“Don’t spend too much, Dee Dee.”
“It all goes on the expense account.”
She took out a little black book. “Now, let’s see. Who am I taking to breakfast? Elton John?”
“Isn’t he in Africa …”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, how about Cat Stevens?”
“Who’s that?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Well, I discovered him. You can be Cat Stevens.”
Donny brought the drink and he and Dee Dee talked. They seemed to know the same people. I didn’t know any of them. It took a lot to excite me. I didn’t care. I didn’t like New York. I didn’t like Hollywood. I didn’t like rock music. I didn’t like anything. Maybe I was afraid. That was it—I was afraid. I wanted to sit alone in a room with the shades down. I feasted upon that. I was a crank. I was a lunatic. And Lydia was gone.
I finished my drink and Dee Dee ordered another. I began to feel like a kept man and it felt great. It helped my blues. There is nothing worse than being broke and having your woman leave you. Nothing to drink, no job, just the walls, sitting there staring at the walls and thinking. That’s how women got back at you, but it hurt and weakened them too. Or so I like to believe.
The breakfast was good. Eggs garnished with various fruits … pineapple, peaches, pears … some grated nuts, seasoning. It was a good breakfast. We finished and Dee Dee ordered me another drink. The thought of Lydia still remained inside of me, but Dee Dee was nice. Her conversation was decisive and entertaining. She was able to make me laugh, which I needed. My laughter was all there inside of me waiting to roar out: HAHAHAHAHA, o my god o my HAHAHAHA. It felt so good when it happened. Dee Dee knew something about life. Dee Dee knew that what happened to one happened to most of us. Our lives were not so different—even though we liked to think so.
Pain is strange. A cat killing a bird, a car accident, a fire…. Pain arrives, BANG, and there it is, it sits on you. It’s real. And to anybody watching, you look foolish. Like you’ve suddenly become an idiot. There’s no cure for it unless you know somebody who understands how you feel, and knows how to help.
We went back to the car. “I know just where to take you to cheer you up,” said Dee Dee. I didn’t answer. I was being catered to as if I was an invalid. Which I was.
I asked Dee Dee to stop at a bar. One of hers. The bartender knew her.
“This,” she told me as we entered, “is where a lot of the script writers hang out. And some of the little-theatre people.”
I disliked them all immediately, sitting around acting clever and superior. They nullified each other. The worst thing for a writer is to know another writer, and worse than that, to know a number of other writers. Like flies on the same turd.
“Let’s get a table,” I said. So there I was, a $65 a week writer sitting in a room with other writers, $1000 a week writers. Lydia, I thought, I am getting there. You’ll be sorry. Some day I’ll go into fancy restaurants and I’ll be recognized. They’ll have a special table for me in the back near the kitchen.
We got our drinks and Dee Dee looked at me. “You give good head. You give the best head I ever had.”
“Lydia taught me. Then I added a few touches of my own.”
A dark young boy jumped up and came over to our table. Dee Dee introduced us. The boy was from New York, wrote for the Village Voice and other New York newspapers. He and Dee Dee name-dropped a while and then he asked her, “What’s your husband do?”
“I got a stable,” I said. “Fighters. Four good Mexican boys. Plus one black boy, a real dancer. What do you weigh?”
“158. Were you a fighter? Your face looks like you caught a few.”
“I’ve caught a few. We can put you in at 135. I need a southpaw light weight.”
“How’d you know I was a southpaw?”
“You’re holding your cigarette in your left hand. Come on down to the Main Street gym. Monday AM. We’ll start your training. Cigarettes are out. Put that son of a bitch out!”
“Listen, man, I’m a writer. I use a typewriter. You never read my stuff?”
“All I read is the metropolitan dailies—murders, rapes, fight results, swindles, jetliner crashes and Ann Landers.”
“Dee Dee,” he said, “I’ve got an interview with Rod Stewart in 30 minutes. I gotta go.” He left.
Dee Dee ordered another round of drinks. “Why can’t you be decent to people?” she asked.
“Fear,” I said.
“Here we are,” she said and drove her car into the Hollywood cemetery.
“Nice,” I said, “real nice. I had forgotten all about death.”
We drove around. Most of the tombs were above ground. They were like little houses, with pillars and front steps. And each had a locked iron door. Dee Dee parked and we got out. She tried one of the doors. I watched her behind wiggle as she worked at the door. I thought about Nietzsche. There we were: a German stallion and a Jewish mare. The Fatherland would adore me.
We got back into the M. Benz and Dee Dee parked outside of one of the bigger units. They were all stuck into the walls in there. Rows and rows of them. Some had flowers, in little vases, but most of the blooms were withered. The majority of the niches didn’t have flowers. Some of them had husband and wife neatly side by side. In some cases one niche was empty and waiting. In all cases the husband was the one already dead.
Dee Dee took my hand and led me around the corner. There he was, down near the bottom, Rudolph Valentino. Dead 1926. Didn’t live-long. I decided to live to be 80. Think of being 80 and fucking an 18 year old girl. If there was any way to cheat the game of death, that was it.
Dee Dee lifted one of the flower vases and dropped it into her purse. The standard trip. Rip off whatever wasn’t tied down. Everything belonged to everybody. We went outside and Dee Dee said, “I want to sit on Tyrone Power’s bench. He was my favorite. I loved him!”
We went and sat on Tyrone’s bench next to his grave. Then we got up and walked over to Douglas Fairbanks Sr.’s tomb. He had a good one. His own private reflector pool in front of the tomb. The pool was filled with water lillies and pollywogs. We walked up some stairs and there at the back of the tomb was a place to sit. Dee Dee and I sat. I noticed a crack in the wall of the tomb with small red ants running in and out. I watched the small red ants for a while, then put my arms around Dee Dee and kissed her, a good long long kiss. We were going to be good friends.
19
Dee Dee had to pick up her son at the airport. He was coming home from England for his vacation. He was 17, she told me, and his father was an ex-concert pianist. But he’d fallen for speed and coke, and later on burned his fingers in an accident. He could no longer play the piano. They’d been divorced for some time.
The son’s name was Renny. Dee Dee had told him about me during several trans-Atlantic telephone conversations. We got to the airport as Renny’s flight was disembarking. Dee Dee and Renny embraced. He was tall and thin, quite pale. A lock of hair hung over one eye. We shook hands.
I went to get the baggage while Renny and Dee Dee chatted. He addressed her as “Mommy.” When we got back to the car he climbed into the back seat and said, “Mommy, did you get my bike?”
“I’ve ordered it. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
“Is it a good bike, Mommy? I want a ten-speed with a hand brake and pedal grips.”
“It’s a good bike, Renny.”
“Are you sure it will be ready?”
We drove back. I stayed overnight. Renny had his own bedroom.
In the morning we all sat in the breakfast nook together waiting for the maid to arrive. Dee Dee finally got up to fix breakfast for us. Renny said, “Mommy, how do you break an egg?”
Dee Dee looked at me. She knew what I was thinking. I remained silent.
“All right, Renny, come here and I’ll show you.”
Renny walked over to the stove. Dee Dee picked up an egg. “You see, you just break the shell against th
e side of the pan … like this … and let the egg fall out of the shell into the pan … like this….”
“Oh …”
“It’s simple.”
“And how do you cook it?”
“We fry it. In butter.”
“Mommy, I can’t eat that egg.”
“Why?”
“Because the yoke is broken!”
Dee Dee turned around and looked at me. Her eyes said, “Hank, don’t say a goddamned word….”
A few mornings later found us all in the breakfast nook again. We were eating while the maid worked in the kitchen. Dee Dee said to Renny, “You’ve got your bike now. I want you to pick up a 6-pack sometime today. When I get home I want a Coke or two to drink.”
“But, Mommy, those Cokes are heavy! Can’t you get them?”
“Renny, I work all day and I’m tired. You get the Cokes.”
“But, Mommy, there’s a hill. I’ll have to pedal over the hill.”
“There’s no hill. What hill?”
“Well, you can’t see it with your eyes, but it’s there….”
“Renny, you get those Cokes, understand?”
Renny got up, walked to his bedroom and slammed the door.
Dee Dee looked away. “He’s testing me. He wants to see if I love him.”
“I’ll get the Cokes,” I said.
“That’s all right,” said Dee Dee, “I’ll get them.”
Finally, none of us got them….
Dee Dee and I were at my place a few days later picking up the mail and looking around when the phone rang. It was Lydia. “Hi,” she said, “I’m in Utah.”
“I got your note,” I said.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Everything’s all right.”
“Utah’s nice in the summer. You ought to come up here. We’ll go camping. All my sisters are here.”
“I can’t get away right now.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’m with Dee Dee.”
“Dee Dee?”
“Well, yes …”
“I knew you’d use that phone number,” she said. “I told you you’d use that number!”
Dee Dee was standing next to me. “Please tell her,” she said, “to give me until September.”
“Forget her,” Lydia said. “To hell with her. You come up here and see me.”
“I can’t drop everything just because you phone. Besides,” I said, “I’m giving Dee Dee until September.”
“September?”
“Yes.”
Lydia screamed. It was a long loud scream. Then she hung up.
After that Dee Dee kept me away from my place. Once, while we were at my place going over the mail, I noticed the phone off the hook. “Never do that again,” I told her.
Dee Dee took me for long rides up and down the coast. She took me on trips to the mountains. We went to garage sales, to movies, to rock concerts, to churches, to friends, to dinners and lunches, to magic shows, picnics and circuses. Her friends photographed us together.
The trip to Catalina was horrible. I waited with Dee Dee on the dock. I was really hungover. Dee Dee got me an Alka-Seltzer and a glass of water. The only thing that helped was a young girl sitting across from us. She had a beautiful body, long good legs, and she wore a mini-skirt. With the mini-skirt she wore long stockings, a garter belt, and she had on pink panties under the red skirt. She even wore high heeled shoes.
“You’re looking at her, aren’t you?” asked Dee Dee.
“I can’t stop.”
“She’s a slut.”
“Sure.”
The slut got up and played pinball, wiggling her behind to help the balls fall in. Then she sat back down, showing more than ever.
The seaplane came in, unloaded, and then we stood out on the dock and waited to board. The seaplane was red, of 1936 vintage, had two propellers, one pilot and 8 or 10 seats.
If I don’t puke in that thing, I thought, I will have fooled the world.
The girl in the mini-skirt wasn’t getting on. Why was it that every time you saw a woman like that you were always with another woman?
We got on, strapped ourselves in.
“Oh,” said Dee Dee, “I’m so excited! I’m going up and sit with the pilot!”
“O.K.”
So we took off and Dee Dee was up there sitting with the pilot. I could see her talking away. She did enjoy life or she appeared to. Lately it didn’t mean much to me—I mean her excited and happy reaction to life—it irritated me somewhat, but mostly it left me without feeling. It didn’t even bore me.
We flew and we landed, the landing was rough, we swung low along some cliffs and bounced and the spray went up. It was something like being in a speed boat. Then we taxied to another dock and Dee Dee came back and told me all about the seaplane and the pilot, and the conversation. There was a big piece cut out of the floor up there, and she’d asked the pilot, “Is this thing safe?” and he had answered, “Damned if I know.”
Dee Dee had gotten us a hotel room right on the shore, on the top floor. There was no refrigeration so she got a plastic tub and packed ice in it for my beer. There was a black and white t.v. and a bathroom. Class.
We went for a walk along the shore. The tourists were of two types—either very young or very old. The old walked about in pairs, man and woman, in their sandals and dark shades and straw hats and walking shorts and wildly-colored shirts. They were fat and pale with blue veins in their legs and their faces were puffed and white in the sun. They sagged everywhere, folds and pouches of skin hung from their cheekbones and under their jowls.
The young were slim, and seemed made of smooth rubber. The girls had no breasts and tiny behinds and the boys had tender soft faces and grinned and blushed and laughed. But they all seemed contented, young high school people and old people. There was very little for them to do, but they lounged in the sun and seemed fulfilled.
Dee Dee went into the shops. She was delighted with the shops, buying beads, ashtrays, toy dogs, postcards, necklaces, figurines, and seemed happy with everything. “Oooh, look!” She talked to the shop owners. She seemed to like them. She promised one lady that she would write when she got back to the mainland. They had a mutual friend—a man who played percussion in a rock band.
Dee Dee bought a cage with two love birds and we went back to the hotel. I opened a beer and turned on the t.v. The selection was limited.
“Let’s go for another walk,” said Dee Dee. “It’s so lovely outside.”
“I’m going to sit here and rest,” I said. “You don’t mind if I go without you?”
“It’s all right.”
She kissed me and left. I turned off the t.v. and opened another beer. Nothing to do on this island but get drunk. I walked to the window. On the beach below Dee Dee was sitting next to a young man, talking happily, smiling and gesturing with her hands. The young man grinned back. It felt good not to be part of that sort of thing. I was glad I wasn’t in love, that I wasn’t happy with the world. I like being at odds with everything. People in love often become edgy, dangerous. They lose their sense of perspective. They lose their sense of humor. They become nervous, psychotic bores. They even become killers.
Dee Dee was gone 2 or 3 hours. I looked at some t.v. and typed 2 or 3 poems on a portable typer. Love poems—about Lydia. I hid them in my suitcase. I drank some more beer.
Then Dee Dee knocked and entered. “Oh, I had the most wonderful time! First I went on the glass-bottom boat. We could see all the different fish in the sea, everything! Then I found another boat that takes people out to where their boats are moored. This young man let me ride for hours for a dollar! His back was sunburned and I rubbed it with lotion. He was terribly burned. We took people out to their boats. And you should have seen the people on those boats! Mostly old men, craggy old men, with young girls. The young girls all wore boots and were drunk and on dope, strung-out, moaning. Some of the old guys had young boys, but most of them had young girls, so
metimes two or three or four young girls. Every boat stank of dope and booze and lechery. It was wonderful!”
“That does sound good. I wish I had your knack of turning up interesting people.”
“You can go tomorrow. You can ride all day for a dollar.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Did you write today?”
“A little.”
“Was it good?”
“You never know until 18 days later.”
Dee Dee went over and looked at the love birds, talked to them. She was a good woman. I liked her. She was really concerned about me, she wanted me to do well, she wanted me to write well, she wanted me to fuck well, look well. I could feel it. It was fine. Maybe we could fly to Hawaii together some day. I walked up behind her and kissed her on the right ear, down by the lobe.
“Oh, Hank,” she said.
Back in L.A., after our week in Catalina, we were sitting around my place one evening, which was unusual. It was late at night. We were lying on my bed, naked, when the phone rang in the next room.
It was Lydia.
“Hank?”
“Yes?”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Catalina.”
“With her?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, after you told me about her I got mad. I had an affair. It was with a homosexual. It was awful.”
“I’ve missed you, Lydia.”
“I want to come back to L.A.”
“That’d be good.”
“If I come back will you give her up?”
“She’s a good woman, but if you come back I’ll give her up.”
“I’m coming back. I love you, old man.”
“I love you too.”
We went on talking. I don’t know how long we talked. When it was over I walked back into the bedroom. Dee Dee seemed asleep. “Dee Dee?” I asked. I lifted one of her arms. It felt very limp. The flesh felt like rubber. “Stop joking, Dee Dee, I know you’re not asleep.” She didn’t move. I looked around and noticed her bottle of sleeping pills was empty. It had been full. I had tried those pills. Just one of them put you to sleep, only it was more like being knocked out and buried underground.