“You no like rice?”
“I have just remember an important message waiting for me outside in a telephone booth. Would you put this rice in a container for me? Thank you so much, I must get out of here and don’t forget to buy a fan if your chop suey is too hot you can cool it. So long, man!”
Put container of rice in satchel, man, and go down the street, man, to the little bake shop, and there in the window, man, are the hot fresh-stuffed buns, stuffed with ground-up cooked-up delicious dead cow, turn rotten in my guts fuck my mind up with death anxiety putrification. I can’t do it, man. I am passing up the stuffed meatbun, WHICH REMINDS ME, man! It is time for the Love Chorus rehearsal and chicks will be there, man, and perhaps, man, I will stuff my meat in their buns. LET’S GO!
Back to the subway, man, and down the steps, here comes the train, man, I’ll have to hurry, man, hurry, through the turnstile.
Clack-a-cruntcha
I think, man, I just broke a hundred-year-old egg inside my overcoat pocket, man.
Hurry, man, hurry, the doors to the train are still open. “HOLD THOSE DOORS, MAN!’’
The conductor sees me running, man, with satchel and umbrella, he’ll hold the doors, man, he’ll hold them as I go through, I’m going through, man, he is closing the doors directly upon me, man.
Floppa-cracka
He got me, man, right in the pocketful of hundred-year-old eggs, man. The smell, man, coming out of those eggs, man, which have been allowed to age for an entire year. A pocketful of broken eggs, man, is too horrible. There is only one thing worse that I know of, man, and that is the time I saw a chick, man, sitting across from me in the subway, a spaced-out chick, man, squirming around kind of weirdlike, man, like she was trying to lay a hundred-year-old egg. And when the doors opened at the next stop, man, she got off in a hurry, leaving behind her on the seat, a TURD, man. And directly into the subway car in the next moment, man, comes this dude, in a brand new white raincoat, man, looking like Esquire magazine, man, and as the dude was in a hurry, man, he sat down without looking, directly onto the turd, man. And suddenly, man, people started moving away from him, the way they are moving away from me now, man, because of a dozen incredibly rotten eggs in my pocket. There is only one solution, man. Like the chick, I must leave a rotten deposit behind me, and slip out of this overcoat. This is my stop, man. Good-bye, little overcoat, take care of yourself.
Man, how good it feels to be free of that fucking overcoat and also, man, now I do not have to eat any hundred-year-old eggs, man, how wonderful. It is time for rehearsal, man, of the Love Chorus, so do not get hung up anywhere, proceed directly up the subway steps to St. Nancy’s Church on the Bowery.
Chapter 6
Fugue in A Minor
Walking up the Bowery, man, carrying satchel and umbrella, through the bums. Bums, man, falling beaten broken crutches in the doorways sleeping, man. Bums creeping fall into doorway teeth dropping out lying down among the garbage cans. There’s no place like home, man, and I feel like a nap myself, but I must proceed with my mission, to get all fifteen-year-old chicks singing Love Music. And after that, man, I am going to retire to Van Cortlandt Park and sing with the frogs at noon and midnight.
But now, man, here is St. Nancy’s Church on the Bowery, and here I am once again, Maestro Badorties, walking up the stone steps– which reminds me, man–always before doing music, it is necessary to vivify the corpuscles in the brain cage with the sacred smoke of the cultured herbal leaf. Let me just go around the corner, man, into a doorway here out of the wind, and stuff my Arabian camel-saddle-pipe with carefully-processed fig leaves, the smoke of which I am now drawing deeply into my system, and which I hold there for maximum benefit. Yes, man, all my brain cells are suddenly saying, Hello, Horse, and I have once more the power of a spaced-out camel. Across the desert sands, man, I am creeping out of this doorway. Numerous and incredible subtleties are now appearing to me, man, of rare and extraordinary design and the one I must select and concentrate on is that one which keeps me from being struck by the Bowery Avenue BUS, watch out, man!
Alright, man, up the church steps again, to perform the musical activity for which you were born and toward which all your training leads you–the conducting of fifteen-year-old chicks to the sublime heights of song and then later, still higher, to the ethereal regions of your fourth floor pad, where you will, in your capacity as Avatar of Song, screw them puce.
“Good evening, Horse,” says the priest, inside the door.
“Good evening, Father.”
“All of the chorus is here, and I think I see some new faces.”
“Yes, Father, I have been out recruiting more chicks and circulating leaflets in great number announcing the concert.”
The Super Hot Dog Mission of Horse Badorties, man, is slowly taking shape. For an entire year, man, I have held the Love Chorus together, dragging the valuable precious contents of my body here every night for rehearsal, and now, man, we are almost ready for our first performance. All we need is twenty-five fans, and I have ordered them, man, they are on the way.
Up the aisle, man, and up the stairs to the balcony where the Love Chorus is assembled–fifteen-year-old chicks, man, whom I have trained to sing the old church music, little known to the world, never heard in modern churches, but which I have uncovered from old vaults, locked drawers, and secret hiding places of old tombs. Most church music, man, is enough to make me ill, man, make me shriek and feel awful, depressed rotten and piled-up with gloom, so lousy is it, man, so corny and terrible, written by old ladies and sung by zombies. But this church music, man, which I have found, is the white bird of reality, man, written by old cats in the Middle Ages, man, who were locked into wondrous harmonies, man, which make my hair stand on end, and that is why my hair is always sticking out in ninety different directions.
“Good evening, everyone.”
All the good little chiclets say Good Evening, Horse.
“I have a special announcement. Here in my hand you see a battery-powered fan, which makes a constant humming note, a drone around which we will all sing, strengthening our chords and opening our inner ear. I have ordered a fan for each of you, and we will sing, holding them in our hands. Nothing like it has ever been done before. All right, let us begin.”
“But I don’t know how to read music!” A new chick, just joined the Love Chorus tonight.
“Dig, baby, the notes are in your soul. Just hold this sheet music in your hand and pretty soon you’ll find your way. All right, Love Chorus, places, please. From the beginning, one, two… .”
And we are into the music again. The new chick is spaced out, man, does not believe she can read music, but soon, man, soon the stream will carry her away, and she will dig that she knows exactly where the music is going because it couldn’t go anywhere else. Dive in, baby, you wouldn’t be here tonight if you didn’t already know all about music. She’s here, man, in the broken-down church in the fucked-up East Village because her soul said, go. The soul knows, man, and old Maestro Horse Badorties goes straight to the soul every time. It’s no good, man, trying to teach music, the only way is to push the chick right into her soul-stream, man, where she’ll learn immediately.
She’s opening her mouth, man, she is making a musical note, there she is, man, I can see it lighting up her face. Instant recognition: I know this music. Smile. Spontaneous rapture of childhood recaptured. Another member of the Love Chorus has just been reborn, man. The ear hears, the heart knows, the voice sings out. You don’t need music school, baby, you’ve got it made.
Maestro Badorties keeps the Love Chorus together, man, in supreme polyphonic harmony. This music, man, is from the angel of radiant joy in the central realm of the densely-packed, and when it is done right, it elevates my hot dog soul to the region of ecstasy. And it will sound a thousand times better, man, when everyone has a fan.
“Very good, that was terrible, the worst singing I ever heard except for one of two momen
ts which were magnificent beyond belief. We will all meet again tomorrow night. Should for any reason I be retained, derailed, or deported, you all know how to continue practicing. Since this is the greatest music ever written, you will have no trouble. Father, we are all thankful to you for this wonderful church you gave us again tonight as a meeting place, see you tomorrow night.”
“It sounded wonderful,” says Father.
“Yes, it was terrible, and it will be even worse in time for our concert, unless my fans arrive, which are guaranteed to keep us resonating perfectly.” And now down the little winding steps of the balcony and out of the church into the night.
And standing on the street, man, is the beautiful Chinese chick, smiling.
“l listened to the music. It sounded beautiful.”
“Dig, baby, it will sound even better when we go back to my Fourth Street Academy pad and hear it played back at the wrong speed inside this worn-out tape recorder. Come on, baby, I’ll give you a lesson in sight-reading.”
Quietly giving her delicate oriental assent to my suggestion, the Chinese chick walks beside me, man, through the picturesque Lower East Side streets, lined with wet thrown-out couches, on which little children are playing, jumping on the springs and sailing through the air.
“It’s right here, baby, through this door falling off the hinges, and up the steps… .” A beautiful Chinese chick, man, returning with me to my Horse Badorties pad. In a few moments she will be experiencing the wonder of instantaneous sight-reading ability through the special Maestro Badorties thought-transference sex intercourse copulation fucky technique. “Wait a second, baby, wait right here on this landing. I must run down to the store and get a box of teaballs, it’ll only take two minutes.” Going down the steps, taking two at a time, as teaballs are a must, man, to simulate the oriental environment.
“Good ebening.”
“Two bottles of piña-colada to go, man . . open the bottles, please, thank you… .”
“Twenty-fi’ cen’, please.”
“All you need, man, is a fan to keep your bananas cool. Dig, man, the breeze from this little Japanese–EXCUSE ME, MAN, I have just remember an important engagement on the stairs … so long, man!” Go back up the steps quickly, man, overcoming the tendency to forget the main object at hand, which in this case is a Chinese chick on whom I must get my hands. There she is, man, still smiling, waiting for her music lesson.
“OK, baby, I’ve got the all-important piña-colada, and there are just two more flights to go to the top of the building.”
And up we go to the fourth floor, man, to where my wonderful Horse Badorties pad is located. How very odd, man. Someone seems to have clamped a huge padlock on the door to my pad.
“This is the work of the landlord, baby. He’s trying to keep burglars out. See, here in the lock is a note explaining everything. It is in the form of an eviction notice, to make burglars think all the contents of the pad have been moved out.”
By merely taking out of my Horse Badorties survival satchel a handy ball-peen hammer, with one powerful blow of the tool, man, I have smashed the lock open.
“All right, baby, everything is in order now, step right through. As you can clearly see, the valuable precious contents of the pad have not been stolen.”
The pad, man. Incredible mountains of objects of moldy fig newtons and tuna fish cans confronting us, man, blurring the vision, fucking the mind up. How wonderful, man, to be home again. Man, I left the water running in the sink.
“Look at that water running all over the place, baby, flooding the pad, there must be a foot of water over everything, and dig, baby, this water is now COLD ENOUGH TO DRINK! If you were me, would you drink this filthy poisoned recirculated shit-water?”
“Is this where you live?”
“This is my study. You’ll notice I am studying action painting, throwing modern art objects here and there, tin cans, paper bags. Don’t step on anything if you can help it, it is all arranged according to number.”
“Jesus, you have a lot of stuff here.”
“It is a lifetime’s work. If only I could get a frame around that splash of colored grease on the wall, mixed with old tomato paste. Do you think I should knock the whole wall down and take it to the Museum of Modern Art in my school bus?”
“I think you should shut off the water.”
“You’re right, baby, there is no point in drinking this New York City water when we have in our hands a bottle each of piña-colada, the Puerto Rican soft drink to make your teeth fall out. And maybe we can find something to eat on the floor… WAIT A SECOND, MAN! I’VE GOT IT!” In my satchel, man, waiting there for me, synchronistically planned by my unconscious mind to coordinate with my meeting this Chinese chick is a long-forgotten but perfectly intact two containers of …
“Fried rice, baby, dig, and some chopsticks.”
I have scored, man, I have wigged the chick with fried rice. We were meant for each other, man, she knows it, I know it, we’re happy with fried rice, if only we had a juicy steak to go with it.
And now, man, that we have eaten and drunk, there is the undeniable presence in my pants of a Horse Badorties hard-on. It has been such a long time, man, since I had time to fuck a chick, and here she is, man, smiling at me, giving me the fifteen-year-old power-wave of just awakened sexuality. I am going to her, going slowly over to where she is sitting on the arm of my stuffed chair, and I run my fingers through her jet-black hair and she turns her head up to me, man, her lips, eyes, the moment, man, has come, to make just one telephone call which I cannot postpone a moment longer.
“Just a second, baby, while we digest our rice I have just remembered to call my printer, who is working the night shift turning out thousands of sheets of publicity for the Love Concert.”
Here is the telephone, man, right by her foot, her little delicate oriental foot, which I caress with my sensitized dialing finger, dial … dial …
“Hello, man, this is Horse Badorties, how’s it going … great, man, run through another 5000 sheets … I’ll be in tomorrow with a school bus to pick it all up … right, man, and listen, there’s just one more thing, man … hold on a moment, man… hold … I …” Have to touch this chick, man, run my hand up her legs, man, lift her skirt up to her black Chinese underwear with red dragons on it. Man, I must get a shipload of this underwear to give out with fans to the entire CHORUS!
“Where can I lay my skirt, I don’t want to get it all greasy.”
“There must be a spot around here somewhere, baby … I don’t know … you better keep it under your arm.”
“Take that scratchy old jacket off,” she says, playfully removing my jacket.
“Be careful where you lay that jacket down, baby. I might not be able to find it again.”
We struggle around in the junk, man, trying to find a place to lie down, but it is not safe on the floor, even the roaches are going around in little paper boats. “We’ll have to do it standing up, baby.”
She reaches for my Horse Badorties pants, man, and I am knocked off balance, and we topple, down into the unknown impossible-to-describe trash pile. We are rolling around in the dark contents–old loaf of bread, bicycle tire, bunch of string in peanut oil, bumping weird greasy things and slimey feelings and sand and water, lid of a tin can floating by on a sponge. There’s my book on telepathy with a roach on page twelve reading about the Dalai Lama. I cannot get my prick into the chick yet, man, as I have just remembered another phone call which I must make, man. It should be made now, man, because one thing I don’t dig is coitus interruptus, so I’d better make the call before we officially begin balling.
“This will just take a minute, baby, I have to call a junkyard in New Jersey, the owner is waiting for me to confirm a school bus, just relax, baby, while I dial.”
Direct dialing, man, straight to the junkyard. My complicated life, man. There are so many things to handle at once when you are head of the Fourth Street Music A
cademy and must purchase a school bus to carry fifteen-year-old chicks around in, from state to state. We’re going to live in that school bus, man, and put beds in it and a washing machine.
“Hello? … hello, Mr. Thorne, how are you doing, man … this is Horse Badorties in New York City … yes, man, right … I wanted to tell you I will be over tomorrow to purchase the school bus, so please don’t sell it to any other traveling artist. Yes, I’ll be there about noontime … right … so long, man… .”
“Maybe if we go in the other room,” says the chick, “we could find a place to lay down.”
Possibly she is right, man, and so we fight our way across the abominable sea of trash … abominable, man, wait a second. “Dig, baby, there is my rented typewriter, right there, under that pile of used noodles, and dig, baby, I am going to write an article IMMEDIATELY for Argosy magazine about an enormous footprint found in Central Asia.”
“There’s even more junk in this room,” she says, looking into my Horse Badorties bedroom.
“Right, baby, but if we crawled up on top of these boxes of sheet music we could perform a fugue, come on, baby, let’s try.”
It is the perfect place to screw, man, because it is better than a music lesson, the chick will assimilate directly through her ass cheeks the music of the Love Chorus.
“That’s it, baby, just crawl up there, I’m right behind you.”
Crawling up from box to box, man, up to a platform of other boxes stuffed with sheet music, and now, man, NOW, high above the wet filthy floor, in our heavenly tower of sheet music, this fifteen-year-old Chinese chick is giving me her sweet little meatbun.
Man, what is that ripping sound, that collapsing wet cardboard tearing sound, it is the boxes, man, falling apart below us, man, and down, man, down once again into the darkness we are falling with sheet music flying in all directions, hitting other boxes we go falling through them breaking them apart and falling further down, into the water, splash, here, man, come the roaches with a lifeboat.