cameras grindin. Together, we are together, man, the chords are sweet the way Horse likes them, and strong, risin up through the trees, man, out over the park and I am flappin my wings, man, takin off into the sky, lookin for Horse, man, where are you, man?
“Horse Badorties here, making a tape-recorded message in Van Cortlandt Park. I finally got here, man, to the scene of yesteryear. It is official now, man. On the day before the Lower East Side Love Concert, Horse Badorties dragged his valuable precious person to the Bronx, to have mystic visions in preparation for the Big Night, tomorrow. Years from now, man, I will hear this tape and the concert will already be over and past. It’s a strange thought, man.”
The Love Chorus, man. I have that music in my heart. I can hear it right now, in my inner ear, man. Secret magic music, man, artistically perfect. I am happy, man, to be able to bring this music to the world tomorrow. And now, man, in the fading afternoon light, I am going to make a little fire in the woods, man, and cook up this can of vegetarian steaks, man, so that I may be strong for the performance. This will be my last meal before the crucial hour. I will go into the Love Concert light as a Chinese saliva sage.
We are singin it perfect, man, the chicks, Father, me, and the PR drummers, man, it’s real, man, it is workin out, now, to the end, man, keep them all harmonic, don’t nobody fall off the notes, man. The chicks, man, their hair is blowin out, risin gently from the breezes of the fans, man. Horse’s fans, man, keep you cool and in the music. That’s all, that’s it, now, now, now, risin UP, in strong with the drums, roll, roll, hold that note soprano bass tenor alto hold it, let it shimmer and shine up there in the evenin air, in the trees, in the quiet. Man, my guts are jumpin, man, this conductin give you an ulcer, man, I got to get back to the sax, just a little more, everyone, so we can touch the cloud, man, and that’s all!
Silencio!
“Camera two, close in there, at the bandstand, and get some of those faces.”
Kids runnin around, a dog takin a piss on a tree, all kinds of stoned people, smilin, man, we did it!
Walking through the trees out here in Van Cortlandt Park, man, at evening. Christ, man, am I seeing things? I am seeing the most incredible sight, man, of my life. Puerto Rican kids, man, in green uniforms and black berets, man, coming through the trees and bushes of Van Cortlandt Park, man, carrying toy guns and hand grenades, man, maybe not toys give you a blast with it, blow me to Yankee Stadium. Puerto Rican kids, man, armed, in platoon formation, training in the woods. For what, man, are they training?
Through the bushes, man, about fifty of them. And here comes their leader, man, a snappy-looking sonofabitch, man, with G.I. outfit, white spats, spiffy uniform. I wonder, man, would he want to buy a fan?
“Hey, man, you need one of these fans, man. Dig, Corporal, a breeze to blow the dust off your medals. Look, man, you just press the button … wait a second, man, it’s jammed, I have to shake the water out of it… .”
“To the right flank, HO!”
“Ho is right, man. Ho Chi Min had one, man, and you should have one too. A buck-ninety-five, man, with batteries.”
“One, two, hut, two… .”
Right on through the bushes, man. The cat doesn’t need a fan, man. He’s cool already. He has his own army. Pretty soon, man, the mayor will be pulling Piña-colada in a little white hat on One-Hundred-First Street and Amsterdam Avenue, man. You watch, man. The Puerto Ricans, man. Taking over, man. It’s coming, man. Any day now. RUN TO THE HILLS, MAN!
“Alright, gentlemen, pack it up. Roll in those cables. Great show, Father. The kids sang beautifully. How’d you get them into line?”
“By making dinosaur faces.”
“OK, hombres, let’s hob some more drum!”
BUM BUMP BUM BUM BUM
BUM BUMP BUM BUM BUM
“Hello, Horse, hello, man, can you read me, man. The concert came off OK, man, whenever you are.”
I’m passing through bushes, man, into the great open soccer field of Van Cortlandt Park, man, where the Puerto Rican soccer players are kicking the ball around, somebody’s head maybe, and the sky, man, is cloudy, and a gentle wind is blowing up. I’m coming out into the big green expanse of lawn, man, and am heading back toward the subway. I have circled the park, man, picking up vital energies from the earth of my childhood, man, and I am prepared for a tremendously sensitive rehearsal, man, in which I will pull together the last little delicate subtle modalities of the world’s greatest music.
And dig, man, I feel a raindrop.
“This is Horse Badorties, man, making a specially recorded weather report on tape, man. It is raining, man, at last. I have been carrying this gigantically heavy umbrella around for weeks, man, day in and day out, and now the time has come, man, TO OPEN IT!”
Opening the great Hot Dog Umbrella, man, pushing up the ribs along the center pole and spreading it out over my head, man, in a tremendous expanse of red white and blue cloth.
“It is up, man. It is up and over my head. Listen, man, to the raindrops beating down on it. The soccer players are running for cover, man, in the bushes, but I’m covered already, man. I am slowly heading across the huge green lawn toward the subway, man, satchel in one hand, umbrella in the other, stepping through puddles. Everything is cool, man, beneath the great umbrella. Horse Badorties is ready for the monsoon.”
William Kotzwinkle, The Fan Man
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