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Part II-3 Disco Donn Demands Deliverance
Posted in Colonel Parker, Elvis, Elvis Presley, Emasculation, fiction, Keokuk, Las Vegas, Mankato, Novels, Psychology, Seventies, Show Biz, St. Louis, Stories, Uncategorized, William S. Burroughs, Writing
Disco Donn Demands Deliverance
Part II-3
Turkish spies amongst the Jews learned of their Messianic hopes, one hesitates to call them intentions as there was little hope of success. Sabbatai was called to Adrianople where the Sultan resided and there he apostasized to Mohammedanism. He put on the white turban of the Moslems. Thus redemption of Israel was once again placed in the indefinite future. God wasn't willing to forgive the transgressions of his people just yet.
The future began to take shape in the wake of the great reorganization of society known as the French or Great Revolution. In that great attempt to strike down all racial, national and class barriers the social disabilities of the Jews, at least, were struck down. The Jews were incorporated into the various states as full citizens. This is known by the Jews as the emancipation of the Jews. The difference being a matter of loyalties. The states expected that the Jews would give their undivided loyalty to the appropriate State, much as the Catholics and Protestants did. But the highest loyalty of the Jews remained Israel.
The failure of Zevi had taught the Jews a lesson. They saw the futility of relying on one man as a redeemer. Henceforth the redemption would depend on the whole people. The notion of Redeemer was transferred to the that of the Revolution. Thus the Jews began working toward redemption through a revolution. The Euroamericans gave this new millennial urge the name of the International Jewish Conspiracy.
As the idea took shape in the mind of Israel, the Messiah of the Revolution would come in the years 1913-28. Their plan was revealed time and time again. There were intelligent sociologists in every State that recognized the plan. They were apparently unable to explain the process satisfactorily in the face of Jewish obfuscation. The Jews were able to denounce them as diseased, unbalanced, wacko anti-Semites.
Thus the Jews made great progress during the nineteenth century ending in the seizure of the Russian State and the nearly successful takeover or all central and eastern Europe. Every action creates a reaction which explains the intense reaction throughout the world toward the Jews during the years 1920-46.
Lacking a territorial base or an army the Jews had to work by devious means. The method was early exposed but on the surface is so risible as to appear ridiculous. European sociologists said they were trying to get all the money through Capitalism while seizing control of the labor force by socialism or unionization. No adequate explanation was offered so the sociologists became the butt of jokes.
Several decades later the process is clear. In fact Howard Sachar, a Jewish historian, explains it. Here are two examples. These are pertinent to the story because Norm and Art Barsky attempted the ruse against Dewey Trueman.
IN 1859 the Italians wished to drive the Austrians from Italy. At the time the Rothschilds and other Jewish financiers were at the apex of their success. If they didn't control the money markets they didn't miss much. Modern financial methods for raising money by the States did not yet exist so they were dependent on loans from the Jewish financiers. Austria was especially dependent on the Rothschilds for loans.
Thus while dissension was fomented in Italy, the Rothschilds refused to loan money to Austria. With no money above the line the Austrians were unable to deal with dissension below the line. Thus Jews controlled the politics of the situation through finances. The Austrians were forced to retire from Italy. The Jews were able to direct the course of European history to their own advantage unobtrusively from behind the scenes.
The second instance involves the First Russian Revolution. A war between the Jews and the Russian State had been going on for decades. Industrialism had created a proletariat in Russia. Russia was engaged in a contest for Manchuria with the Japanese. The Japanese were unable to pursue their goals for lack of money. A man called Jacob Schiff in the United States raised hundreds of millions of dollars of American money for the Japanese. His efforts were abetted by the Jewish consortium of Europe.
At the same time Schiff and others prevented loans being made to Russia.
With the economic situation under control the Jews fomented strikes and rebellion on the labor front. The result was that the enemy of the Jews, Russia, lost the war with Japan and had to change the structure of the government to placate the Jewish rebels.
This procedure is known as getting the victim between the upper and nether jaws of the vice. Once pinioned the victim can be filed into any shape at leisure.
The Jews of course denied everything and still do. But just as the sociologists saw what was happening so did certain politicians. Jewish history had been well studied by both the Germans and the Russians. They were quite aware that a slaughter of the peoples would follow a Jewish victory as indeed did happen in Russia in the years following 1917. Once again denied although as obvious as the Nazi death camps to anyone who wants to study the period.
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Nineteen-seventeen to nineteen-twenty-four or so was the high tide of the redemption period. Success seemed imminent. The reaction however created two very strong personalities in Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin.
There were many signs that were to proclaim the Redemption. Among them was the notion of Gog and Magog, great cataclysmic armageddons. This prophecy was fulfilled by the two great wars bracketing the twenties and thirties. Hitler's contention was always that the Jews caused the wars. He was probably correct.
At any rate the Jews believed that they had isolated and surrounded the last great anti-Semite. Stalin's activities in Russia had not sunk in yet.
In the United States the redemption was in full swing. In 1899 the the founder of Reform Judaism in the United States, Isaac Meyer Wise, had predicted that the redemption would occur within twenty-five years. The massive immigrationof Jews from the Pale gave the Jews an ample power base in the United States. From 1913 to 1945 in a line of politicians from Woodrow Wilson through Al Smith to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the Jews created the coalition they hoped to direct. They did attain a position of great influence.
Thus while Hitler and Stalin were tightening the screws on the Jews in Europe, in the United States the Jews were isolating all American nationalists and devout Christians under the names of Facscists and 'anti-Semites.' The only serious opposition to their program came from Henry Ford in the twenties. He, in his American naivete, thought he could persuade the Jews to end their historical confrontation with Euroamerican society. He was mistaken. He was isolated and ostracized by his fellow Americans.
There was not much active opposition to the Jews in the United States; after all Americans had always considered themselves neo-Hebrews.
Nevertheless all dissident religious or nationalist voices were identified and isolated in an aggressive program of vilification. In 1943 as Hitler and Stalin were destroying the Jews, those in America were calling for concentration camps to isolate the 'anti-Semites.' This is true. In a country that had always prided itself on the separation of church and State the Jews were calling for laws outlawing dissenters from their religious views, or as they called them, anti-Semites.
No one could have foreseen the extermination of Eastern and Central European Jewry. Thus the Revolution as Redeemer failed as disastrously as Bar Kochba in Roman times and Sabbatai Zevi at the end of Medieval times.
In the twenties and thirties the Jews believed that they were to come into their own in 'America, my home sweet home.' In the land of plenty, the plenty was to be at their disposal. Everyone else would be their servant or slave. A life of indolence and ease analogous to that enjoyed by the post-war Kuwaitis would be theirs.
Louis Barsky, Art's father, exulted in the hope. He implanted the expectation in Art who had been born in 1923. Art grew up filled with the hope. He was aquiver with hope as the war against the Axis began. He really believed he would begin that life on V.E. day. The stage was certainly prepared in the United States.
In 1948 the ancient Jewish hope would be realized when the head and tail of Ouroboros were put in place as Israel became a Jewish State.
One can only imagine the horror of the realization that the main body of the Ouroboros was crushed in Germany and the East. Redemption had failed yet again. The Revolution as Messiah was a bust.
Art Barsky looked out on the world through tears of bitterness. There was no life of ease for him. He would have to work for a living unable to enjoy the plenty that he thought was rightfully his. He had to work. Oh, he did well enough. He made a lot of money selling women's nylon stockings. But every year his bitterness and rage mounted. He had his son Norman, the young lord. Norm had graduated from college, married and fathered his own son in one fell swoop.
Art had communicated his and Louis' attitude to Norm. But there seemed no way for Norm to realize his heritage. Thus when Harry Grabstein called Art with his proposition concerning Dewey Trueman it was a godsend.
Norm was briefed and sent West with his shiksa and child to claim his inheritance. As Trueman didn't realize that his business rightfully belonged to Norm some deception was required.
Getting hired was no problem. Retail sales is an entry level position for high school dropouts and malcontents who can't hold a job elsewhere. Record stores in general draw the dreamy types, separated and withdrawn from objective reality. As the term then was- spaced out.
The recorded word has a tremendous appeal to them. It is as though the voice of god speaks from the groove. A standard story was of the guy who dropped a couple hits of acid, turned Black Sabbath's album 'Paranoid' up to ten and saw god.
The bands and singers were certainly thought of as oracles or prophets, super prescient people who understood the whole of the entire. Thus singers told them truth directly. Spoke to them through their stereos. Ras le bol was one of the primary messages- screw it all. Consequently these people didn't stay on the job too long while they did as little work as possible while there. Getting to work on time? Who would buy that load of bullshit?
Thus Norm, wearing the same outfit as in the mountains except that he had the de rigeur leather jacket of the times instead of the flowering vest and shirt, presented himself for employment. He literally burst noisily into the store. He asked for a job letting it be known that he wouldn't take no for an answer. If Trueman hadn't had an opening at the time he soon would have. Norm Barsky presented a bizarre persona but it was a time of bizarre personas. Trueman was curious as to his story.
Norm had more ambition than the listless drifting types Trueman normally saw. He wasn't creative but told what to do and how to do it he was capable of not only doing it one time but being able to repeat the action without repeated istruction.
He quickly acquired greater responsibility, soon becoming Dewey Trueman's manager. This was all done within two months. Things move fast in the the record business. Tomorrow will soon be yesterday. Sell them hits while they're hot.
Norm had began to organize the employees around himself and against Dewey as soon as he had been hired. In fact he had the floor functioning smoothly for nearly the first time in the store's history. Trueman himself handled the buying and all the other chores but was unable to supervise the floor full time. He was pleased with Norm's performance.
At the same time he noticed the alienation of the personnel from himself as Norm sought their loyalty. When he became manager he could speak with the authority of 'Don't worry, I'll take care of it with Dewey.' Thus as the store was actually his in his own mind he began to give liberties to the crew. He allowed them to take records home gratis. He gave Rolfe Kusinen money from the till to buy, or rather, upgrade, as it was known, his new stereo system. Then, as Rolfe's old records were scratched he allowed him to bring them back and exhange them for new records. Norm backed his car up to the back door and loaded a few boxes in to pick up some pocket 'change.' Nor did he think he was stealing. In his mind he already owned the store, Trueman was working for him. Stealth was necessary because Trueman was not yet aware of the new arrangement.
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Norm quietly nudged aside Trueman's influence with the sales reps. He represented his assumption of power as an accomplished fact but urged them to keep it quiet as Trueman was sensitive to the fact.
By early November he believed he was in the position for a takeover or, as he expressed it, 'a palace revolution.'
He told Dewey that his father was coming to town and that as, next to his father, he admired Dewey most of all he would like Dewey to meet his father.
Thus as the nether jaw of the vice was prepared the upper jaw would hopefully soon be screwed down. Dewey, by this time, was aware that Norm's facade concealed some misdoings. Intimations of difficultes were coming from both the floor and from the sales reps. While nothing was said, different attitudes were projected. He was beginning to have real difficulties adapting himself to the role of 'Norm's 'employee' which role Norm unconsciously assumed.
Out of consideration to Norm he agreed to meet his father. They met over lunch at the Willametter River Inn. Norm and Art arranged a late lunch so as to be undisturbed by other diners. They sat in the far corner looking out over the river. Dewey had his back to the restaurant. Harry Grabstein drifted in to watch from an obscure position.
Art Barsky now fifty was an embittered man. Being a salesman is one of the toughest jobs in America. One's manhood and dignity are constantly being insulted. There is no attitude except complete servility that will protect you from the slings and arrows. If you're completely servile you're a failure as a salesman.
Art Barsky had taken refuge in a carney's attitude. He viewed his customers as stupid suckers while he was a wise manipulator. The attitude meshed neatly with his disappointment in the failure of the Redemption. His attitude was beginning to interfere with his salesmanship. His best years were behind him.
The face he presented to Trueman was quite similar to Lee J. Cobb in 'Death Of A Salesman.' Trueman had an intuitive dislike of the man. He also now understood Norm Barsky better.
Art began by talking down to Dewey. Trueman responded coolly and laughingly showing his contempt for Art. Barsky was not subtle enough to pick up on it. Besides the script was already written. All Trueman had to do was act his part. Thus Art very nearly waived aside any civilities getting straight to the point.
'I've got to have my boy here established.' He said bluntly.
'Well, if has to quit…' Dewey began.
'No, not quit.' Art sort of bellowed. 'But I can't have him just working for you.'
'Well, if has to quit…' Dewey began again.
'No. Not quit.' Barsky interrupted again. 'The way I see it is he's indispensable; you can't get along without him. He needs something of a permanent nature.'
'Well, if he has to quit…' Trueman began a third time.
'No! Not quit, damn you.' Barsky blundered on oblivious to objective reality. 'If he's going to make your business for you he should have an interest. Say, one half…'
Dewey stared in disbelief. Norm, who had been watching him intently took the look for one of fear and acquiescence. Dewey wasn't an actor in their movie but they didn't realize it. Norm kicked his father under the table to indicate they were on the right track.
Trueman took Barsky for a fool. His expression turned to a sardonic smile as he tittered a little laugh.
'Oh yeah? What kind of deal do you have in mind?' He asked curiously.
'Well we figure the business is worth ten thou but we also figure we'll really make it boom with our expertise. We're Jews you know. We don't want you to be unhappy so we'll give you a bonus making the business worth twenty-five thou but you're going to have to take a salary cut. Maybe half.'
Dewey couldn't believe his ears. He valued the business highly perhaps exaggerating its worth but he wouldn't have taken less than two hundred thousand and would have balked at that. He had his own expansion plans based on his own expertise which up to this point had been considerable.
His eyebrow shot up. 'Twenty-five thousand? Cash or check?' He said derisively.
Norm's face lit up. He thought he was in. He reached over and patted Dewey's arm.
'We'll give you a note.' the Old Con Man barked authoritatively.
Dewey involuntarily blew air through his compressed lips giving the mistaken impression he was giving a bronx cheer. A little spittle got on Art's face.
'Well, buddy,' Dewey began derisively, 'why don't I just give you an interest? You're going to give me a note. All that means is that you'll pay me out of my own profits. Since I've already got a hundred per cent of them do you really think I'll settle for half and lose my salary by half at the same time?'
Art stared at him viciously. The audacity of this goi to balk a Prince of this Earthly Realm. How long will we have to suffer these indignities he thought bitterly projecting every nuance of his thought into his facial expression.
'I gotta go now. See you back at the store, Norm.'
The upper jaw of the vice was not to descend. As in the macrocosm so in the microcosm the Redemption was balked.
Norm looked questioningly at his father. His father was stunned. It wasn't so much that they thought so little of their quarry, Trueman, it was just that like all con men they thought that they were so damned clever.
'That guy's a real prick.' Art exclaimed defensively.
'I told you so.' Norm nodded.
Prick or not they had lost the initiative. All they could do was attempt to intimidate Trueman on the labor front; he couldn't use their 'captital.'
Once in, of course, they would have used law suits and legal means to harass Trueman. As Grabstein could control the judges, the town fathers wanted Trueman gone anyway, all decisions would have gone against Trueman. Within a year he would have been locked out while the business accrued to Norm and Art for essentially nothing.
The two were victims of their own fantasies. They really believed that Norm was indispensable. They really believed that the success of Trueman's business was due to Norm. The fact that the business had been a success before Norm got there was disregarded. Such inscrutable obtuseness is scarcely to be believed, yet it is a normal state of affairs.
Art and Norm devised a plan where the entire staff would quit on New Year's Day. Faced with the loss of the indispensable Norm and his crack crew Trueman would have to capitulate. The palace revolution would be a success. Trueman would have to deal with them on their own terms. In order to get the Indispensable One back he would have to actually give them ownership.
Norm's ease in manipulating the crew reassured them of his abilities. The Christmas season was begun. This is the worst time for labor troubles in retail. Dewey wanted to fire Norm or, at least get rid of him, but it was the wrong time. He thought that the season might produce a gross of fifty thousand dollars. He decided to tolerate Norm. Norm and the crew, who thought the profit margin was much higher than it was, in the record business of the time the margin was only twenty to twenty-five percent, Dewey was at thirty, thought that Dewey would make ninety thousand or God only knows how much.
Norm encouraged them to think that they were the reason for the store's success. He pressed Trueman hard for large bonuses.
Trueman, cursed with the orphan's need to be loved, wanted to do what was right. Like most nouveaux riches he felt guilty about his success. The times were propitious to augment that feeling.
It would appear from the narrative that Trueman was rolling in money but this wasn't true. He was being driven by a load of debt. He had started with no money at all. He had received no bank loans. The growth had been very rapid. The rate of expansion had him financially against the wall. He was perpetually behind in his bills. He really couldn't spare the money but he allowed himself to be coerced into giving large bonuses.
Norm took full credit with the crew which, indeed, was his right in this instance. Now convinced that there were millions to be had he guaranteed the crew that he would double their wages if they followed him. They readily consented.
At closing on December 31 Norm delivered his ultimatum; either all wages were to be doubled, his tripled, or they would quite en masse none showing up for work on January second.
The season was behind him. January and February were slow months. Trueman just said goodbye and had the locks changed. he had a new crew by week's end.
Norm was incredulous. Unbelieving. Actually stunned as though running full tilt into a goal post. But he thought that as he was indispensable Trueman would capitulate and call him back. The fantasies that corrupt one's mind.
Norm's failure destroyed his relationship with his shiksa wife. She had been won mainly by by Norm's tall talk of his abilities and future success. She had been led to believe that she would be moving into Dewey's mansion on the hill. Now she lost faith in Norm completely. When, two months later, it became apparent that Norm was not going to be called back; she packed her bags and took their son and moved back to LA where she had come from.
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Forced to accept reality, Norm's sense of grandeur prevented him from accepting just a job. Electric vehicles were a big topic then so Norm obtained a loan and opened a lot selling electric motor scooters. Well, an idea whose time had come or not, no one bought them.
The bank called Norm to discuss his lack of payments on the loan. Norm always heeded fantastic solutions to any problem. He had read an article about some guy who had been called in to make good a loan. This guy, so the story went, stared coolly back into the banker's eye and said: Either you give me time to make the loan good which I will do, or you can have the business and you can't run it.' In the story the bank capitulated, the guy made good and everyone laughed about it later. Real chutzpah. I mean, wouldn't you?
Incredibly Norm tried this act. The banker laughed, foreclosed and threw Norm out into the street. Norm thought he had obtained the loan himself but naturally unbeknownst to him his father had co-signed for it through the good offices of Harry Grabstein. The banker thought he was secure but he was never able to collect from either Art Barsky or Harry Grabstein. So much for high finance in Norm's life. And for Art the Revolution as Redeemer sank into the sands like the Rhine before the ocean. For him the third great messianic attempt became a sour, bitter, excoriating experience. Goddamn everybody and everything, he thought.
Norm was still the unabashed hero of his own movie. He had not only read 'On The Road' but most of Kerouac's novels. In a college town like Eugene they were especially popular. If he couldn't succeed in the business world, Norm could succeed as a bum. There is no success like failure and failure is no success at all. Norm could be part of the 'rucksack revolution.' He embraced the notion behind Kerouac's novel: The Dharma Bums. Don't you just love Kerouac. Norm became Dharma Bum.
Somehow Donn sensed the real story behind Bum's story of woe in capitalist society. There was that about Bum that bespoke delusional fantasy.
Having finished his beans, Bum rolled himself what he called a splif from what he said was Thai-stick tea. A splif is a Jamaican marijuana joint as big as a cigar; Bum's spliff was slight larger than a pencil lead. As with the beans he didn't offer Donn any. As he talked and smoked he unbuttoned his fly. As he had no underwear on his dong flopped right out.
Finishing one 'spliff' he rolled himself another.
'This Thai shit is really potent.' He said.
'Let's see.' Donn said reaching out his hand.
'Uh uh.' Bum said pulling the joint back. 'I've got a different number for you to suck on.' He said, indicating his penis in his best John Wayneish movie tough guy talk.
Donn just sat there looking at him in wonder. Who does this guy think he is? He thought.
Dharma Bum, in fact, thought he was faster than a speeding bullet, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, hold back freight trains by main force. But since he couldn't find a job as a brain surgeon or bank president because of the stupidity of capitalism he had chosen the life of the wandering mystic. The Holy Bum who though he appeared to be beneath society was actually superior to it.
'Assume the position.' He commanded with quiet authority, taking a long toke on his 'splif.'
Donn looked steadily back and shook his head no.
'Assume the position, damn it! Bum bellowed.
Donn didn't move.
'Don't try to balk me son-of-a-bitch. Assume the position.' Bum half commanded, half whined. At the same time he grabbed a stick and began to belabor the sitting Contrales.
Donn leaped to his feet beneath the stinging blows to land a stiff right on Bum's outhrust chin. Dharma Bum fell to the ground unconscious. He flew over backwards striking his head on an outcrop. He was dead as he settled to the ground.
Donn in his agitation bent over with his hands on his knees to collect his senses. As he did he noticed that Bum didn't seem to be breathing. Yes, Donn ascertained, Bum was dead. Donn had killed two men in one week. Serial killer. Once again it was self defense, but who would believe him. All of the circumstantial 'evidence' would be against him. There would be no one to believe his story. He felt a rising sense of panic, of fear and loathing, as he looked down on the dead body of Dharma Bum.
The outcropping was a ledge between which and the ground, between the upper and nether jaws of the vice as it were, there was a gap almost big enough to admit a man's body. In frustration and anger Donn grabbed Bum's body, backing up a couple steps he ran forward thrusting the head and torso into the opening. The body jammed at the chest. Try as he might he could force Bum's body in no further. Totally frustrated he delivered three sharp kicks to Bum's dead ass.
'Back under the rock you crawled out from you goddamned bum.'
Then, as the first light of dawn illuminated the mountain tops Donn dusted himself off as best he could to catch another ride to take him a little further down the road.
In what must have been a reenactment of Cain and Abel, this time when Abel's blood called out there was no answering voice from heaven. Bum just lay there and rotted until his skeleton was shrouded in flowery rags.
Donn became depressed at the thought of the two killings which he now thought of as murders. He presented a wild disheveled appearance beside the road. Still he got rides but they were short and the duration between them was long. Three days later found him in a gas station on the east side of Graig, Colorado lonely, forlorn and despondent. It wasn't so much that his head ached or that his body throbbed in pain. Donn was hurting mentally even more.
Donn walked across the lot of the gas station to use the toilet. He entered, washed and shaved. As he was drying off the door opened and a smashing older gent entered. He was tall, lean, athletic looking. He had hair half grey amidst the dark blonde strands. He had one of those long headed chisel faces that represented manly beauty to Donn.
Rather than despising him he gave him a warm smile. Then some small gesture conveyed the message the gent was in the mood. Donn didn't prefer the catamite role but in his lonely desolation any affirmation of worthiness was enough. He entered the stall followed by the gent.
Wordlessly they went about their business. For some reason, perhaps an unconscious need to be discovered the gent hadn't latched the door. Suddenly the latrine door burst open as three men, two with cameras and tape recorders rushed in. Donn's heart stopped.
The latrine doors were forced open as cameras whirred and clicked.
'Well, Senator, what do we have here?' The first man sneered.
Donn who believed he was the target was puzzled by being called Senator, then the truth dawned on him.
'Senator Richard Walker, is this the kind of secret life you lead?'
Donn saw that they were paying him scant attention so scooting across the floor while trying to get his pants up he fled the scene.
He picked up a copy of the Coloradan next afternoon to discover a picture of State Senator Walker pulling up his pants in the toilet of the gas station. Donn was clearly recognizable. Apparently Dick Walker, unable to bear the pressures and humiliations of public life had been relieving his stress in this manner over the past several months. His enemies had finally caught up to him. Not unrelieved, he quietly disappeared from public life.
Donn finally found himself in Denver after the most adventurous trip. He'd had too much adventure. He wanted to be in St. Louis safe as a TV anchorman. Considering that he believed himself a wanted man it hadn't occurred to him that a major city TV screen was not the best of hiding places.
As bad as Donn was he was no worse than his fellows so that there is no reason not to extend him a little sympathy. Within the context of his society he was suffering grievously for a minor peccadillo. His state of mind was severely darkened by the sequence of events since leaving Portland. He was struggling to keep his mental equilibrium. At odd moments he had to struggle to keep back the tears. His physiognomy increasingly showed the strain he was under. Stress lines appeared where none had been before.
By the time he reached Denver despair of the present and the hope of the TV job in St. Louis, which had now become a fixation in his mind, drove him from the road. He couldn't take it anymore. The bus or the train would have been cheaper but Donn wanted to get above it all while recapturing for a blissful moment his past glory. He decided to fly.
He spent the night in a motel to rest and cleanup before he went into the airport to buy a ticket. He expected to just walk on. He was somewhat stunned when he was told the price was four hundred dollars. As he stood open mouthed blinking in astonishment the clerk said: But if you wait two days I can sell you a ticket for sixty-eight dollars or a non-refundable ticket for forty-two..
Donn's motel room was only eighteen dollars. He could stay two days, eat frugally and save a lot. He decided to do that. He foolishly gave the clerk his real name.
He left the airport in a confused state of mind. 'For a twenty dollar discount they lay claim to the whole fare. What kind of Ever Ever Land dealing is that? How does anybody get away with claiming they get paid for nothing if you don't show because they gave a discount on nothing?
Something had happened in American thinking; Donn was right about that, but he didn't know the half of it. He was too troubled in mind to wonder why a walkon ticket should cost four hundred dollars whan an advance reservation dropped down to sixty dollars. How had the airline's costs been reduced by a two day delay on boarding? Obviously the authorities wished to limit free and unrestricted travel. Most people pay by credit card giving advance notice of who will be on what plane. Although Donn had paid cash he he had given his right name.
Due to the wonders of computerization his name was flagged in a nationwide memory bank. Even though he had done nothing wrong- the charges against his name had been shelved- there were those who wished to know his doings. Thus Maggie, who was watching the flags carefully, picked up Donn's movement the same afternoon. Donn's flight originated in Portland. Maggie put a man on board in the seat next to Donn's. A little spoonful of his excrement was given to the flight attendant to put in Donn's food along with instructions to be out of whatever his first selection was, whatever he requested they were to give him something else. These games get incredibly petty. Twenty-two years of schooling and you're still a psychotic moron.
Donn did little the two days but lay around his motel room, rolling about trying to fight his way out of the despondency which was saturating his mind like black ink diffusing through clear water. Everything showed on his face but even looking in the mirror Donn was unable to discern it.
He was too preoccupied to notice the glow of anticipation in Maggie's man, Wally Reid's eyes. Reid was there to fid out Donn's plans and torment him.
Donn didn't want to talk but Reid amiably persisted. Beyond the fact that he was bound for St. Louis Reid got nowhere. As Donn despised airline food he declined his tray foiling Maggie's plan of special nutrition. Maggie correctly thought that Donn thought he was a fugitive from justice so he had Reid tell stories of fugitives being betrayed by some inconsequential quirk and caught. He even explained the flagging system to Donn.
By the time the plane landed Donn was aquiver with anxiety. He expected to be arrested when he disembarked. When he wasn't he half dismissed Reid's chatter, while making plans for job hunting.
Psychology is difficult to account for. Donn had the most sanguine hopes of landing the job as news anchorman. He still hadn't figured out that anonymity and a TV personality don't go together. In order to be successful in his job hunt he believed, quite rightly of course, that he would have to make a good appearance. Maintaining the appearance for any length of time would deplete his resources, but counting on landing a job quickly Donn went ahead with style.
He checked into a good hotel, better than he needed, and bought himself a very nice suit, also better than he needed, shirts, shoes and ties. He made appointments for interviews. These were all delayed a couple days to give the stations time to check up on him. The flag came up.
The manager of the first station, who was only a member of the Old Boy network, figured he had enough troubles of his own without adding Donn's so he declined politely sending Donn on his way. The manager of the second station was a member of both the Jewish and Homosexual networks but not the Old Boy. Maggie got in touch with him. He arranged to be in the studio when Donn was there.
This interview went very smoothly. Wesley Cohn expressed great interest in Donn. He asked him to come back in two days for a screen test. Informed that there would be an opening and he was a very good possibility Donn was delighted. He bounced out of the studio muttering Eureka! under his breath.
Maggie who knew how much Donn had withdrawn from the bank intended to string him along till it was gone. If Maggie hadn't had contacts at UNB he had his own hacker who could penetrate any system. Imagine passing laws against such things. One might as well pass laws against the sun setting in the West.
Donn showed up for the test. He was actually very good. He had the looks, he projected a confident, affable, knowledgeable image. The studio workers were very impressed. Donn, watching anxiously, was sure they were sincere. He was told to call back in a couple days. Then he was invited to dinner with the manager, the news director and his assistant. They went to the best restaurant in St. Louis. After a friendly, jovial dinner full of many yaks it came time for the bill.
Cohn slapped his pockets a couple times saying: 'Donn, you know what? I left my wallet at home. Say, Donn, you couldn't…'
Everyone watched with suppressed mirth as Donn gulped and his face fell. But they were surprised. Donn waxed indignant: 'You don't have have an account here? Why at the Daily Assassin, he said giving himself away somewhat, 'we had accounts at all the best restaurants. We just had to sign for it. That's the way it's done in professional circles. That's how any company that knows does it. Mingo wouldn't have any problem.'
Mirth fled their faces as they shook their heads and uttered low 'ummms.'
'Right. Of course I can sign. I forgot about that.' Cohn replied.
Out on the street he said: 'That was a test too, Donn, you're doing fine. Call you in a couple days.'
Donn's funds were running low. He could no longer afford to wait. He called the next day to be informed that although he was perfect they were bringing in a Black woman from Detroit. They thought she would give the station the proper social balance.
Well…now Donn was both down and out.
Off The Track
How is it that I have come up to here
And I'm still fallin'
-The Byrds
I deplore brutality he said. It's not efficient. On the other hand prolonged mistreatment, short of physical violence, gives rise, when skillfully applied, to anxiety and a feeling of special guilt.
-William S. Burroughs
Donn now didn't know which way to turn. He could call his dad down in Waco but that would be truly a last resort, admitting defeat. Besides maybe even his dad would stiff him after the manner in which he had left. Donn was at a loss. He didn't know why but he got out on the highway heading North through Iowa. Keokuk, Waterloo and up the Mississippi.
Maggie had a man pick him up to learn his plans if possible. He dropped Donn off halfway to Keokuk using his CB to inform Maggie who was about five miles behind. When Maggie sighted Donn he edged to the side of the road forcing Donn to step back. He averted his face as he passed laughing a vengeful laugh.
Donn couldn't be sure, of course, but there had been no mistaking that gold hair. Donn still hadn't analyzed the implications of that computer that had sat on his desk. If he had he would have realized that there is no such thing as paranoia in the modern world. It's all true. Stalking is a way of life.
Hitching a ride in suit clothes and fine shoes is the toughest kind of hitching of all. After all why would a guy who could afford good clothes hitchhike unless he was just godawful cheap? The only reason to hitch is if you're down and out or in the Service. Donn had a terrible time getting rides. When he did the drivers were all disrespectful. Hence he found himself in Keokuk way out on Johnson St. Road miles from downtown. Everything is always funny when it happens to someone else. Donn had always found stories such as this amusing but now that it was happening to him he lamented the fact that others would have the laugh. Other people elsewhere were having a good chuckle. So life goes on.
Donn oriented himself tothe East and began walking toward the Mississippi. The evening was sultry and warm. Great billowy clouds, white on the edges passing through symphonies of greys sailed proudly across the bright blue sky. The trees and grass shown green. Natural beauties abounded. Donn's gloomy frame of mind turned all brown and seer.
But a bit of good fortune fell on him. As he trudged up the road he approached the house of Phineas Elonginus Pillbender. Phineas had suffered a terrible childhood. He had been in foster homes and an orphanage. Although life had kicked him about much more severely than he or anyone else deserves he had never given way to self-destructive impulses.
Against all odds he had constructed the type of life he most admired. His spirit was epitomized in the almost surrealistic beauty of his house and grounds. He had an acre and a half, his house standing on a little rise in the middle of the lot. It was painted the strangest color blue, the numerous shutters white. The house sparkled, as he washed it frequently. A white picket fence enclosed his yard. The edges of the pickets were also painted blue. The fence too shone splendidly. The impossibly well kept lawn with the medium sized apple tree caused many a passerby to stop and stare.
A red brick walkway curved up to the house from the mailbox which was painted blue with a little border of flowers across the bottom and Phineas Elonginus Pillbender inscribed in quaint lettering, having a Land of Oz effect.
The driveway leading to the garage was carefully constructed to look natural. The concrete slab was sunk three inches below the surface being carefully graveled and cindered to look rural. Pillbender raked it three times weekly.
He was too perfect for his neighbors. A big gash invariably disfigured his driveway while one or two pickets were always hanging loose. Pillbender left them after having learned he must make at least this concession to his neighbor's envy. They had no intention of maintaining their property so carefully nor were they about to be made to look sloppy by their own fastidious neighbor.
Farmer Pillbender stood, corncob pipe in the mouth of a face surrounded by an Abe Lincoln beard, in the red brick walkway leading to his front door. His thumbs were stuck in the straps of his overalls. He wasn't really a farmer, it was a pose he affected. He actually worked as a tool and die maker in town.
He saw Donn Contrales in his fine pants carrying his jacket under his arm coming down the road. Rather than having been embittered by his life experiences Farmer Pillbender was a kindly if brittle man. His workmates called him 'prickly.' Like many who had borne a heavier cross than his back could support he passed his burden on to Jesus. He was a serious and good Christian. He often hummed: What a friend we have in Jesus, all our griefs and sins to bear, as he went about his chores.
He mistakenly sized Donn up as a good man who'd gotten a tough break. Pillbender hailed Donn at his gate. After a few minutes palaver he invited Donn in for supper and a bed for the night.
As the outside of Pillbender's house shone so was the inside glorious. The hardwood floors were radiant. The colonial style early American furniture was immaculately kept. The fire place floor was freshly scrubbed. The grate had been sanded and painted.
As one's eyes moved up the fireplace front to the mantle a large sign, six feet long, eighteen inches high proclaimed in red, white and blue bunted letters:
F U C K C O M M U N I S M
Above it was a large plain white cross. One knew where Farmer Pillbender stood.
Donn arose the next morning which as hot as an oven, humid as hell, grateful for at least a chance to rinse off and shave. He thanked Farmer Pillbender and took his leave. As the neighbors had seen him enter the house the night before they now stood at their windows or in their yards to look him over. A number of childred stood in the street.
Among them was Billy Treska. Billy was eight. He had been violated by a big neighbor kid a week before. The seduction had been rude, verging on rape, while the subsequent rejection had made him feel contemptible. He was in the throes of emotional distress unable to adjust to his emasculation. The sight of Donn, forlorn and forsaken, awoke feelings of kinship in his tortured mind. As Donn walked by Billy slipped his hand in Donn's in a love gesture.
Billy didn't know what he was doing or why. His act was unconscious while his motives were unknown to him. In the way of homosexuality he was seeking affirmation of his worth by seeking a surrogate of the lover who had seduced and rejected him. Donn looked down in shock as he recognized the meaning of the gesture. While Donn had never had an inclination for little boys, now, conscious of his own identity and the eyes of the neighbors about him, he jerked his hand rudely away whereas at another thime he might have been more sympathetic.
Billy, unable to understand his own motives or Donn's rejections took the move as a further indication of his worthlessness. He was completely shattered and crushed. He ran from Donn howling and crying, causing dismay in the spectators. In later life Billy would end up a curbstone cutie in San Francisco with silicon breasts.
As the boy turned sobbing and ran away the whole scene was misinterpreted by Mrs. Elizabeth Anderson. She believed and would swear that Donn had made an attempt to abduct the boy, possibly for ransom. That Donn was a bum, albeit a well dressed bum with really nice shoes, was proof sufficient.
As Donn walked downtown slowly in the heat Mrs. Anderson tracked him at a distance. As he stood at the corner of Seventh and Main aimlessly plotting his next move, perhaps even getting a job somewhere in town to gather his senses and accumulate a few dollars, Mrs. Anderson with a policeman by the arm pointed him out to the cop saying: 'That's him.'
Fearful of being picked up on the charges he thought were pending in Oregon Donn blanched a whiter shade of pale acting extremely guilty. The officer who had nothing on Donn except Mrs. Anderson's confused story hesitated. As he did so an officious self-righteous townsman announced in a stentorian voice: You better move on.
The police officer and the crowd automatically acquiesced in the sentiment of the speaker. They stepped back to make room for Donn to move on.
Donn's motor responses were affected by the repetitious humiliations that are impossible to bear with equanimity no matter how cool the victim may appear. Donn moved off not smartly but with a shambling gait. The pavement seemed so uneven that Donn couldn't raise his feet high enough to keep from scraping over the pavement. As he reached the other side of the street he tripped over the curb and turned to look back at the faces sternly set against him. Unconciously he hunched over, back curved, and with one hand clumsily hitched up his pants, confessing to his feeling of emasculation. He had fallen far but he was still far from the bottom.
As he hitched up the road to Waterloo he realized for the first time that he was penniless. He hadn't the means to buy a meal; he had no place to sleep but in the jungles with other bums, under overpasses, wherever those off the track congregated. That was pain that Donn couldn't face. Even though with the proper attitude and his boxing skills he could easily have dominated any such crowd. He could have been King of the Jungles.
Thus Donn avoided those places although he soon learned where they would be.
Maggie had fixed his location. There was a transmitter in the heel of Donn's spiffy shoes. Thus even as Donn entered a town he was surprised to find that it seemed as though he was expected. It seemed as though everyone knew him already. The police seemed to be waiting for him, members of the various networks were on the forces. Donn was arrested. He was, of course, anxious that the Portland charges would be brought against him. Of course they never were which Donn attributed to good luck. Donn was held overnight and released the next afternoon with the advice that he'd better move on; he'd better keep going.
Thus Donn's psyche was further impaired as he became familiar with jail cells and the rough jail crowd. He began to wonder what he had done to deserve such cruel treatment. By so doing he made a wrong turn. He should rather have asked who is doing this and why. It should have been obvious to him that he actually was recognized and that someone was stalking him. Instead he took the blame on himself. The notion began to flicker through his mind that perhaps he actually had wronged Maggie by not admitting him on that night.
While his mind toyed with the notion his former life became distant and unrecognizable to him but the memory of which he cherished. As he wandered hungry and friendless he remembered the lesson that Sandy Tyler had taught him. He began scrounging the dumpsters for discarded food. As this was a necessity he didn't consciously take it seriously but subliminally his whole being revolted at the practice.
Thus one night in Waterloo he was scrounging a Kroger dumpster when an extraordinary thing happened. As he leant over into the dumpster to seize some half rotten bananas it seemed as though his cherished old existence, the real Disco Donn Contrales, slid over his back, down his arms off into the garbage. Donn was astonished, realized he was losing his former self and lunged after it as it disappeared into the bottom of the dumptser.
He upended himself, his torso in the dumpster half immersed in the garbage while his feet threshed the air. The door beside the dumpster opened to reveal the grocery manager.
'Hey, what you doing there?' The manager yelled, laughingly attempting to stuff Donn further into the dumpster.
Donn was horrified to be caught scrounging in the dumpster. Claxons went off in his mind at the humiliation. He kicked free scrambling from the dumpster, lettuce and produce spilling off him, his hands clutching the squashed bananas oozing through his fingers.
As he ran it seemed as though his body crusted and cracked apart leaving a smaller replica of Donn running through the night. Then it happened again and yet once more. Thus when Donn stopped running two or three miles down the road while his stature was the same as before, psychologically Donn was a much smaller man. He felt only two feet tall while remaining five-eight. The effect was invisible to all but the discerning eye.
There Donn stood amidst the faint smell of decaying vegetable matter, bits of garbage clinging to his hair and clothes, his hand oozing banana slime. Humiliation and shame engulfed his being. His shame would not allow him to use a service station toilet to clean up; he might have to ask for the key. He cleaned his hands as best he could on some leaves. Then he set out to find some stream in which to clean up.
He was so ashamed, so in shock, that he would no longer walk the highways for fear that someone might offer to pick him up. Instead he sought the railway tracks. Following them he came to a trestle over a small creek. He scrambled down the embankment in hopes of washing the corruption from him.
As chance would have it this was the spot chosen by the Mankato Kid for his resting place for the evening. Just as Donn was about to begin his ablutions a snarling voice cursed at him.
'Hey, son-of-a-bitch, what do you think you're doing using my creek. Get the hell out of my face. This my place, my place. Get out!'
Donn turned toward the voice to see a spectral form lurking on the far side of a small fire. The image matched the voice. The form was turned sideways, stooped, its head tossed and bowed like a beaten cur who still had the spirit of resistance in him but had been cruelly taught the futility of expressing it.
Donn was still in the thrall of his experience at the dumpster. His mind was paralyzed. He had not yet begun his rebound from the experience of having lost his former self and feeling so small, perhaps two feet high. He knew that this was no man to intimidate him yet his confidence was gone. Nevertheless he answered bravely, if shakily: 'This is a free country, buddy, I've got just as much right to be here as you.'
'Free country? Free country is it?' the Kid roared, or attempted to roar in his snarling defensive manner. 'Well, you're full of shit, Jack. Free country is it? I'll tellyou how free it is. No freer than Nazi Germany. No freer than Communist Russia. We're just niggers working on the Man's plantation here. If you're not born to it they won't let you have it. Take your 'free' country and shove it up your ass.
The only difference between the Nazis and the Commies and us is the style. We just do it different. Here they make you think you're free but it's all on credit from the company store. You're free to work for the company so you can make money for them. Then you have to give all your earnings back to the company store to pay off your credit. Then without money you go into debt with more credit from the company store. That song sure was right: You load sixteen tons and what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt.
If you're man enough to protest they kill you. They shot down the hardrock boys of the WFM (Western Federation of Miners) in Colorado just because they didn't want to be in debt to the company store. Shot 'em down. Open warfare. Never was nothing like in Germany or Russia. Then just because the Wobblies tried to organize the Stiffs they got really mean. Drove us out of our houses at Holly Grove then turned machine guns on us while we slept in our tents. Burned our wives and children live at Ludlow. And laughed about it, the dirty bastards. Dumped hundreds of miners out in the desert without water at Bigby (Bisbee, Arizona) and told 'em to keep movin' on, the heartless bastards. All because we wanted a living wage. Free country! Look at what happened to me…
As though reminding himself of what they had done to him the Mankato Kid appeared to see a vision. Anger flooded his heart obscuring his vision. He began punching the air in a violent shadow boxing match. His snarling roar boomed and bleated out: Leave me alone you bastards. Get out of here, go on, get out of here.'
Even if Donn had been himself there would have been no reason to stay but diminished as he felt, reacting to the horrors of the past several weeks more than through fear of the Kid Donn turned and fled. He skipped over the shallow creek on the stepping stones placed there by the bums, or homeless as they are now known.
The Mankato Kid punched away at the air for a few moments before his crazed mind resettled allowing him to sit. There he continued to grumble his compaints into the fire. Unlike so many bums who had never had the stature to make a serious attempt at life the Kid had been seriously wronged.
He actually came from Mankato which is in Minnesota. He was now in his fifties. He had been driven out of Mankato just as he was turning thirty. He had spent all those years circling Mankato, the city of his dreams. He never went further and he never came closer. he never got saner and he never got crazier. He was just shadow boxing his life away.
His parents had been Polish immigrants who had drifted out to Mankato. His father had been a square little man of five-five. His mother had been a big buxom, very good looking woman with peasant manners. They had given birth to the Kid and an older child, a daughter, Mary. As Poles they differed in religion, speech and manners from the Swedish population. In those days Northern immigrants considered the Eastern and Southern European immigrants as Untermenschen. No, that's not too strong. the attitude was quite similar to the Nazi attitude toward non-Germans. Immigrants were reviled, beaten and chased from pillar to post. They were subject to massive displays of contempt.
When the Kid was twelve his father was bullied into a fight in a bar and killed. Murdered might not be too strong a word although technically he was given the opportunity to defend himself in a fight. Still, he was impeded by the jeering circle of spectators while his Anglo adversary was assisted. His death was termed accidental. No one ever stood trial. Nor was the knife wound in his kidney ever explained or even acknowledged. He was just Polack dirt.
Ballard Quincy, one of the big men in town, sought to solace the Kid's mother in her distress. She advanced on Quincy with a frying pan, able only to deliver a glancing blow off his retreating shoulder.
Ballard Quincy did not take rejection kindly. Like many of his kind rather than attack her he sought revenge on her children. They became the targets of 'polite' society. Mary who was more attractive even than her mother was easily seduced by the boys from the right side of the tracks. She became the school whore.
Efforts were made to train the Kid to think ill of himself. He was offered a dollar a customer to steer them into a house of which Quincy had a rake off in the red light district of Mankato. There he was allowed shots of whiskey. He, as a boy of character, quickly perceived that he had been misled. he abondoned the 'job' with a fit of indignation.
The damage had been done. He had been associated with that 'element.' He had defamed himself. He fought gallantly to remove the taint, but the best families led by Quincy had irrevocable set their faces against him. He was denied and interfered with all through high school, which he completed. His sister's reputation was constantly thrown in his face.
But he believed in the myth of America, of Horation Alger, of luck and pluck. He had been taught that life was what you made it and if you didn't make it you had no one to blame but yourself, if things didn't go your way it was your own fault. So he kept his chin up, braved the ridicule heaped on him and kept hoping for the main chance such as it was in Mankato. And then it happened. In the post-war years TV came onto the scene. As with any new item business peopled looked at it, decided it wouldn't last and left the field open to outsiders.
As Henry Kaiser's cement trucks rolling down the East Bay proudly proclaimed: Find a need and fill it. The Kid saw the need and rushed to fill it. He opened a TV sales and repair shop. He did well. He could see his rise in society. He proceeded to develop an open and generous character. But at the first glimmer of prosperity the better people sprang into action against him. He was slandered, sabotaged and not allowed to prosper. He fought on. Driven out of TV he tried a couple other lines but he was boycotted. No one in that small town would buy from him. Driven half mad by the abuse and injustice he had experienced he took to the road which is where Donn encountered him.
Donn had scrambled up the bank fleeing across country. In his terror he crashed through the brush and across fields. Then tearing wildly through a wood his foot slipped. He tumbled over falling down a slope into a sort of pit or sinkhole. He slid and tumbled down about twenty feet coming to an abrupt stop.
'Well, good evening.' Said a mellow voice. 'Nice of you to drop in.'
In his agitated state of mind the sudden fall into the hole, or rather, head of a ravine, he was completely disoriented. He stumbled about dizzily for some several moments attempting to determine up from down. Finally getting his behind on the ground his eyes peered out in the sky above the narrow rim of the ravine. As he accommodated his senses to his situation all across the universe the stars roared and popped. Had one been able to hear and see the incredible noise and heat of the incandescent firestorms sweeping their surfaces one would have been astounded. As the huge balls of fire hurled incandescent streamers far out into space to be retracted by their gravity with a report sharper than the sharpest report of a whip magnified thousands of times. The released light went spreading through the black oblivion on an endless chase through space. Losing its heat through the eons of space travel, the light from far distant stars now seemed to twinkle merrily as the laughing stars played with Magic Sam's laughing dice.
The light sped past the bright marigold of the full moon reflecting the light of this system's solar furnace past the man made debris circling the earth, down past the great mainliners escorting smiling people across the skies eight miles high. The light passed the light planes and birds to penetrate dimly into the hole that Donn and the Roving Gambler were in.
'Allow me to introduce myself,' the voice said with exquisite manners and a BBC English accent, 'I am the Roving Gambler, at your service.'
Donn, still dazed, grunted something that could be taken for a greeting.
'And you are Donn Contrales.' The Gambler continued laughingly.
Donn gave a start at the novelty of being recognized by a man he had never seen in a hole he'd never been in before. Involuntarily he began to rise to flee.
'Oh, no no. No! My goodness. Sit down Donn and let me explain. You are talking to, or rather, listening to a very extraordinary man. You are surprised that I recognize you, yet your picture appeared daily in the Oregon Assassin. I spend much time in libraries pursuing my various studies. While there I leaf through the papers of the whole country plus foreign nations. I have a very good memory for names and faces plus I have fabulous, I might say, total recall. I recognized you immediately even before you ceased that infernal tumbling.'
Donn, mouth open, tongue out stared at the Gambler stupidly. His mind was only beginning to stop swirling. What he saw was the slender (imperially slim, as the Gambler would say) tall figure of a man lounging against a rock before a small fire reading, or at least holding, a newspaper in front of him. He was dressed in cream colored pants, cream colored buccaneer cut shirt with a red and blue paisley ascot. His long rectangular face was surmounted by a wavy shock of blond hair which fell to his shoulders. His high expanse of forehead would have excited envy in those who take such things as indication of nobility. A blond mustache was placed between his fine aquiline nose and lips neither too thin, too thick, too wide or too narrow. In short the Roving Gambler was a strikingly handsome man. As he put it he was one of nature's noblemen, too good for this world.
The Gambler's vanity was the source of his discomfort with the world. He came from Virginia where his ancestry could be traced back to the Cavaliers of 1660 in an unbroken line on both father's and mother's sides. He had been an outstanding student at the University of Virginia. Thus one might say he had had everything propitious for a great start in life- looks, family, training. Unfortunately for the Gambler he thought because of these assets that he was entitled to a place at the top. Refused the job of bank or corporate presidency fresh out of school he was indignant that if would be required of him to work his way up, albeit from a reasonably good starting point. Consequently, rather than be a 'peon' he took to the road immediately after graduation where he had been ever since. He was now fifty-three.
The Gambler was extremely vainglorious and boastful. He delighted in the incongruous. The creation of the juxtaposition of extremes was his joy.
'Here my boy, would you like a taste of my champagne?' He said, handing Donn the bottle. 'Some pate, perhaps? and some caviar?' He flipped Donn a can of tinned pate, then handed him a 'biscuit' covered in caviar. Donn who was quite hungry wolfed everything down.
'Oh, ha ha, you thought perhaps I was an ordinary bum. No, no, no. Au contraire, mon petit. I am quite an extraordinary bum. You will never see my like again. Once in a million years, my boy, once in a million years. I greet you by name, hmm?
Yes, I solved the riddle of life long ago. You may think you're talking to a penniless bum. Well, you're not. I happen to be a very pennied bum. I have thousands- modestly forbids I meantion how many thousands- of dollars in dozens of banks throughout the country. I have a portfolio of stocks and bonds that would excite the envy of many a speculator.
Ah, you stare in disbelief. Well, I'm used to it. All of these bindlestiffs think the same. They have no imagination, no skills, no art. I am gifted. When out of Virginia they refused my due I knew I would be as rich as they and much more free, unbeholden to anyone, as it were, as it is.
My solution was just to demand they give me the money, and so they did. I merely approach and say: Give me money. And they do. I'm extraordinarily successful. You may be sure it's true when I tell you that in one three day stretch in Chicago I once took in over two thousand dollars. Two thousand, ninety-eight dollars to be exact, forget the small change. I put it all in the bank, of course. One hundred to three hundred dollars a day is normal to me.
I studied the career of Death Valley Scotty and discovered his secret. Hmm? Oh, Scotty was a legend in LA between the wars. He was absent for long stretches then would show up to buy everyone drinks and distribute his largesse. He said he had a secret gold mine in Death Valley that he worked for a stretch then brought his diggings to town. He didn't worry about money because he said he could always dig up some more.
They tried to follow him to his mine but he always gave them the slip. I reasoned therefore that there was no mine but that Scotty was either a thief or a master panhandler. Rather than being absent in Death Valley, I reasoned, he was off panhandling in some distant city. Probably shaved his beard so no one would recognize him.
Well, between Scotty and The Man With The Twisted Lip I put my act together. I, however, have no interest in distributing largesse. I am not only handsome, as you can see, but I have a genius IQ. When the weather gets cold I haunt all the finest libraries in America. The Houghton, Universities of Michigan and Illinois, Stanford, U.C., Berkeley, occasionally down to Santa Cruz because I like the weather, I don't want to bore you with a list, suffice it to say that I have pursued my studies in the finest institutions, North, East, South and West.
As you can see I am quite distinguished looking. I have suits of clothes in several cities. With my appearance I can get in…' While everything the Gambler said was true he perceived a look of bored disbelief on Donn's face. Actually Donn was still half stunned. the Gambler's words were just washing over him but the drone of his voice was comforting to him. '…anywhere without any difficulty.
I have written the tentative results of my studies down. I have hidden them in unfrequented nooks and crannies. Thus it may be said that my work is in all the best libraries.'
The Gambler was quite serious. He had an inexhaustible line of chatter. He could go on for hours at a stretch whenever he had a chance. But he liked full attention. He now chose a different topic. As Donn was a music reviewer he chose a topic that wowed the homeless in the jungles but was ill suited for the more discriminating intelligence of Donn.
Donn had finished his tin of pate which he flipped into the fire. The Gambler tossed him another.
'Elvis is not dead, you know.'
Donn burped.
'I had a long conversation with him myself. I can't tell you where he lives because he obviously wishes to remain incognito. But we had a long chat. He said the pressure was just too great for him. He had to excape. He told me some interesting details you won't hear anywhere else, Donn. Of course in the beginning he was only interested in getting girls. But then when he began to get famous he enjoyed that. When the money began to really flow in he was ecstatic. But his success was too far beyond his ability to cope, perhaps anyone's. He became the first great postwar folk hero. Something like the movie stars of the first decade of the talkies. Genuine stars, not hyped into prominence. But, you see, he hadn't been vetted. He didn't perform in a manner acceptable to the arbiters of culture. He was raw. He dressed atrociously by their standards. He was, in fact, no better than a White nigger.
As such he wasn't supposed to have money. But he got quite a lot, actually. More than most of them. As a cultural icon he stood far above the actual power brokers of the world both straight and criminal. They couldn't stand that. They tried to to kill his career by putting him in the Army. Regardless of their denials it was a political move. The resulting publicity campaign by RCA in order to preserve its investment against their machinations made him Elvis Presley, the singer, into the pop icon, Elvis. We'll probably never know exactly how Colonel Parker fit in there, Elvis doesn't. He became not only bigger than life but bigger than fantasy.
He said he was in constant fear of his life. He couldn't go anywhere, certainly not without bodyguards. He became it was as though, he told me, that he was under house arrest. The fruits of his talent and success turned to ashes in his mouth.'
The Gambler, who had been speaking from behind his paper now lowered it for a dramatic effect as he came to his most thrilling revelation of what 'Elvis said.' Donn, at about this time began to regain his mental composure so that he actually heard what the Gambler was saying.
'But this wasn't enough for them, Elvis told me. They wanted more. They wanted to humiliate him completely, to emasculate him, to render him sterile, neutered. What did they do? They offered him, or at least Colonel Parker, large sums to perform in Las Vegas. On their home turf they could get away with anything.
Up to that time Elvis had been disciplined and under self-control. He was relatively blithe, youthful and slim. After that his personality disintegrated.
He told me that he was invited to the master suite. As he was Elvis, commanding a large sum to make them even larger sums, he assumed that they only wanted to meet him. That was fine with him. As a boy from humble origins he was proud to meet them as equals, nay, even as a superior.
He said that when he entered he was greeted by the cold derogatory stares of five angry men. Three were big time criminals, one was a famous show biz personality, singer, and one was a very well known conservative politician. I can't tell you his name because if word got out my life wouldn't be worth a blind man's view of Mt. Rushmore.
Elvis was taken aback immediately when the toughest customer behind his dark sunglasses greeted him with a venomous: Hello. Big Shot.
Well, as Elvis said, he was quite taken back by the hostile reception. As he looked from face to face the expressions were hard, harder and hardest. Now, Elvis came from the humblest circumstances. Having been denied power as a youth he sought to conquer by love rather than force. He thought since he, as he expressed it, was going to make these men lots and lots of money they would value him accordingly. He was shocked to find that they viewed themselves as masters and himself as a plantation slave; someone to toil for them and be abused.
"So you think you're really something, hey?" The criminal continued. "Well, I got news for you, sonny boy. You ain't nothin' to us. There's dozens more where you came from. We can manufacture a dozen a day. There's dozens more where you came from. There'll be dozens more after you're gone. You're the dogshit I scrape from my shoes. What have you ever done but shake your pelvis? Nothin'. You ain't never built a magnificent club like this. You never had to meet a payroll in your life. You never had to knife or be knifed. You're nothin' but a puke assed kid in diapers. We give you money you couldn't earn any other way. We earn it. We did the work. Without this club you wouldn't have anyplace to shake your ass. We, all of us, are men who fought and clawed to get where we are. You're a pansy. All you've ever done is get up on stage show 'em your blue suede shoes and shake your skinny ass. Elvis the Pelvis! Is that any name for a man to be known by? Hell, no. You ain't nothin' but a hound dog. Well boy, we're goin' to separate the boys from the girls right here and now."
At this point in his story Elvis began to choke and sob as the horrible memory overwhelmed him but he felt compelled to tell me the story. He needed to relieve himself to someone. I felt honored to be the one.
He said that they all unzipped and flipped their dick out. He was told to get down on his knees and suck each one off in series.
He was indignant. He told them to kiss off. But they all produced weapons, waving them under his nose. The criminal said: "Don't think you're so big that we can't off you and get away with it. Bigger fish than you have been thrown into Ma Bates' pond. All that'll happen is we'll claim some deranged fan waited in your room and shot you. We got guys who are dying to be famous. The man who shot Elvis Presley! They'll take credit. Then what? We dose some crazy broad with drugs give her a gun and make it easy for her to kill your killer. We clap her in solitary confinement for the remaining months of her life. She dies. The secret goes to the grave with her. Now you know how it's done pussy boy.'
At this point Elvis said the guy actually shoved the barrel of his gun in his mouth.
"On your knees pussy boy, and let's see some action."
Well…Elvis said the criminal actually worked the barrel back and forth in his mouth a couple times cocking the hammer as he did so.
Elvis was shaking uncontrollably as he told me this. He couldn't articulate the next bit by by signs and simulations he indicated that he sank to his knees and did them all. He had to go on just a few hours later. You can imagine his mental condition. The set was actually taped by the vicious bastards. They show it on TV every now and again. About halfway through Elvis can't deal with it. He leans forward half kneeling in that stance of his and simulates fellation on the microphone saying: Suckee, suckee. Then he shrugs his shoulders as if to say: No big thing. Later in the show he rushes from the stage into the audience seeking affirmation. Then at the cameras filming as he leaves backstage he flips a thumbs up sign as if to say: Fuck You.
But the thing took its toll. Up to then Elvis had been thin and under self-control. Now he started to gain weight. He started doing bizarre things like shooting out TV screens in his room when he played Vegas. His costume became more outre as he sought to recover his manhood. He started wearing that stupid little Captain Marvel cape. His whole outfit became patterned after that of Captain Marvel.
To spite them and reaffirm himself he tried to be bigger than even the fantasy giant he was. He did the spectacular satellite Live from Hawaii beamed simultaneously all over the world. Now that was bigger even than Las Vegas. It showed them how big he was and how small time they were.
But, it wasn't enough. His ego, always fragile because of his cracker origins, was crushed. He just couldn't go on. He staged his death on the shitter because they had turned his life to shit. Then he just disappeared to where I met him. No, don't ask. I'm honor bound not to tell.
I will say this though. Elvis never had any idea of what he got himself into when he got into show biz. Of course, how could he know that he would come to represent the transition from the prewar immigrant culture to the post -war more or less synthetic culture, the union not only of the European nationalities but also the Negro culture.
As a symbol of the synthesis the Anglo rear guard would hold him responsible for the change. A race traitor if you will. Then again he represented the the democratic upwelling of the under classes as a result of the post-war prosperity. He didn't adopt the cultural norms of the overclass. Not because he rejected them as they thought but just because he didn't know any better.
And the, and this is most important, the phenomenal reverence and awe paid him was so far in excess of their own masculinity and manhood that they felt Elvis had emasculated them. Chirst, their wives were throwing their panties at him. They felt diminished so that in order to reassert their manhood they had to diminish Elvis below themselves.
Now, Man is homosexual by nature. He must either be a man and dominate or be a girl and be dominated. Hence the innate viciousness of the male. Obviously he who dominates every other male is King. Elvis was styled the King hence it was incumbent on him to dominate every other male. But, until his own emasculation at the hands of those jerks he was just a big friendly goof. He learned too late, but he did learn. Watch how he treats the musicians in the Live from Hawaii special. You'll see it.'
End of clip II-3. Go to continuation at clip II-4.
Posted in Acid, Allen Ginsberg, Baghdad By The Bay, Bay Area, Beatniks, Beats, Cain and Abel, Chinatown, Dharma Bums, fiction, Folk Music, Freud, Haight Ashbury, Hippies, Jack Kerrouac, Kingston Trio, Leadbelly, LSD, Messiah, Messianism, North Beach, Sabbatai Zevi, Salt Lake City, San Francisco, San Francisco Sound, Sixties, The Matrix, Tim Leary, Uncategorized, W.B Yeats, William S. Burroughs
You take your life in your hands when out there in the great beyond on the highway. It's a place beyond the reach of the law. Lawless people drive the highways looking for excitement and adventure. Lawless people put their thumbs out for the same reason. The driver never knows who's getting in the car; the hitchhiker never knows who's driving.
Al, who had introduced himself, looked all right but that could change pretty quickly. Hitchhikers disappear all the time. Donn, hesitated, reluctant to put his fate in the old man's hands.
'It's all right, son. You've got nothing to worry about. I'm not queer.'
'Sure.' D0nn said with an ironic smile, accepting both out of trust and weariness. 'I'd be grateful.'
They wheeled into Richland crossing the great Columbia River then down to Pasco and across the snake at the confluence of the two rivers, then east toward Eureka in the orchards and farmlands.
'You know, son, religion can be a cover for real moral anarchy. A lot of people forget that morality is the whole reason for religion not politics. If you can't do a kindness for your fellow man then your religion don't mean a thing. Love is the law and I don't mean mere sex. It's a simple answer, it's a trite answer, it's an ignored and overlooked answer. The answer runs at cross purposes to most men's inclination. It's an answer that has to be told over and over from generation to generation. It's an answer that should be in every book ever written. If you ever write a book promise me you'll put it in yours, Donn.'
'Sure. If I ever write a book, I will.' Donn glibly answered. What else could he do. What an odd request.
'Love,' the old boy went on, somewhat tediously, 'By love I mean charity. Not alms giving, but goodwill toward your neighbor. Charity in the old fashioned sense of the word. It is true what Jesus said: A man must have faith, hope and charity. The greatest of these is charity. For if a man hath not charity his voice will be as the sounding brass. It's true. Without kindness your words merely rasp and buzz. No one will listen to you. So, love your neighbor, son.'
'I've done that before.' Donn said with a smirk, turning to look out the window.
By now Donn was hoping the lecture was over. He saw the validity of the lecture but he could find no application in his past, present or future. He smiled at the old geezer and shook his head. At least this guy was better than Zadok and Amirah.
Al pulled off the highway a couple miles past Eureka to drive about five miles toward the Snake. There was the neatest, prettiest little farmstead Donn had ever seen. The square, frame house stood on a little rise surrounded by small trees and bushes. The house reflected the kind gentility of Al Martin. As within, so without.
Within the hour Donn had washed, shaved and was between clean sheets drifting off into oblivion.
Donn was too exhausted to sleep soundly, He woke two or three times during the night, his mind too numbed to rouse himself from bed, his thoughts too crowded to separate into strands he could analyze. Morning found him seated at the breakfast table dazed, listless and despondent.
Al Martin studied him intently from across the kichen. He said: 'You know Donn, keeping this place up isn't easy for a man my age. I got a whole bunch of chores needs doin'. If you help me out you can stay for a week or so till everything gets done. Can't offer you more than room and board, but…'
Donn shook his head yes: 'Yeah, Al, that would be great. I can do that. What needs to be done?'
Donn pitched in with good will. Over the week he worked on his problems while he worked, rather than whistled, for Al. As he had his last breakfast with Al the worst of the numbness was gone. He had toughened a little but the future still dismayed him casting a dark pall over his mind. He had identified Maggie as the culprit. A growing powerless hatred began to envelope him.
Al drove him back to the highway, thanked him and dropped him off as the morning heat began to build.
Al Martin had been a solitary ray of sunshine piercing through the great black storm clouds over Donn. The respite Al had given Donn served him well; his nerves were strengthened and he had time to make some necessary adjustments to his psyche from his fall from grace. Grimmer events were now to occur. The hammer blows of his destiny would not allow him to rise but his descent to beyond the depths of despair would be slower.
Donn had been out there for a couple hours. The morning sun had turned to an afternoon bake, god almighty hot. Blistering. The blacktop wasn't bubbling but it looked like it was about to boil any minute. The stuff actually moved beneath Donn's heel. Donn still wearing his Disco clothes was drenched.
'Hey, Cowboy, need a ride?'
It wasn't a beautiful woman in a Cadillac, it was four Mexican braceros in a beatup old '61 Chevy. The question had a sinister tone to it.
'I'm looking for a ride to St. Louis.' Donn said ludicrously, declining the ride.
His response was met by raucous laughter.
'Hey, there aint' no St. Louis around here, man.'
One of the men, they were all eighteen to twenty-three, got out of the back and motioned Donn to sit in the middle. In the middle surrounded on both sides and vulnerable from the front. Not a good hitchhiking situation.
'No, man, no. Thanks, but I mean St. Louis, Missouri.' In hitchhiking terms this was a virtual insult.
'Hey, you muchachos hear of this place, St. Louis, Missouri?'
The query was answered by a chorus of noes and 'there ain't no such place as St. Louis, Missouri, man. There ain't no such place as Missouri.' More raucus laughter.
'Get in, man. We give you ride.' The guy holding the door open smiled, the other three doors cracked open as if the occupants were going to get out.
Donn got in. This was not the worst thing he could have done. Had he not they might have made short work of him with tire irons, knives and whatnot, conversely he might have outsprinted them across the burning desert. When you're way out there without hope or friends in alien territory you just naturally have to make difficult decisions. Donn's hope was not unjustified. Nor did he behave abjectly to deal with this difficulty.
Once in the car the Mexicans became verbally abusive of him. They called him blondie, ridiculed his mustache and insulted his sexual prowess.
Then the passenger in the front seat, Juan Perez, who was somewhat vain of his pysique flexed his biceps saying: 'Hey, man. See that arm? I can knock you out with one punch, man.'
As Juan said so, the driver, Pedro Martinez, swang onto a dirt road leading into the hills. Donn felt a chill in the un-air-conditioned car but didn't flinch. He'd gotten his opening.
'Yeah, man? Maybe, but you'd never get to land a punch. I was scientific (he threw the word in for effect) boxing champion at SMU.'
'SMU? What's that?' Juan said, overawed by something he didn't know.
'Scientific Mangling University. You want to go a round or two with me, stop and car and I'll show you some real science.'
Juan was frightened by unfamiliar terms like science and SMU and became apprehensive. He didn't want to go a couple rounds but he wanted Donn to show him some of his moves.
The driver pulled over; they all got out. Donn and Juan squared away. As Donn had predicted Juan couldn't come close to landing a punch. The Mexicans were duly impressed. After Donn had shown them a few moves Juan said: 'Hey man, for a gringo you're alright. Then they piled back into the Chevy amidst more raucus laughter leaving Donn standing among the heatwaves in the field.
In that heat it was an hour and a half walk back to the highway. Donn caught a number of short rides. As the sun was setting he was dropped off just past Tucannon a couple miles from Fort Kwakiutl. He decided to walk into town. Fort Kwakiutl was a small town, barely on the map, but it did host a Starlight Motel, a restaurant, a bar and a couple gas stations. Spoiled by his stay at Al Martin's Donn decided to stay at the Starlight.
He checked in, cleaned up and went to the restaurant to eat. He was relatively relaxed and hungry. He had a lot of money so he ate heartily. Ed Quigley sat at the bar watching him. 'That hobo's got some money.' Ed thought darkly. 'I bet nobody knows where he's at or why.'
Quigly was a big beefy man. Though much out of shape, big paunchy belly, he thought he could handle a little guy like Donn. He moseyed over inviting himself to Donn's table. He plunked his beer down on the table.
'Howdy, podna.'
'Uh, howdy.'
'Saw ya walkin' inta town. You a 'knight of the road.'
Donn laughed amiably. 'Let's just say I'm passing through.'
'Oh yeah? Must be hitchhiking?'
'Yes, I am.' Donn replied.
'Say, listen, buddy, I gotta proposition for ya. I'm goin' inta Boise tomorrow. If you got twenty for gas I'll take ya along.'
Donn thought a minute. He was weary of the road. He'd been at it for a couple weeks and he still wasn't out of the state of Washington. By now he felt a little more confident. He was anxious now to get to St. Louis. He didn't dare say he was broke because Quigly could see the remains of his dinner.
'I've blown just about everything I have here tonight. Bummed it along the way. It's a good chance though. Could you take ten? He didn't want to give the idea that he could afford more. A few more miles down the road of life and Donn would understand how transparent he had been.
Quigly looked at him, seemed doubtful, then said: 'Yeah, sure, OK. Ten's better than nothin'.'
'It's a deal.' Donn smiled.
'One thing,' Quigly said. 'I'm leaving early, four in the morning.'
'OK.' From Donn. 'Where are you going to be?'
'There's a big oak tree two miles outta town. It's the only tree that size out there. Can't miss it. Meet me there. In any case I'll drive slow so I won't miss you.'
Donn was up trudging through the night to his four o' clock rendezvous. Quigly was waiting for him.
Injuring our fellow man is quite akin to sexual intercourse. You work yourself up in pretty much the same way. As they sped up Hwy. 12 through Delancy Donn had intuited from Ed's rutting manner what was up. There was no surprise when Quigly swung into a side road moving between two hills by an arroyo.
Ed left the motor running. 'Alright, Cowboy, now I know ya got money. Ya don't eat like that and stay at the Starlight if ya don't. Ya can give it to me peacefully or I can beat it out of ya. It's up to you; it's your choice, you call it, what's it gonna be?'
Donn opened his door and jumped out.
Still leaving the engine of his beater running Quigly got out huffily, 'Alright, son-of-a-bitch, if that's the way you want it.'
Quigley's confidence caused him to over expend his energies too quickly. Donn played him like a trout on a line util Quigly, breathless, held up a hand for Donn to wait while he caught his breath. Donn had a different role for himself than in Quigly's fantasy. He moved in giving Quigly everything he had. Quigly unprepared for the response, caught between gasps, rolled onto the ground.
As he did something snapped in Donn. He wanted vengeance for everything; his rape, football, boxing, Maggie's treatment, everything. As Quigly fell Donn leaped on him picking up a big rock and bringing it down repeatedly on Quigly's head until the corpse was nearly headless.
As Donn came to himself there was no remorse. He was both sickened and relieved. He was no killer but the release had been very satisfying. In any case he had no cause for self-recrimination as he had killed Quigly in self-defense. His conscience was clear, but as a drifter, the preponderance of proof was his, he didn't have any.
Acting quickly he dragged Quigly's nearly headless body over to the arroyo and threw it in. Fate was on his side as the body rolled under a ledge and wedged in out of sight. Quigley's precaution of leaving early lest he be seen with Donn worked to Donn's advantage. No one had seen them.
Quigly's old beater was still running. Donn got in behind the wheel, turned the old buggy around and got out on the highway to Boise and beyond to Salt Lake City.
Mentally Donn tried to sweep the killing of Quigly into the dust bin of his memory as he had his reprehensible sexual relations that he detested.
He wanted to believe that he had only witnessed the killing but his conciousness rejected the falsehood. Forced to deal with reality he came to the right conclusion- he had killed in self-defence. Quigly's unlucky day. But justly or not he knew that as a drifter and with the suit back in Portland and assigned to a public defender he was lost.
It then dawned on him also that in the eyes of the law he was driving a stolen car. And what a car! The big beast was a favorite of urban desperadoes; a huge old carcass of a '63 Olds. The immense rusty hood stretched out before him to eternity. The vinyl top was ragged and torn. The giant trunk lid was held down by a wire. The worn tires made 100% constact with the road; the tread was gone. Quigly was no mechanic. The engine roared around faint rattles coming from diverse places.
The interior was trashed, the glove compartment hanging open; seats and roof lining torn, butts all over the floor and even on the seats. Quigly had customized it to reflect his inner malaise. As within, so without. Gradually Donn realized what he was driving. These were no cosmic wheels; this was no astral vehicle.
The realization drove all other thoughts from his mind. His brow knitted; he put the first two fingers of his right hand to his lips and gazed about in dismay. He sat back and tried to look cool. Revulsion overcame him. He realizied how low he had sunk.
'There must be some way out of here.' He thought.
He made Boise the next morning. Disgusted with himself and his situation; embarrassed now by the Disco Donn facet of his personality he bought a levi jacket, jeans and a couple sweaters to adapt to his new situation. Tennis shoes for walking. In fact Donn shed all the facets of his multi-faceted personality but one. His multi-facets could only be supported by prosperity. He reverted back to the Texas gold old boy personality he had when he entered Portland.
Don began to be really apprehensive about driving the big beast but he wanted to make Salt Lake before he aband0ned it. To make matters worse a patch on the radiator gave way about Brigham City. He began to make frequent stops at gas stations to fill up the radiator in hopes of cooling the engine well enough to make Salt Lake City. He steamed through Odgen and into the suburbs of Salt Lake as a blistering heat wave through the fire wall roasted his feet and legs.
He wheeled into a side street.
Guilty Of the Shame
We know there's a dark side
To the moon that we see;
But what's a little darkness
To the likes of you and me.
-Jesse Winchester
Donn stepped out of the steaming heap looking at it in vengeful disgust to turn his steps back to the highway. As he did a pair of blue eyes watched him approach. The eyes, all the luster having departed, belonged to Sandy Tyler. Sandy, now well into her thirties, was a refugee from the dolorous broken dreams of the sixties. Trapped in a state of arrested adolescence, her mind inundated by drugs, she was arrayed in the symbols of the mock poverty of the late sixties.
She had once been a very beautiful young woman. While she sought desperately to retain the vestiges of that beauty against the ravages of drugs and despair only mere glimmers of her former freshness remained. Superb bone structure prevented her face from dissolving into sheer ugliness. Beneath her T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of some indiotic post-1975 heavy metal band her once firm high breasts sagged braless down to her belt loops. Her jeans had the obligatory tears across each knee. There was a tear beneath each cheek of her derriere which exposed white skin no longer firm or translucent. Her jeans were tucked into brown suede boots, calf high, turned down. A certain pride of former glory still clung to her presence.
One might well blame Sandy for a wasted life but the shame was not hers; it belonged to American society. She had been dragged down completely innocent and against her will with no menfolks to defend her degradation. In circumstances which you in your comfort would dismiss with a comment like: Oh well, life's not fair.
Sandy had come from Cincinatti, Ohio. She had come from well-to-do parents who had raised her to be the model of decorum. She had breeding. She had been blond and pert with a beautiful figure. Psychologically she had been as well balanced as one of twenty can be. Her expectations were those that one would associate with her background.
She had married Bert Tyler who she had met and fallen in love with at the University Of Ohio. Upon graduation Bert had taken a job with Standard of California and moved to San Francisco. This was in 1964 when the subterranean rumbles of massive change could be heard and experienced if not understood. The times were changing at incredible speed as they usually are when you're in the middle of them. Intelligence and precaution were not enough to save you; you had to play dodgeball with the juggernaut and win. Luck was of the greatest importance. Luck was not with Sandy Tyler.
Sandy's husband was something of a rake. Unresolved wildness lived in his soul. He wasn't ready to settle down to middle class respectability. He suggested that he and Sandy take up residence in the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco, that wicked, wicked city of transients. Tourists ooh and aah over Baghdad By The Bay. But beneath the charming exterior of the Bay and cable cars of the City all is sour and corrupt. The spirit of Tom Mooney and Harry Bridges hovers over the City. There is a seething hatred and class envy which negates the charms of the location. All San Francisco is a suberb of Chinatown. It is no accident that Beatniks and Hippies flourished there.
The Sixties seethed and boiled with unremitting vigor. Contrasted to the glitter of the scientific accomplishments of the times, cities decayed into ruin before your eyes. The Maelstrom whirled all around you. One had to learn to navigate its currents to survive. It was wise to avoid the use of drugs in a city of drug proliferation. Heroin was the least of your worries. Only junkies used heroin and they are a class unto themselves. One can look at a junkie and realize immediately that junkieism is a trap to be avoided. Cocaine, which has a long history of societal use beginning with its first pusher, Sigmund Freud, was nowhere prevalent at the time. Cocaine didn't become common until the seventies. Marijuana was not yet everywhere but was indispensable to the Underground. Exotica such as peyote and mescaline and mushrooms were still of a semi-legendary character.
The man made drugs were prevalent. Amphetamines, barbiturates and LSD were everywhere. Stanford University advertised in the papers for 'psychological' subjects. As it turned out the subjects were wanted for drug experimentation. They were given massive doses of LSD. This gave a certain legitimacy to their use. After all, the high priest of acid was a defrocked professor from Harvard, Timothy Leary.
The world of drug use was being popularized and glamorized by the evangel of the generation- the phonograph record. The psyche of the era cannot be understood without a thorough knowledge of the recorded music and comedy of the era, comedy may have been as important as the music. The phonograph record was the single most important factor in the lives of the generation except for, perhaps, the psychologically inert. The generation was raised on records.
To understand the music, which is to say songs, you have to start with the incoherent shouting and strumming of a black blues shouter by the name of Huddie 'Leadbelly' Ledbettor and follow the chain through the various white blues singers until you end at the Kingston Trio. From thence Ledbettor's songs and stylings entered the main stream. Thus the mind of the sixities generation was conditioned by an outsider's slave and prison mentality. Let that Midnight Special shine its ever loving light on me.
At the same time a group of men were setting about to create the 'rucksack revolution.'
Here comes a no-no in American letters. We're going to discuss imigration in a realistic rather than romantic fashion. This group of men who sought to influence and undermine American civilization were, with one exception, the sons of immigrants who were reacting to the inconveniences of being foreign elements integrating into an existing social structure. Jack Kerrouac was a Catholic French Canadian, Allen Ginsberg was a Jew from the Pale, William S. Burroughs was the descendent of the inventor of the calculator who apparently rejected logical thinking in favor of anarchy, Gregory Corso and Lawrence Ferlinghetti were Italians.
An Anglo view of the group can be found in John Clellon Holmes autobiographical novel 'Go.' They all grew to maturity between the wars when the conflict between Anglo-American society and immigrant society was most intense. The Anglo-American demand that the immigrants shed their ethnic beliefs and characters created an intense reaction. Carl Witte epitomized the struggle in his early forties book: We Built America.
As the immigrant population equaled or exceeded that of the Anglo-Americans it was perhaps inevitable that they should triumph. In any event they did. By 1950 all the trappings of Anglo culture were being torn down to be replaced by symbols that either asserted other ethnic origins or pointedly and often violently rejected Anglo symbols.
Where formerly immigrants had been rejected and reviled by the Anglos the immigrants now quickly turned the tables. While the sons and daughters of the Anglos had been brought up to believe in the incredible homogeneity of American society the sons and daughters of the immigrants sought to bring the Anglos down. The humiliation of Sandy Tyler was the result of those feelings.
The Beat writers, as these men have been called, represented the grossest materialism. They were all drunks, perverts and drug addicts. They sought to impose those values on America. The onslaught was led by Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerrouac. Both had done time in the bughouse or insane asylum. Oddly enough the whole group was exposed for what they were long before they became effective by John Clellon Holmes. Holmes' premonitory warning was not understood. Why should anyone worry about a bunch of bums.
Kerrouac glorified the subculture in 'On The Road', 'The Dharma Bums', 'The Subterraneans' and other novels. Ginsberg contributed an insane chant called 'Howl.' Through their success from 1956 to 1959 they were able to get Burroughs' scream of hatred 'Naked Lunch' published. He followed this by the influential 'Soft Machine' and 'Nova Express.'
The Beat writers were well received by the Underground. Evidences of their cultural impact were obvious in San Francisco and the Bay Area in the early sixties. They were not so obvious and understandable to the larger society which had heard little of the Beat writers. As Bob Dylan expressed it: '…there's something happening here but you don't know what it is, do you…?'
Dylan himself, who as a recording artist, was a major influence on the sixties, appears to have drawn so much inspiration for his middle period from Kerrouac and Burroughs that he can be described as a post-Beat writer.
The Beat writers originally tried to oerganize the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco but the Beatniks themselves, who came from an earlier period uninfluenced by Beat writers chose North Beach as their headquarters.
While the Beatniks dominated North Beach the Hippie culture was being formed in the Haight-Ashbury at the same time. This culture found expression in the music of the San Francisco Sound. Marty Balin, no one knows which two swords he carried, and the Jefferson Airplane musical group were establishing the Matrix nightclub while the rock clubs would supplant the jazz clubs of the Beatniks and transfer the focal point of the scene from North Beach back to the Haight-Ashbury.
In addition to the Anglo-Immigrant conflict the old struggle between the Black Folk and the White Folk was assuming new dimensions. The Blacks were demanding social equality- whatever that is. One doesn't want to generalize excessively where the Blacks are concerned because theirs is also a society of many diverging opinions and attitudes, nevertheless in a sizable majority of Blacks 'social equality' involved what is known as 'the Payback.' Blacks feel that they are owed something for the indignities placed on them by White Society. This opinion is shared by a not unsizable group of Whites, so long as some other Whites pay the bill.
Racial memories are not obliterated in a moment, a generation or even several generations. Whites seem to have the inexplicable notion that the memory of unjust deeds can be removed by an apology, or checks drawn on someone else's account. Whites seem to think that things are thereby cured and resentments will disappear. Blacks who have suffered grievous injuries with marvelous equanimity don't believe so.
One of the most humiliating indignities Black women had to endure during the slave era was to be at the beck and call of any White man. Literally, a White male could take any Black woman by the arm and lead her off to minister to his sexual needs at any time. If she were the wife of a Black man there was absolutely nothing he could do about it but endure the shame. So, the Payback involves White women. Black men demand the same privilege with White women that White men had with Black women. Everything in life gets down to a sexual offence.
As there was no social apparatus to suport their hopes and ambitions as their had been for White men, Black men had to enforce their desires surreptitiously.
Thus, of a foggy overcast midday, nearly all days are foggy and overcast in San Francisco, Sandy Tyler was walking down Grant St. in North Beach on the way to the laundromat. She was the epitome of a what a young White woman should be. She was beautiful. All eyes turned. She was innocent. She walked the streets of North Beach as though they were the streets of her upper class neighborhood in Cincinatti.
Among the Beats and degenerates, the Blacks and Italians of this very Italian neighborhood her very Anglo dress and style stood out like Jane in Tarzan's Africa. Deep racial instincts stirred at the sight of her. She had been trained to believe that assimilation in America had been complete. All people were kind. It is still a myth that most adhere to.
Sheldon Washington, a drug dealer and a huge Black man stood talking on the corner before the The Gate Of Wine Coffee House. The Gate was a quintessential Beatnik Coffee House of the era. Despite its name, which came from the Gilgamesh, no liquor was served. Each night local poets, writers, thinkers and simple complainers held forth from the podium to the assembled multitude. Unlike the Hippies, the Beatniks were well educated and much intelligent discourse could be heard at the Gate.
Unfortunately complainers like the said Seldon Washington also inflicted themselves on the audience. Sheldon had bent the ears of the audience for fifty-three minutes twenty-two seconds the night previous complaining about how a Spade Cat couldn't walk down the street with a Honky chick without drawing stares. His argot was so new that half the audience picked up Spade Cat as spayed cat and had no idea what a Honky Chick was. Perhaps a spayed cat and an honky chick should be stared at.
But at this moment that Sandy chose to walk by, the Man was being being waited on by his Honky heroin addict. The addict, thin and unkempt, stood holding his money in his hand eagerly pressing it on Sheldon who was in no hurry to hand him his balloon. In fact he didn't have one on him. the junkie would have to wait a little longer.
Sheldon stood drawing out the wasted junkie's agony when Sandy entered the intersection drawing his attention. Now, Sheldon was one of those Black giants at six-four, two-eighty whose muscalature was concealed beneath the immense smooth expanse of his biceps and chest. If he just raised his arm and let if fall on your back he could knock you down. He was wearing a black Italian undershirt over his dark brown body.
Sheldon was so enchanted that he let out an involuntary long low whistle. A girl of White breeding, Sandy ignored it as she properly should. Breeding was unknown in North Beach where other standards applied. Indignant at what he considered arrogance, Sheldon bellowed: 'Say mama, that was a compliment to your beautiful booty.'
Well, Sandy seldom answered to 'mama', never acknowledged strange men on the street, let alone Black men, and had she known that 'booty' referred to her ass she would have been indignant. But then, that was Cincinatti, this was North Beach. Sandy responded by sticking her nose in the air pointedly ignoring Sheldon.
Washington's attitude changed abruptly. Washington belonged to the Black Brotherhood and associated with the Junkie Brotherhood. In both the individual identity is submerged in the collective identity. One is immediately on familiar terms with every other member of the Brotherhood. There are no interfaces. Thus had Sandy been a Black woman she would have smiled, perhaps shook her booty as a token of appreciation and returned some compliment as to the probable size of Sheldon's 'thing.' That she didn't angered Sheldon. He had a very big voice which he now raised to its loudest putting the threat of direct physical violence into it.
'Say Woman,' he bellowed, 'where you manners? When a brown eyed handsome man compliments a pretty woman that woman better appreciate it or she gonna have big troubles in this man's neighborhood. You dig?'
Sandy stopped dead in her tracks, terrified, as she had every reason to be. At the sound of Sheldon's voice the Junkie had nearly fallen to his knees groveling before the Big Black. Other White boys along the street stared lasciviously at the beautiful girl hoping to get some of whatever Sheldon left. Their eyes silently encouraged her to acquiesce. Alone and small, never before confronted with such brutal customs, the White girl turned to face Sheldon's wrath with wide staring eyes.
'I sayed you got a beautiful ass, mama.' Sheldon bellowed louded than a bass drum.
'T-thank-you.' Sandy stuttered, terrified, embarrassed and not knowing how to respond to retain her dignity as a married woman.
That's better, mama.' Sheldon said attempting to console and command at the same time. 'Now you run along and don't ever pull that haughty shit again, hear?'
The White boys on the street snickered confident that Sheldon, the Spade Cat, would take what he wanted and leave the rest of the Honky Chick to them.
'That's tasty,' each thought, 'I'm really going to enjoy fucking that bitch.'
The promise of America was no promise at all, it was a perverted curse.
A week later Sandy was walking down Grant on the way to the laundry. She didn't know how to preserve her own boogie in The Land Of The Thousand Dances. She walked close to the buildings rather than curbside. The Grant St. Grocery lay on her line of march. The grocery was one of those shallow stores with no back room; rather a section running from front to rear was walled off as a storage room. Some ten feet or so from the store entrance was an unobtrusive door through which deliveries were made.
As Sandy was passing this door a hand shot out grasping her by the throat and pulling her in. Taken completely by surprise she was not consciously aware of anything till she lay gasping and sobbing against the shelves where Sheldon Washington had discarded her.
The scene would haunt her dreams, transformed into symbolism she could not understand, but which would shield her from some of the shame although the terror had hypnotized her into a different person. Sheldon, who was a very big man, wanted to teach the Honky Chick a less in humility. Blue eyes would not secure her immunity; on Grant Street brown eyes ruled. His method was direct action, straight terror; his intellect was of the crudest but no less effective on that account. He had merely grabbed Sandy off the street. Picking her up, she was only 5'3″, 110 pounds, he had shoved his pelvis forward and dropped Sandy on his penis, jiggling her up and down until he climaxed. He had then just thrown her against the shelves where she fell in a heap.
The street which had been empty in anticipation of the deed silently filled as the White boys stepped from doorways, alleys and from behind telephone poles where they had been inconspicuous. Faces came to windows, eyes staring fixedly on the side door of the grocery.
'Now let that be a lesson to you, bitch. When some brown eyed handsome man give you compliments you give him his reward and don't give me none of that cheap assed marriage shit neither. You learn to treat a man right and he'll treat you right.'
After this lecture in ethics Seldon's mind turned to business, for after all a man has to eat, and Sheldon's other business was pimping.
'Say, bitch, you know you got a tight little ass. You should put that cute money maker to work for me. I show you how to live right and tight. You be wearing diamonds and minks; you dump that Honky cat and come with me. I show you how to shake that money maker; you don't be walkin' so stiff assed down the street no mo', walk like a righteous woman.'
Anyone looking for a good time of any kind could always get what they wanted from Sheldon.
Sandy let out a few incoherent howls through clenched lips as she cautiously rose to her feet not sure of what was yet in store for her. Her mute rejection was enough for Sheldon. He turned to the clerk who had been watching through the beaded curtain and gave him a farewell acknowledgment with the shake of a finger. Then proudly puffing out his chest for the street people he stepped out into the dim damp gloom of Grant St. and sauntered away humming 'White Port and Lemon Juice.'
Sandy stumbled out on shaky legs turning back toward Telegraph Court leaning on the wall for support. Although she could not see them, the White boys slipped unobtrusively back into their holes while the faces in the windows slid back into the shadows.
Sandy's life irrelevant of subsequent events was shattered. Her sense of purity and personal integrity was gone to be replaced by a sense of defilement and consuming guilt as though she had been the perpetrator rather than the victim. A knowledgeable psychiatrist might have been able to help her if she had gone immediately, but probably not for she would have been unable even to tell him the sequence of events. She couldn't remember what happened even though she knew what had happened.
Angelo Toretti spoke quietly to Bert Tyler from behind a cracked open door as Tyler walked from the bus stop on Columbus to his apartment.
'You better watch that little filly of yours, man. she's got eyes for that dark meat.'
'What?' Tyler said, turning in the direction of the voice.
'Ask her who Sheldon Washington is.' Toretti said with a low chuckle pushing the door shut.
Tyler was possessed of honky cool. He had no idea of what the threatening words of Toretti meant. He was mildly apprehensive. He gripped his brief case more tightly but he continued on at his normal pace.
He fund Sandy lying on her back, skirt above her waist, with tears streaming down her cheeks.
'What did you do?' He began oblivious to the implied condemnation in his words.
Sandy's response was to increase her sobs and sense of humiliation to the point where her slender body was so wracked by shaking and pain that it is a wonder she survived.
Tyler was twenty-two, born in '42. He had grown up in the bosom of a prosperous family. He had been taught that the world was his oyster. Raised in his upper class neighborhood, he had been advantaged from the cradle to the present. At six feet, sandy haired and handsome he had received favored treatment through high school and the U.ofO. While his manners were too fine for his present neighborhood they were much appreciated at the office.
His marriage to Sandy had seemed a perfect blending of family, looks and brilliant future. But beneath the handsom exterior Tyler had a rotten core. He was self-centered to the point that he was contemptuous of others. This included Sandy. She was desirable to him as a showpiece that demonstrated to the world his impeccable good taste and good fortune. He was not prepared to drag damaged goods around with him.
He should have known that North Beach was no place for a respectable woman. But because of his favored youth he thought himself and his possessions beyond the reach of the arrows of fortune. In college he had used marijuana, LSD and barbituates along with the ever present examination companion, amphetamines. As he thought himself beyond, or rather, above the dangers that drugs posed, so many of his class did, he had been fearless in their use.
It is probable that Sandy would never have taken drugs on her own but as Tyler was the guardian of her virtue she had followed his lead trustingly. She still considered the drugs naughty and dangerous but she was already familiar with pot, LSD and downers. Living dangerously, out on the edge, had been the attraction of North Beach to Tyler.
Now that he had reaped the fruit of his daring he stood staring down at Sandy. He was unfeeling and obtuse. He sensed that his position had been violated, he believed he had been humiliated. He wasn't far wrong.
Remembering Toretti's words his narrow vision could only conceive that he had almost walked in on Sandy and Sheldon and that whe was sobbing because she had almost been caught.
'Who is Sheldon Washington?' He asked.
The question was greeted by additional shaking and sobbing. Tyler had to make an effort to calm his wife. It was not easy. Several hours later, well into the morning Tyler had gleaned the notion that Sheldon Washington had had his wife. His first thought as a red blooded American boy was to go looking for Sheldon Washington. He did so the following day having called in to work sick.
His queries after Sheldon alerted the Spade Cat that the Honky Cat was looking for him. He arranged to be found. He ensconced himself in an alley on Montague Street. There with some white junkies for effect, a couple of Black hepcats around him, he sat on a garbage can waiting.
Tyler was directed to Sheldon's throne room. He marched resolutely into the alley. As he entered Sheldon rose, hitched up his pants and flexed both arms as though he were stretching. Both his Black confederates cleaned their nails with switchblades. The White boys stood around snuffling and grinning.
'I hear you lookin' for me, boy. Whachoo want?'
This was urban warfare for which Tyler was unprepared. This was not a man to man confrontation which, given the size of Washington he would not have undertaken anyway, but was rather a confrontation of the big battalions against his puny one. A quick vision of himself lying face-up beaten, cut and bleeding among the garbage cans flashed before his eyes. He opted out. He turned and walked away amidst chuckles, laughter and catcalls.
Nor should he be blamed. The rules had been changed. Tyler had not been informed. His only recourse would have been to stalk Washington and blow his brains out. This was not feasible to Tyler in his present state of mind. While Washington's position in North Beach society protected him from identification, there would be no witness come forward to identify him in the event of a complaint, Tyler would be quickly identified. A jail cell was waiting for him if he tried.
Unable to endure the humiliation to his wife and his own subsequent humiliation Tyler transferred the blame to Sandy. Then by shedding her he was able in his mind to shed the double humiliation. At least he thought he had.
'Did that nigger actually put his dick in you?' He brutally asked Sandy.
While White boys profess a complete lack of prejudice toward Black Folk, this is only in the social sense. In 1964 Tyler couldn't endure the idea that his wife had been penetrated by a Black man qua Black man.
'I didn't do it, honey.' Sandy protested weakly.
'All I want to know is wether he put that black dick up you?'
'I- I think so.' Sandy replied, her mind reeling beneath the horror of the thought of her rape.
'I think so! I think so! God, you must know that. I think so! Well, that's good enough for me. He did. Well, I can't stay with a woman who's been defiled by a nigger. I'm leaving. The rent's paid till the end of the month then you're on your own. My lawyer will send the papers by. I think so!'
Thus life pitilessly took away Sandy Tyler's hopes and joys. She became the victim of social forces of which she was not even aware of in their true form. She had been lied to by society. The American Dream! What a pack of lies. Shamed beyond psychological recognition she didn't inform her parents. A stranger in San Francisco she drifted into the drugs and demi-monde of North Beach.
She avoided heroin and actual prostitution but she was heavy into barbiturates and marijuana. The leering immigrant descendants gleefully passed the Anglo girl from man to man; gleefully taking out the frustrations of sixty years of humiliation at the hands of Anglos on Sandy's body.
The Scene shifted from North Beach to the Haight-Ashbury; from the Beatniks to the Hippies; from Cal Tjader to the Grateful Dead; from junk to junk.
The Hippie Movement was the realization of the materialism that Kerrouac and Ginsberg had been pushing. History may to a very accurate extent be characterized as the war between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness. The ascendance to spiritual perfection being the direction of the Sons of Light while the Sons of Darkness seek a return to the pure materialism of the untutored savage, the feral nature of man. Materialism is as much a religion as spirituality but over the course of time all visible churches became of the spiritual kind.
Because of Jewish opposition to the presence of Christianity in public schools the doctrine of the separation of church and state has been interpreted to mean that no spiritual beliefs can be taught in public schools. This means in practice that no positive ethics can be taught.
Thus while all eyes are trained on Catholics and Protestants for violations of the doctrine the Jews under the guise of preaching tolerance push their program through the schools. At the same time the materialists have a free hand preaching materialism as no one understands its nature as the religion of the Sons of Darkness.
Under the guise of helping the young student understand his sexual nature, courses, which are religious in intent, on 'Human Sexuality', undermine spiritualist precepts. Spiritualists reject the indiscriminate indulgence of the senses while materialists embrace it.
Thus one has the concept of 'the varieties of sexual experience.' These include everything from homosexuality to child molestation. All forms of sexual expression are considered legitimate expressions of 'human needs.'
So, while those who preach self-control in order to create a better world are silenced in the name of 'freedom', the classrooms are turned over to materialists who seek to make life hell on earth. Women are prostituted and men perverted in the name of 'sexual freedom.'
The media, movies and TV in particular have been taken over by the materialists who exclude spiritualists from employment in those industries. Black list. On Big Screen and Small Screen they preach total self-indulgence at the expense of all other people.
As a consequence crime and illiteracy increase geometrically. The poor befuddled citizenry talk of 'wars on crime' which will never succeed as long as materialism is the dominant religion. Take the religion of materialism out of the schools and replace it with a spiritualist doctrine seeking the curbing of self-indulgence. Then crime will diminish. The war is not a war on crime but a war of moral attitudes. The war between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness.
Needless to say, crime will never disappear. Crime and criminals have existed since the dawn of time. Even then the war of the Sons of Light and Darkness commenced. Anglo-Americans were governed by the Chivalric notion of Shame. Not that they didn't commit crimes but the sense of shame forced them to repent or move out of society. During the great period of European immigration Jews opposed the notion of Shame with that of Chutzpah. Chutzpah can be defined as simply the shameless attempt to achieve one's desires against the will of others by surprising them with extravagant audacity. If bold enough you may overwhelm their opposition, if not, oh well, you can always 'apologize.'
Leaving Kerrouac aside for the moment, William S. Burroughs lived in New York City. NYC has been described as 'that great factory of criminals.' The description has been given with good reason. For the city was invaded by the post-Great Revolution society of criminals organized around the philosophy of the Marquis de Sade. Crime has a philosophical basis in the modern world. 'Ending poverty' would have no effect on crime. It is not just a matter of illegal activity to satisfy one's needs. Burroughs combined this criminal philosophy with the docrines of anarchy which were also prevalent in the Big Apple. Burroughs' doctrine leads to complete oblivion. In form he continues the Jewish Chutzpah by which he was definitely influenced, as NYC is, or was, a Jewish city, into the equation of: Wouldn't you?
I mean, he asks, wouldn't you kill a little old lady and take her purse if you needed money for a heroin habit. Wouldn't you? Who wouldn't? Of course you would if you were a heroin addict, as Burroughs was, needing a fix. Thus Burroughs in 'Naked Lunch' brought the definition of morality down to what the individual needs at any given moment. If you felt the need the for sex wouldn't you rape an eight year old girl. Who wouldn't? It was inconceivable to Burroughs that anyone wouldn't. If one said one wouldn't then the logic is that your need wasn't great enough or you would. Who wouldn't? Thus Burroughs propounded a very destructive version of the materialistic religion of the Sons of Darkness.
Like syphilis the first outburst of the disease was evident in the Hippie movement on Haight-Ashbury. The sores have disappeared but Burroughs' philosophy has been spread throughout the social system. The deteriorization of mankind was very noticeable by the late seventies to the artistic temperament. At that time a rock band by the name of Devo made the point perfectly clear. They asked the musical question: Are we not men? and answered it: No! We are Devo. The point being that mankind had stopped evolving and was retrogressing into devolution. Devo hit the nail on the head. Materialism was rapidly destroying the fabric of society. We were, in fact, returning to our savage origins. J.G. Frazer's 'civilized veneer' was wearing off. Or as W.B. Yeats put it: And what rough beast, its hour come at last, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born? The hippies embraced Wouldn't You wholeheartedly. They took to drugs like an alcoholic to drink. Drugs are the antithesis of morality. Lying and stealing become one's nature. A druggie's word isn't worth a broken syringe.
Sandy drifted into this environment as she moved over to the Haight-Ashbury. Now, she came from a strong Episcopalian background. She had an affluent past. The Hippies bubbled up from the urban depths. They had no strong anything except for the desire to get, to exploit. As drug addicts they had no chance of succeeding at anything but total failure. They succeeded at that. The worst weren't even human.
Sandy moved from crash pad to crash pad as soon as the toilets filled up and wouldn't flush anymore. Filthy rooms filled with filthy mattresses and filthy people. Toilets stopped up overflowing with excrement. As there were no sexual barriers or restraints she was used by any derelict passing through. She deadened her sensitivities by pretending to revel in the 'new freedom.' Drugs and music were exhilarating accessories. They could turn night to day, black to white.
But the Hippie scene with no other ethic than sex and drugs and Rock and Roll continued to deteriorate. Unbridled sex with anyone and anything was the norm. There were no limits. Homosexuality forced itself into the breach as legitimate. Then as the Disco music of the homosexuals came to dominate in 1977-78, Rock music died on the vine. Without the impetus of music Sandy looked around to find nothing but barrenness.
Somehow, through the years of degradation she had clung to the ghost of the vision of her past. No matter what clothes she wore she wore them with a certain stylishness that betokened a nearly forgotten pride. She had never abandoned her bourgeois dreams. Now looking over the wreck of Haight-Ashbury her thoughts turned to rehabilitating herself. As this was impossible in San Francisco she thought to find a refuge in some other part of the country. Her rape by Sheldon Washington was never out of her mind. She had had other unpleasant experiences with Black men so she looked for a place where she thought there wouldn't be any. For this reason she selected the Mormon capitol because of their alleged aversion to Blacks. So she had moved to Salt Lake City in the late seventies. The Mormons are an exclusive people, they don't take kindly to non-Mormons in their midst. Sandy once again found herself an outsider. Rather than kicking drugs as had been her intent she continued to find solace in them.
During all this time Sheldon Washington prospered. He had prospered with a clear conscience. He even considered himself a benevolent figure in the community, which, compared to some others in his line, he was. Sheldon considered that he as a Black man was only getting back the Black Folk's own. 'As ye sow so shall ye reap.' he was fond of saying, referring to White Folks. True. You must be careful of the seeds you sow. Whether Sheldon was merely reclaiming his own is left to subtler minds than mine. Sheldon was strewing his own field with the seeds of hatred no matter how justified he felt. His victims were not the White Folk that may have oppressed his ancestors they were living people.
Shortly after Sandy left town a junky with sandy hair and very dark glasses began showing up in North Beach. At least he had the appearance of a junkie. He quickly made the connection with Sheldon Washington for his heroin.
Over a few weeks Sheldon accepted him as just another junkie who had been around forever. He abused him as he did all his junkies. On this particular occasion Sheldon made appointments with this junkie failing to keep each. Someone at each assignation point directed the junkie on to the next. The junkie resignedly went from place to place. He was finally directed to go the alley off Montague. The junkie took longer to get there than he might have for he stopped off at his pad first.
As he turned into the alley Sheldon sat alone on a garbage can. The Black confederates were gone. The White junkies were out of sight. As the junkie approached, Sheldon observed that his walk was rather stiff but as he was a junkie, what was new? The reason the junkie's walk was stiff was because a crowbar was suspended from his belt down his left pants leg. A revolver was stuck in his belt beneath his moth eaten sweater. His eyes glowed hatred beneath his very dark glasses. He was not really a junkie; he was an impostor.
Like a junkie he had his money ready in his hand. He thrust it at Sheldon holding out his other hand for the baloon.
'Not so fast, my man, not so fast.' Sheldon said. 'I mean, man, like man, money ain't everything. I mean, I am the most important man in your life. I want you to acknowledge that.'
The junkie shrugged indicating: What?
Sheldon unzipped his fly flopping his member out. He looked at the junkie emitting only a low chuckle. The junkie understood. He began to go down on one knee. His right hand moved beneath his sweater. Sheldon had just time to focus on the hole in the blue-black barrel before his brains flew out to mingle with the rest of the garbage.
The junkie unbuckled Sheldon's pants and pulled them down rolling the huge inert form unto its stomach as he did so. Removing the crowbar from his pants he rammed it far up Sheldon's ass until the tip rested just below Sheldon's heart. Throwing the shades aside and discarding the moth eaten sweater he walked out of the alley and was never seen in North Beach again.
The police were baffled but unconcerned. After all Sheldon hadn't really been murdered. He was dead but he was only a casualty in the urban warfare. Only another soldier who had given his life for the cause. A casualty in that urban warfare that raged beyond police jurisdiction and control. A warfare that was beyond the law; one that operated on laws of its own. All that can be said is that he who lives by the rod dies by the rod.
All across the universe the stars stayed the clacking dice of Magic Sam in his hand to look down on such insanity and say: They ain't nothing but a heartache and you know they'll never get over it. Then, with a shrug, they returned to their games. Roll the dice with a sound like thunder.
The junkie, his own heart broken beyond repair blew a kiss from San Francisco to Salt Lake City. Just another boogie in The Land Of A Thousand Dances.
Sandy watched Donn as he came up the street. She recognized someone, who like her, had lost his place in the world. A hope sprang up in her breast, she was beyond being able to think, that perhaps he and she might find comfort in each other reclaiming in some small degree their place in the world.
'Hi there. What are you doing?'
Donn paused to appraise her. He recognized that about her that spoke of a declassee. As he had no interest in women he attempted to dismiss her.
'I'm going to get something to eat.' He said brusquely.
Undaunted Sandy said: 'Oh, I know all the good places. I'll take you there.' She said clasping his hand impusively, leading him away.
Donn could no longer go to the type of restaurant he favored. He thought that perhaps Sandy knew of some hippie hangouts where the food would be filling and maybe passable. He allowed himself to be led away.
They walked for several blocks. Sandy babbled on along the way hoping to win Donn over. A strip mall hove in sight. There was an Albertson's grocery store at one end. Donn spotted a restaurant in the middle of the mall. When they reached the corner of the Albertson's Donn began to continue down the front but Sandy pulled him along the side and toward the back. Donn was confused but thought Sandy was aware of another entrance.
When they reached the back Sandy pointed proudly at the dumpster and said: See.
Donn looked at the huge garbage can puzzled.
'See what?' He asked Sandy who was still holding his hand.
'Well, see,' She said giving his hand an affectionate squeeze. 'Nobody ever has to go hungry in America. They throw away tons of good food just because it's a day or two old. See.' she said, grabbing at some limp brownish lettuce, 'This lettuce is perfectly good to eat. It's just a little old. And it's free, it doesn't cost anything.'
'All kinds of places are this stupid. If you want I'll take to Cheesy Burgers later. At midnight they throw out all the burgers they've prepared but haven't sold. Wrapped and everything. We'll have to get there early though because everyone wants those.'
Donn listened incredulously, rudely pulling back his hand. He wasn't familiar with underground 'survival' techniques. He wasn't aware that Abbie Hoffmen had published a whole book full of ideas and scams, all as good as this one. But he was not yet so low that he would search through garbage cans for food.
'God, that's absolutely disgusting.' He said.
'No, it's not. Everybody does it.' Sandy replied speaking for her crowd.
'Well, I don't eat out of garbage cans and I think anyone who does is absolutely disgusting.' Donn replied angrily. 'You! Get away from me, you filthy slut. No, don't touch me.' He said brushing away Sandy's imporing hands which sought to hold his again. 'Get away.' He said angrily, turning on his heel.
Sandy's rejection by Donn was the last thing that it took to bury her poor heart completely out of sight. As she stood in the moonlight she sank beneath the burden of accumulated woes of nearly twenty years. All the crimes perpetrated against her rose up to engulf her sense of decency. Her last shred of worthiness disappeared. The world's guilt entered her soul as her own. She considered herself evil. She went through life as an empty shell. But she was not Guilty of the Shame. Oh no! It was society's shame. It was our shame. Repeat aloud: I (insert your name) am Guilty of the Shame.
Donn found his way to the highway East. He found a spot to doze a few hours. Daylight found him alongside US 40. 'Denver, here I come.' He whistled, praying for the best. This was not Donn's moment for the best. He was over a day getting to Fruitland, an interminable number of short rides and long delays. His spirits sank again. He had his thumb out just outside of Fruitland when a fifty-eight Chevy pulled over.
'Hi! I'm Kirk Douglas Strachan.' The driver said extending a soft flabby hand. He was wearing a black cowboy hat, had a soft pudgy face with black horn rimmed glasses, black cowboy shirt with white piping and black Can't Bust 'Ems over black cowboy boots.
'Uh, yeah,' Donn replied, 'I'm Phil Brown.'
'Nice to meet you Phil.' Strachan said eyeing him like a side of beef.
This was about ten o' clock at night. Strachan was a practiced hand. He got right to the point.
'Now, Phil, I'm going to tell you how it is,' he began with the authoritative tone of a movie tough guy, 'I like men. I'm really a tough guy. Did you get my name, Kirk Douglas Strachan? Kirk Douglas was a movie tough guy.' he said, overlooking the fact that Kirk Douglas was still alive. 'My mother wanted me to be tough so she named me after him. I am tough. Now, it's your choice, you can either live or die. Your second choice is obvious, we don't have to discuss that. Now, if you want to live you're coming home with me and you'll be my sex slave for a week or two. Now, if you're good at that I'll reward you by driving you up to Vernal. If you're not you'll join the rest of my boyfriends. Got it! Well, get it, my man!'
Donn was staring at him incredulously, his mouth agape. Donn looked at this soft flabby creep wondering where he got the notion he was tough except from his mom. Kirk Douglas Strachan mistook incredulity as a sign of fear. Strachan was a murderous fiend. The 'boyfriends' he sarcastically referred to were all buried out in his garden patch beneath the turnips. There were fifteen in all. Some he had just blown away with a shotgun others had died lingering deaths.
Strachan's mother had named him after Kirk Douglas. Strachan had studied all the actor's films. Except that he was short, pudgy and effeminate Strachan had his Kirk Douglas act down. He had the same buzzsaw whine that came from the back of his head. He had even had a cleft surgically made in his chin. Needless to say it looked ridiculous with his moon faced pudgy head.
Emboldened by Donn's open mouthed wonder Strachan continued: 'Terrific. You'll have a great time too. Now, I need a down payment right now. See that knoll just up there. I'm going to pull behind it. You're going to give me a great blow job, then I'll take you to the ranch.'
'I was boxing champ three years running at SMU.' Donn said quietly in the Texas manner brushing imaginary lint from his fly.
Oh, a John Wayne type, huh? Well I'm going to make you get out right here.' He said skidding to a stop. He pressed a button, the door flew open and Donn sneeringly got out. Strachan copped a U and raced back toward Fruitland. John Wayne trumps Kirk Douglas every time.
Donn dropped his bag, placing his hands on his hips while he looked up and down the dark road.
'Over here. Hey, buddy, over here.' A loud booming voice cried from the wilderness.
'Over here, buddy, I'm over here.'
Donn peered out into the darkness. He could see nothing.
'Come on. I'll guide you in.' The voice cried.
Donn started walking into the darkness. As he stumbled along it seemed to him like he walked on an on.
'Man, that guy must have a voice like a foghorn.' He thought.
Then he perceived the glow of a fire.
'Keep coming. I'm right over here.' The voice coaxed. 'All right, all right. If I hadn't been out taking a leak I would have missed you.'
A hand came out of the darkness grabbed Donn's hand and shook it.
'Hi! I'm Dharma Bum.' Bum said proudly.
'You can call me Jack.' Donn said, taken back by Dharma Bum's strange name.
Bum led him back behind a small rise where a fire burned in the darkness.
'Dharma Bum?' Donn asked. 'Did I hear you right.'
'Dharma Bum, that's right.' Bum replied. 'I'm out here seeking enlightenment.'
Dharma Bum was quite an apparition in the barren mountain night. He was about six-four high. Thin but not slender. He wore a pair of knee high boots, medium platforms with two and a half inch heels, laced all the way up to his knees fitting over form fitting jeans that gave Bum the appearance almost of walking on stilts. The jeans buttoned with the buttons showing on the outside. A pink, or dusty plum, flowered vest covered a lavender flowered shirt with enormous billowing sleeves. It was an outfit modeled after John Hall of Hall and Oates.
Bum's face was fleshy, all the features being large. He wasn't handsome, plain verging on homely, but carried himself with real leading man verve. He was topped by a mane of black hair streaked now with silver combed straight back, en brosse, falling to his shoulders.
He was a child of TV, records and movies. He invariably saw himself as Batman and others as his Robins. He had developed the authoritative way of talking which in the movies leaves the bit actors gasping in astonishment at the sagacity and sheer manliness of the lead. In the same manner Bum tried to impose himself on reality. Reality not being the movies, Bum had been, as it were, rejected by life. He was undaunted; New Day, New Script. As Jim Morrison of the Doors replied when being urged to hurry lest he be too late to catch his flight: 'You can never be too late for your own movie.' Whatever happens is in the script.
Besides money wasn't a real problem for Bum. He just wired home to Dad to pay the card. He was covered for medical and dental care. Unlike most bums, or homeless, he was in excellent health and his teeth were good. He was actually cooking baked beans in the can held over the fire with a forked stick, just like in the movies.
'I'd offer you some but I wasn't expecting company.' He said with an authoritative chuckle indicating that he knew Donn would understand as he reacted to gasps of astonishment from Donn in the theatre of his mind. Bum always played to an SRO audience. Each movement, each word was done and spoken in a stagy manner. Often there was no necessity for a reply. Bum merely waited the appropriate time for the reply in his mental script then continued his next lines. Not infrequently he overrode the speaker or completely ignored, in fact, didn't hear, the reply.
'Jack, huh? Jack?' Bum said with a wink.
'What?' Donn said uncertain whether to be apprehensive or puzzled.
Bum had taken his name from Jack Kerrouac's novel 'The Dharma Bums.' He thought Donn was making a sly joke on Bum's self-introduction.
'Yeah. Ya know Jack understood me real well. Yeah. Ha, ha. He wrote my life before I even began to live it.'
'Jack? Jack who? Me?'
'Jack Kerouac!' Bum cried incredulously.
'Jack Kerouac? You mean the guy who wrote 'On The Road?' Donn said fishing for the sense as his head swam trying to understand Bum.
'Oh, ho. You do know Jack then?' Bum beamed.
'I read 'On The Road." Donn said.
He had read it out of curiosity in college where it had been a life style manual for a certain crowd. He had detested the book. It represented everything he despised. Donn, then as now, wanted the good life, the high life. He didn't think hanging around with petty grifters and small time thieves in sleazy bars equated the good life. Even if you camouflaged your sleaziness with intellectual pretense.
'Great book, isn't it? I read 'em all. That, the Dharma Bums, Desolation Angels, terrific stuff. I just don't know how he anticipated my life though. Eerie, don't you think?'
'Is that how you got the name Dharma Bum?'
'No. I am Dharma Bum. Jack wrote the book about me.
'Didn't Kerouac write it before you hit the road?' Donn said unpolitically.
'What the hell you talking about?' Bum said glaring across the fire suspiciously at Donn. 'Didn't I just say Jack wrote my life?'
'My mistake.' Donn said wryly, realizing that Bum had only just been beamed down from the saucer.
'Damn right it is, fella.' Bum said in his best John Wayne style. Then his face formed a reverie as he began talking. The speech was one he had prepared for the inevitable Time or TV interviewer. He thought they would catch up to him sooner or later to get his story.
'Yes.' He began in f0nd reminiscence. 'I must have crossed this great big beautiful land a hundred times or more. God bless this crazy topsy-turvy unbelievable US of A. Yes, from that fabled Golden Gate of old San Fran to the New York Island, from the tropical shores, actually sub-tropical, he,he, of Key West to the Mesabi iron range up on Lake Superior, I've loved it all. My feet have led me to the tops of the highest mountains, and I mean literally, the tops, I've been above Cripple Creek, and down into the depths of amazing valleys, my feet have washed in gorge of the Grand Canyon. In one day I've been to the top of Mt. Wilson and to the depths of Death Valley, the highest and lowest places in the lower Forty-Eight in one day. I've stood with my feet in both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. Now, what do you think of that?'
He stopped with a big quizzical Will Rogers smile seemingly looking into Donn's eyes but actually nearly oblivious of his existence. Donn was fearful that this night might go on forever. He cleared his throat loudly speaking piercingly to blow his way into Bum's consciousness.
'Why did you start doing this? Why are you out here?'
This was almost the question Bum had scripted for the Time Magazine interviewer. He heard and shifted into second gear.
'What am I doing out here?' Bum said with a rueful shake of his head accompanied by several musing snarls. 'Well, I'll tell you why I'm out here. I'm a victim of capitalist oppression.'
'How's that?'
'How's that? Well, let me tell you how the system really works. Or, doesn't work. Ya know, a guy goes to work for some jerk in good faith, promised that if things work out he'll be taken care of. He gives the best he's got, which in my case was pretty damn good, puts in the best period of his life. Then he makes the business big and successful for this jerk. The more money you make for this jerk the more he starts reneging on the deal. Then when he figures he's got it made and doesn't need you anymore- Bingo! you're gone. Oh yeah, I know all about capitalism. Tell that to your readers.
What a jerk the guy is. If you ever run into him dump on him. His name is Dewey Trueman. I'm a Jew you know.' Bum added with a significant arch to his eyebrows.
A the mention of readers Donn thought that Bum somehow knew who he was, or had been, a music reviewer. The mention of Dewey Trueman threw him off his heels. He was totally mystified.
'Dewey Trueman?' Donn said. 'Where abouts in this great land of ours did this take place?'
'Out on the coast. Eugene, Oregon.'
'What does your being a Jew have to do with it?'
'Huh! Anti-Semitism of course. It's always the Jew gets it in the neck. Always been that way. Need a scapegoat, get a Jew. I should have known, I suppose.'
'You say this guy Trueman promised you part of the business?' Donn asked, his curiosity really aroused.
'Yeah. That's right.' Bum said ruefully.
'So. What? You worked for him for five or six years then?' Donn was familiar with Trueman and to some extent his store.
'Well, it wasn't quite that long.'
'How long then?'
'Well, let's see.' Bum began manipulating his fingers and drawing in the dirt. 'Maybe five or six months.'
'Months?' Donn said incredulously.
And well he should have for Bum had created a verstion of the events that completely rewrote the facts.
Bum's real name was Norm Barsky. He was from St. Louis. he had been brought into Eugene to take possession of the business Dewey Trueman had built up. A record store in Eugene that was very successful. For the size of the city tremendously successful. In a small pond the record store had been a big splash. Trueman was a Hippie. He therefore succeeded against the wishes of the town fathers. A couple attempts had been made to assassinate him. When the last attempt to kill him on the highway by bogus Hell's Angels had failed the town fathers were at a loss of what to do. At the same time they, or at least Harry Grabstein, realized that the store was a valuable money maker. It should be preserved but put into righteous hands. Grabstein undertook to resolve the matter. He would appropriate or, in other words, steal the business.
So as to evade the appearance of being himself involved he called an acquaintance in St. Louis, Art Barsky. Art's son Norm, had just finished school at the University of Chicago, was married, new baby, and could use a good income. Norm, wife and child were sent to Eugene to receive his inheritance.
It was not to be expected that Trueman would just hand over his business to Norm so a certain deception and ruse had to be practiced. Norm was schooled by his father while refresher points would be supplied by Harry Grabstein. The method was quite simple and well tried. The only obstacle in the way could be the victim's character. That was the only variable that couldn't be controlled. As Grabstein thought Trueman a despicable Hippie with no character he perceived no problem in bringing him down.
One may ask why these Jews thought themselves entitled to another man's property. The problem was not in the capitalist economic system as Bum sincerely thought but in the Jewish religious system and culture which he would have denied. A quick survey of the three great crucial periods in Jewish history should provide the intellectual justification.
Jewish history is a closed field, permitted only to those who have been properly vetted. As the editor of the Cambridge History of Judaism puts it: But as the study of Judaism is peculiarly open to emotive interests and unconscious influences which make it highly susceptible to hurtful misinterpretations, no effort to get rid of the blinkers of traditions and prejudices may be deemed superfluous.
In other words if you don't see it their way you have no right to be heard. Nevertheless the truth must be pursued. The objectivity of historical facts cannot be allowed to be skewed to the advantage of one party to the hurt of another. Neither valid history or sociology can be approached in such a manner to obtain preconceived results. Any conclusions are always subject to discussion. Just as the Constitution of the United States decrees the separation of church and state it also decrees absolute freedom of expression whether a subject is peculiarly open to emotive interests or unconscious influences or not.
Messianism is the backbone of the Jewish belief system. The belief is that the natural order of things was overturned when Cain slew Abel. All of history since then has been the promise of God to bring the Jews into their rightful place as arbiters of the nations thereby reversing the decision of history or, reality. The redemption of Israel is the purpose of all 'History.' There have been three great periods of redemptive or messianic expectations. On these pivots the Jewish character was formed.
The first great period was from c. 188 BC to 135 AD. The second centered around the messiahship of a man called Sabbatai Zevi in the years around 1640-1700 AD. The third with the Revolution of the Messiah around the years 1913-28. In all three the Jews were brutally disappointed.
As the smaller and weaker portion of the greater society the Jews have always felt abused and suppressed, especially as they believe they are the bearers of the true god. Thus when Israel is redeemed and the roles are reversed all the wealth of the world will belong to the Jews; and the gentiles will be their slaves.
The initial confrontation was begun between the Hellenes and Jews expanding into a war between the entire Greco-Roman world and the Jews. Initially the Jews were successful against the Hellenes. the Roman world proved too much for them. In a series of tremendous wars from 66-70 AD when the Temple was destroyed through the amazing uprising in 116-18 to the final destruction of the Jewish state in the Bar Kochba rebellion in 135 AD, the Jews were all but exterminated. In the hopes of ending the confrontation and destroying the locus of what, by then was the center of perpetual disturbances, Jerusalem was leveled while Jews were forbidden to enter the city.
Thus in the wars which the Jews characterize as anti-Semitic persecution but which were actually a contest for the dominion of the Roman world, redemption for the Jews was postponed, while Rome was prostated.
For approximately 1500 years the Jews longed for the appearance of the true Messiah, both Jesus and Bar Kochba having failed them. After fifteen hundred years of various disasters culminating in the expulsion from Spain and the Cossack rebellion against Poland in 1648 a new Messiah, Sabbatai Zevi appeared in the Asia Minor governed by the Turks. Sabbatai is the pivot of Jewish history. Israel quivered in the expectation of deliverance. As in the 116-18 uprising of the Roman period Europeans from the Pale to England were to be slaughtered. True, the means were lacking but the will was there. Once again the wealth of the world was to accrue to the Jews.
End of II-2. Proceed to II-3 for the continuation.
At this point the story consists of Part One: Disco Donn Does Deep Elum and Part II, clips 1 and 2.
Part II Disco Donn Demands Deliverance
Posted in Cockney Rebel, Gay, Homosexuality, Homosexuals, Novels, Oregon, Portland, Psychology, Seventies, Steve Harley, Stories, Uncategorized, Writing
The Stars Play With Magic Sam's Laughing Dice.
J. Hendrix
And it sounds like thunder.
Roll the dice,
Hit the bottom
And you feel no pain.
And it sounds like thunder,
Ain't it the truth,
It's a fool's game.
-Steve Harley And Cockney Rebel
Donn Contrales was at the apex of his success. He was only a hair away from the beginning of his nadir. Donn had just about everything he wanted within his grasp. Since the accession of his computer he felt himself a free man for the first time. In his role as pop and classical record reviewer for the Daily Assassin Donn no longer went into the office, he sent his reviews over the phone lines.
By so doing Donn had fallen into the trap set for him by Jose Wellspring who sold him the computer at a very advantageous price. Wellspring hadn't really done Donn a favor, the computer was used, it had been repossessed. Both Jose Wellspring and Donn Contrales were homosexuals. Donn had offended Jose by not inviting him to a record party for the pianist, Clement Coxe. Coxe was himself a homosexual. Jose had thought of a plan to punish Donn. He knew of Donn's desire to be 'free', of his aversion to going to the office. Jose understood that failure to do so would subject Donn to competitive pressures whereby he might lose one or the other or perhaps both his posts. He very slyly planted the thought in Donn's mind that the computer would free him of the necessity of reporting the office on a daily basis.
Donn had taken the bait. Now, in February 1980 he had made only brief appearances at the Assassin since November of the previous year. He arrived at his apartment in a bustle to get dressed for a speaking engagement with the Women's Westside Auxlliary. He breezed through his door casting a glance over at his computer noticing that he had an email. It was from Mingo Miybriy, the editor of the Assassin informing him that he had been relieved of his pop music duties. Those reviews, the communique read, had been transferred to a younger man who was, presumably more in touch with contemporary youth.
This news made Donn angry, he was insulted, nobody was more in touch with contemporary youth than he. But he failed to give this premonition of disaster the consideration he should have. Donn was much too confident of his fate, of his own importance in the web of destiny.
'I'll have to send an email telling Mingo to get rid of the guy. That's my territory. There's no one more in touch with youth than me.' Donn thought, 'But first I have to go shine on these society bitches.'
Donn, was a cocaine habitue, he would have rejected the term addict, as the stuff was recreational rather than compulsory; he was living his life in a euphoric haze. He had become entirely divorced from reality. In his vision of himself as an all powerful deity he had alienated many people. Some were too inconsequential to hurt him in his prosperity. Some, one in particular, he should have taken care not to offend. That one was a man by the name of Maggie Spingold.
Maggie was a very powerful man, not only in Portland, Oregon which is where this story begins, but on the entire West Coast. He was even influential in certain national circles.
Like Donn he was a homosexual. He was one of the five or ten most powerful individuals in the Gramercy Club. The Gramercy was composed of two hundred of the most successful men in Portland. This was still 1980 and women had not yet forced entry into these men's preserves.
Maggie's real name was Edward G. Spingold. He was descended from immigrants from the Jewish Pale who had emigrated in the 1890s. Spingold was not the original family name but his family of Uroffskys were assimilatively inclined, they wanted a name that was more American sounding than Uroffsky. When the Jews of the era took 'American' sounding names they invariably chose names that implied success or high standing. Thus the many Golds, Goldbergs, Goldwaters, Goldschmidts, Goldens, Silvers and Silvermasters. Goldberg actually incorporaes two success images- Gold and Mountain- or perhaps Mountain of Gold or God, or a high peak of inestimable value and purity.
Spingold to the Uroffskys implied the ultimate of success, the ability to make gold. The oddity of the name to 'Americans' was never obvious to them. When their baby boy was born in 1920 they named him Edward for the line of kings of England, Edward VII having just died, and G for a seemingly superfluous Gold. Although Gold in this instance was to imply the purity and magnificence of God, Gold being the color of the sun, the emblem of God. Thus Maggie's real name was Edward Gold Spingold. If ever a name was prophetic it was for the Spingolds in general and Maggie in particular. They and he were adepts at acquiring lucre.
The 'Maggie' by which Maggie was known, behind his back, was not a diminutive of Margaret but rather a familiarization of the 'Magus.' Maggie had fostered the reputation that he was an adept in the Jewish Kabbalah. this was somewhat of an exaggeration as there were any number of mystical adepts in town, both goyish Theosophists and Jewish Kabbalahists who could run circles round him. But wealth and chutzpah can befuddle many minds; Maggie had sufficient quantities of both. He had the reputation of being a Magus.
Maggie belonged to all three of the great networks. He was important in the Old Boy Network and paramount in both the Jewish and the Homosexual Networks. He was a silent founder of the Homosexual Anti-Defamation League and a power in both the Anti-Defamation League of B'nai B'rith and the American Jewish Committee. In his capacities in the Homosexual and Jewish groups Maggie had a direct interest in censoring and controlling how and what the Daily Assassin reported on both groups.
Thus he passed an occasional hour at the Daily Assassin updating Mingo Miybriy on any changes on how the Jews wanted to be represented and deploring the terrible homophobia which marred American society. He had seen Donn's reviews in the paper which had done nothing for him but the sight of Donn had electrified him.
Donn was blond and just this short of being really handsome while actually epitomizing the macho man. His black brush of a mustache contrasted dramatically with his blond hair. His air of oblivious self-confidence made him doubly attractive to Maggie. The little gold earring in Donn's left ear conveyed the necessary information to Maggie.
He shoulder jousted Donn in the hallway giving him the excuse to apologize and strike off an acquaintance. Donn, who knew a love bump when he received one was extremely flattered by the attention of such an important man. Maggie took Donn's effusiveness as a declaration of love, not that that mattered.
Maggie found Donn's address and subsequently showed up at Donn's door at three o' clock in the morning ready for sex.
Maggie had chosen a Saturday night, or rather, Sunday morning. Between Donn's drug (or perhaps substance abuse, he also used alcohol) use and sexual exertions on the previous evening he was thoroughly exhausted. Besides he had just arrived home and virtually collapsed on his cot. This evening though Maggie had quietly said through the door: 'It's me, Eddie. Ed Spingold.' The name hadn't registered in Donn's disorderly mind. Even if it had he would have arrogantly dismissed him. As it was he testily said: 'I don't a give a f- who you are. It's three o' clock in the morning. Get the f- out of here.'
Maggie thought that Donn owed him at least to open the door, admit him and then courteously explain his incapacity. Donn, on his part, knew that once in it was impossible to get one out. Maggie had taken the slight badly. He had begun to plot revenge as he turned from the door. He was a powerful man; his resources were many. Donn would find a surprise in his emails on his return from the Westside Ladies, while his response from the women would be out of synch with his previous experiences.
But for now he entered his apartment in breezy spirits to hurriedly don his Classical Donn attire. He quickly grabbed a black gabardine suit and threw it on the cot. He plopped his patent leather pumps on the floor while seizing a pair of hose to replace his socks. The hose were a most elegant sheer black nylon that rose over his calf to rest just below the knee. He quickly rolled the tops down, washed his face, splashing it with Royall Spice after shave to please the ladies. He changed into a white shirt draping a red paisley tie around his neck as he suited up. His Windsor knot was fine but not impeccable as he closed the door behind him.
Unbeknownst to Donn Maggie Spingold had placed him on the blacklist. Naturally any society denies the existence of a blacklist but only a fool takes such denials at face value. Previously all doors had been open and all welcomes for Donn had been warm if not hot. Now the ponderous machinery of society was being activated to exclude him. Donn found fewer Westside Ladies in attendance than he expected. Many of the leading lights were missing leaving him to address secondaries and fillers.
Donn knew next to nothing about classical music and even less of its history. Today his address contained banalities about the aging of the old guard soloists and the lack of emerging new performers. Usually he was met by rapt attention as his good looks, fine presence and prepossessing form solicited, but today two of the ladies coughed continuously while one in the back row, where those in front couldn't see her, stifled yawn after yawn repeatedly. In their way they were breaking up the lecture, a little more politely than the Communists used to do to the Fascists and vice versa.
Donn was puzzled but he finished his lecture and opened the discussion. After a rude comment from the yawner, Peggy Belton had, not so much a question but a point.
If Donn knew little about Classical music, with a couple exceptions, his auditors knew even less. Classical music is less a group of afficionados than a cultural club. The classics represent a social ideal to them of cultural superiority rather than musical appreciation. Most have never heard of, say, Buxtehude, Fux or Hummel and for that reason would never buy a record of their compositions. The average classicist has heard of little but the three Bs.
Most of them think that Chamber music is a form like a fugue or a sonata; nor can they be educated except by an authority figure. Peggy Belton was at the bottom of this class.
She began: 'Donn. Donn. Tell me, what can you do about this horrible man, Dewey Trueman?'
As the question was so inappropriate Donn had to stifle a laugh.
'Dewey Trueman? Dewey Trueman? Do you mean that fellow who runs that record store downtown, Peggy? That Dewey Trueman?'
'Yes! That's him. The very one. What are you going to do about him?'
'Well, but, Peggy, what does he have to do with the old guard or emerging talent?'
'That's just it. I bought a record in there two weeks ago by the classical composer, Ludwig Beethoven. Have you heard of him? He's a wonderful composer. I hope he writes lots more. And I bought his Seventh Symphony. It was a faulty recording. I still have it because that man wouldn't give me my money back.'
'Beethoven wouldn't give you your money back, Peggy?'
'No, not Beethoven. Stop your giggling girls. Dewey Trueman wouldn't give me my money back. He told me that's how it's supposed to be.'
'How's that, Peggy?'
'Well, first off the music is terribly noisy like Mr. Beethoven would never have composed it. Then, you know what? It starts off really quietly than builds up until it's just terribly deafening then all of a sudden it gets real quiet again. One can't even listen to it. Do you know what that man said when I took it back to him? He said that those were crescendoes and dimuendoes and that was the way Mr. Beethoven intended it. He must have thought I'm totally ignorant because he was smiling all the time. Have you ever heard of such a thing? I want my money back and I want to know what you're going to do about this Trueman fellow?'
Most of the women were giggling in their handkerchiefs. Some covered up their mirth by saying: 'That terrible man. That terrible man.' Donn hadn't actually listened to the Seventh as it is one of Beethoven's least popular symphonies so he had little idea what Peggy was talking about. Taking his cue from the others he pretended to stifle his mirth.
As the question really called for no discussion of the Seventh he attacked this fellow Trueman, who was littled loved by the Daily Assassin as he didn't advertise in it. Donn had previously written an article deploring Trueman's classical selection as being too large to examine while extolling the other store for having 'manageable' selections.
'Well, there's little we can do directly to that fellow you mentioned Peggy, but I can assure you that everything is being done indirectly that can be. All I can advise you to do is not to purchase from him again and maybe he'll go back to wherever he came from, if any will actually claim him. Hopefully that place is not on this planet.'
'Yes, but Donn, he's got the best selection of classical music in town.'
'Yes, Peggy, but its very virtue is its defect. Its size is just too unmanageable for the average intellect. So that's my advice, shop elsewhere.'
As there were no further questions and someone had forgotten refreshments the meeting dispersed. It was mid-afternoon when Donn returned to his apartment to find a new message on his computer. Having lost his pop music position he was now suspended as classical reviewer. He was ordered to report to Mingo Miybriy immediately.
'Tomorrow will be soon enough.' Donn said to himself as he flopped down on his cot to mull over the significance of the message.
…all of them, like children of the night,
everywhere wild, everywhere lost,
everywhere loveless, faithless, homeless.
All with some terrible flaw
Against which even nature rebelled.
-John Clellon Holmes, 'Go.'
Maggie Spingold was a powerful man. He was a vindictive man. He avenged anything that he considered a slight. He was open to affronts, encouraged them, invented them when they weren't there. He never acknowledged an alleged affront or slight or openly complained. He never openly avenged an alleged affront, imitating his god he worked in mysterious ways.
When Donn refused him admittance at three in the morning this was what he considered not only a slight or an affront but a violation of homosexual law, of which it was the last. For him to offer his love was, in his mind, a gift of incomparable, not value, but worth. Its refusal was incomprehensible and subject to stern judgment with no remission of mercy. Donn was to get the back of Maggie's left hand.
Donn's dismissal from his duties as pop critic was merely the first of a series of steps of increasing severity. All events are foreshadowed. Had Donn perceived his reception by the Westside Ladies correctly he might just as well have left town then.
As it was he got up the following morning. Ten o' clock sharp found him climbing the third floor stairs to Mingo's corner office looking out at the University. Normally there was little delay in his getting access to Mingo. Today at eleven-thirty he was just getting up to leave when Mingo breezed into the ante-room in that pert assertive manner that 'strong' women then used as though she were just getting into the office.
'Hi, Mingo. You wanted to see me?'
'Donn. Donn Contrales.' Mingo said as though he had returned after a long absence which was not far from the truth.
'How long have you been waiting?'
'Oh, hour and a half, Mingo.'
'Gary,' Mingo said to her Black male secretary, 'why did you leave Donn sitting there like that. You knew I would't be in till now.'
Gary smiled and shrugged his shoulders. All three knew that Mingo was prevaricating. When Gary had flashed her that Donn was about to leave she had slipped out the other door of her office to enter the anteroom.
'No harm done, Mingo. What was it? Just that I'm fired?'
'Step into my office Donn, it's more serious than that.'
Donn was intent on Mingo as they spoke, he didn't notice that her other door was ajar. Behind the door, listening gleefully was Maggie Spingold. He wanted the fruits of this stage of his revenge.
Mingo reached into her lap drawer, picked up a little folded packet and flipped it across the desk at Donn.
'What's this, Donn?'
Donn was mystified. He'd never seen it before, he was canny enough not to pick it up. But he did recognize what it was.
'I don't know, Mingo. What is it?'
'By the way Donn, don't be so familiar. Call me Ms. Miybriy.'
'Am I fired?' Donn asked.
'Yes.' Mingo sniffed.
'Then, Mingo, I'll call you what I please.' Donn said asserting his independence.
'Open it up, Donn.'
'Mr. Contrales to you Mingo, and no, I've never seen it before. I don't know what it is. What is it?'
'For someone who's never seen it before, it came out of your desk.'
'Whether it did or didn't, my desk is in the newsroom. It's accessible to anyone.'
'That happens to be a packet of cocaine, Donn. It came out of your desk. We know you use it and sell it. We believe you left it in your desk by mistake.'
Donn saw through the set-up. They weren't going to get him on this one.
'You can believe what you want Mingo, but I didn't put that packet in my desk and you can't prove I did. Besides since you just handled it it's got your fingerprints on it.'
Mingo blinked realizing her error but continued on doggedly: 'The circumstantial evidence is strong against you Donn.'
'You may have circumstantial evidence but not against me, Mingo. I saw you take that packet out of your drawer, not mine. That's all the circumstantial evidence I see. I have no reason to believe that was ever in any drawer but yours. You have no evidence against me.'
Maggie coughed on the other side of the door as a signal for Mingo to give it up. Donn leaped to his feet to pull open the door. As he grabbed the knob he heard the outer door in the room slam. By the time he got that door open the hallway was clear. When he tried to reenter Mingo's office he found the door locked.
He stormed around to the anteroom only to find that door locked with Gary staring through the glass door at him placidly. There was nothing for it but to make a fool of himself or leave quietly so he left quietly. He passed two police officers on the way down the steps who had been called in anticipation of the arrest.
The fact of the matter was that the seventies were over. The eighties had begun. AIDS had put a scare into the hard partying orgiastic homosexual community. The large orgies were being discontinued, the bathhouses were closing down. Consequently consumption had fallen. The wide open drug dealing of the seventies had suddenly become conspicuous. The loading dock station of the Daily Assassin had been discontinued. Maggie had had shares in the traffic. The station had received some notoriety. The thought was to give the police some credibility by breaking up that ring. Donn was to have been the scapegoat. There would have been no end of 'witnesses' and plenty of 'evidence.'
Maggie had been disappointed by Donn's unexpected presence of mind but he was a resourceful man. He knew more tricks than Houdini. Before he played his next card however he gave Donn three or four months to suffer. Needless to say there was no job in Portland for Donn save menial tasks. Actually there was nothing comparable in Donn's mind for what he had lost. The only suitable job in his mind was as a TV news anchorman. He probably would have made a good one too. He had the looks, he had the style. Obviously he couldn't get in.
Cocaine dealing was off limits to him now and not knowing what else to do he began living off his savings. Pride kept him from the unemployment line. As always a capable wheeler dealer he was able to score a couple of deals. But as the slander machine got into high gear he found those opportunities dry up.
Doors closed all over town. Having lost his status he lost his immunity. He began to have flat tires on that wonderful Porsche. His windshield was cracked. Ordinarily he would have had it replaced immediately, now he was compelled to drive around advertising his shame.
Other homosexuals who remembered him from his high flying days spat at his feet continually. He was slammed into from behind only to turn and find no one there. Guys shoulder jousted him on the street trying to pick a fight. No more love bumps. Donn wasn't used to it. He didn't know what it meant to be an outlaw. His confidence began to disintegrate. He took to walking defensively. With these evidences of malaise Maggie chose to strike his killer blow.
All events cast a shadow before them if one can only recognize it. At three o' clock in the morning Maggie knocked on Donn's door. Donn who hadn't been sleeping well lately was lying on his cot, head deep in his pillow scowling at the ceiling. At the sound of the first rap he raised his head to scowl at the door wondering who in the heck that could be.
'Who is it?' He said through the door.
'It's I.' Maggie said expecting Donn to recognize his voice from their last encounter months before.
'Who the hell is I?' Donn said irritably.
'Me. Ed.' Maggie said pointedly, in his mind, dropping the diminuitive to indicate to Donn that they were no longer on intimate terms.
'Ed, who?' Donn demanded crossly.
'Ed. Ed Spingold.' Maggie said indignantly.
This time Donn thought he had better open the door. They had never actually met except for the love bump, but by now Donn understood who Maggie Spingold was. He was sorry he hadn't let Maggie in the last time.
Maggie stepped into the apartment like a Captain stepping aboard ship, with a deprecatory nod at Donn. Donn flicked on the light to reveal Maggie in all his splendor. Maggie was prissy edging toward precious in his appearance and mannerisms. He was sixty years old at this time. His golden hair had thinned uniformly so that standing close one could see through the sparse follicles but from a few feet away his hair looked more full. While Maggie was thin his face had the sallow soft pudginess of the aging homosexual. It would be wrong to say he had jowls yet there was a perceptible sag to his cheeks. His nose was straight and moderately fleshy. His pursy mouth had a pronounced red-black color. His face was powdered slightly, no lipstick.
A vain man, Maggie had a wardrobe two or three times as extensive as Donn's huge collection of clothes. Maggie shopped all the clothiers from Rome to Beverly Hills. Today he was wearing an outfit from a now defunct clothier in Beverly Hills by the name of Eric Ross. His personal salesman, Bonford, had put him in a fitted jacket with brass buttons. Bonford had described the color of the jacket as 'aubergine.' Aubergine is an eggplant but the color was not so purple, more of a medium burgundy. He had a light grey shirt with a cream colored tie. Tan gabardine pants. His shoes were a peculiar combination of styles, loafers with tassels with a wing tip. Maggie must have wished to project a hard and soft image at the same time.
As he didn't wish to disfigure his appearance with unsightly bulges he carried his personal effects in a little leather pouch. He bent his little finger through the strap loop, holding the bag in his right hand just below his heart.
Maggie coldly appraised the room. This was not the first time he had been in it. In fact he was intimately familiar with it. He had a key. While Donn was out he had often come to lounge around the apartment lovingly touching each thing. He had even put on Donn's underwear so that a part of his essence would be next to Donn's private parts. He knew the computer, the records, the video on Donn's TVs. He had even discovered a dark secret beneath Donn's pile of undershorts. His love had compelled him to even make excuses for that even though he had misunderstood its meaning.
They stood eyeing each other; Donn with a cold hostility at being disturbed at three by a man who Donn's sixth sense told him boded him no good; Maggie with the hot indignation and hatred of a scorned lover whose sense of majesty had been offended. Maggie could never forgive Donn for having turned him away. Turned him away not only against the rules of homosexual mores but he, Edward G. Spingold, the self-proclaimed Magus, a scion of the House of Judah and a power in the Old Boy Network. In a word, the prize queen of his the subculture.
He carried a book under his arm as a gift for Donn. He presented it.
'What's this?' Donn asked.
'That's a copy of a book you should be acquainted with. It's by a Frenchman. Jean Genet.'
'Our Lady Of The Flowers?' Donn read the title uncomprehendingly.
'Yes.' Maggie went on. 'It's about his prison adventures. You may be able to put it to good use.' He finished with a sly wink.
'What's that to me?' Donn replied blinking uncomprehendingly.
'Oh well, it's about his gay adventures too.'
There was something in Maggie's manner that irritated Donn. Without making a move his posture gave the impression that he was about to slug Maggie. Acting solely on intuition Maggie stiffened, standing erect, chin out to receive the blow like a true masochistic martyr.
Had Donn punched him it would have changed the course of events for punching is a surrogate for intercourse. Maggie would have forced a spat but their relationship would have been cemented. Maggie would have thought Donn cared and further that he was a real man. But Donn knew who Maggie was. Fear of his power made Donn hold his punch. The initiative passed to Maggie.
He chose a pompous, almost irrelevant lecture as a response. America is a lawless society. The only law is satisfying one's desires at any cost. Yet in some zany way the law is revered. Maggie had interpreted Donn's desire to hit him as the resort of the lawless. This set him off on a lecture in which he made a lengthy quote from the autobiography of Ralph Chaplin. Why he would have bothered to memorize it is anybody's guess. He said to Donn: 'You know Donn, the law is a valuable thing as well as a sacred thing. We Jews know that only by curbing our instincts that a better society can be created. Thus we hedge all our actions by the 613 prescriptions of the Law. Even your people have belatedly realized this. Let me quote to you from the autobiography of Ralph Chaplin: 'Remember the old days, when we talked so much about freedom?' Bugs asked me. 'Well we had freedom on that Godforsaken Metacombe- freedom from everything but our own cussedness. It added up to something that we didn't like and couldn't take. This is how it happened. We received our regular checks from the government and, having nothing to buy with our dough, we gambled. There was no law, no church, no jail. We even refused to build our own latrines. We were free men- rebels, by God! Soon menial work was beneath our dignity. We got into the habit of fighting after dice and card games, first with our fists, afterwards with clubs or knives. Killing became common. No one's life or money was safe. Prostitutes from the islands, greedy for our dough, swarmed in upon us. After that we fought over women. There were more killings.
When the hurricane reached us, some were glad; others didn't give a damn. They were too far gone with rotgut booze and syphilis. Maybe it's better to live under the laws of God and man, after all- what do you think?'
'Well, what do you think, Donn?'
'What? What's all that supposed to mean, Ed? I don't even know who the hell this Ralph somebody is.'
'You don't get it? Well, show me around then.' He commanded. Maggie's brain was filled with a vision of a perfect world governed by the laws which he himself was incapable of observing.
'Well, look left and right, it's a small place, Ed.' Donn said standing in his T-shirt and shorts.
This was no answer to Maggie who had on previous occasions spent more than an hour over each item let alone making a tour of the apartment.
'No, Donn. Show me around.'
'W-well, Ed. This is it.' Donn stammered mystified.
'No. Start with the computer and show me around.'
Donn moved hesitantly to the computer. Looking at Maggie intently and uncertainly he said: 'This is my computer.'
'Do you like it?'
'Oh yes, very fine.' Donn said moving to the stereo and records in response to Maggie's indication.
'Uh, Ed. This is my stereo and records.'
'Do you have any favorite songs?' Maggie asked severely, aware of the answer.
'Yes. Several.' Donn replied moving toward the bathroom door.
'No. I mean what is your favorite song. Don't you like something called Interstellar Overdrive by Pink someone?
'Y-yes, I do.' Donn said surprised that Maggie would know.
'Play it for me.' Maggie commanded.
Watching Maggie intently Donn selected the record and moved the needle over to the last cut.
Maggie nodded approvingly.
'What kind of video do you have on your TV set?' Maggie asked coyly.
'Oh, nothing really.' Donn evaded.
'Turn them on.' Maggie commanded.
Donn snapped the living room TVs on.
'All of them.' Maggie said forgetting himself as he moved into the bedroom while his eyes filled with tears and a pout took possession of his face.
He thought forlornly about things that could no longer ever be.
Donn was very surprised that Maggie knew he had four TVs but it was possible that he had seen them as he looked around the apartment. While Donn was flipping on the TVs Maggie walked over and fingered the support of the cot that hid Donn's stash.
'Hmm. Looks a little worn here.' He said musingly, concealing a threat.
Donn looked around sharply, alarmed. Then as he looked at the cot the support did look a little worn.
'Um, yeah, the cot fell apart a couple times. I've been meaning to get a new one.'
Donn paused a moment looking at Maggie, then he shrugged: 'Well, Ed, what do you want?' Donn meant what kind of sex.
'Do I want?' Maggie replied. 'I want nothing. What do you want?'
'Well, Ed, when somebody comes by at three in the morning…'
'It's not the first time I've been here at three in the morning. Do you have time for me today? You didn't before. Do you think I'm some tramp, or whore who show's up at men's doors begging for sex?'
'Oh, no. Of course not, Ed. I never thought that. It's just that I'd just got home. I was out all night. I was hung over and exhausted. I wouldn't have been any good anyway.'
'You should let me be the judge of that.' Maggie said, his voice quivering, his cheeks shaking and tears beginning to run down his nose.
Donn reached out to draw him to himself but Maggie petulantly twisted away like a sixteen year old girl.
'No. It's too late now you bastard. When I wanted you you didn't even have the time of day for me. I wanted to be in your arms and listen to the night. I thought you had certain charms and I thought the time was right but you couldn't spare me a little, not even a little bit of your love. Maggie sobbed, closely following the the lines of a song he had heard only once and with divided attention. Remarkable. 'Now, you're going to be sorry for it. You'll come to me on bended knees before it's all over and beg my forgiveness.'
Then with all four TVs silently simulating fellation on their screens to the sounds of Interstellar Overdrive Maggie marched out slamming the door behind him.
Donn was astounded. Now thoroughly awake he knocked the cot apart to get his cocaine. He sniffed a couple lines spending the rest of the night sitting before his computer staring out the window for the rising sun wondering what it was all about. The next day would be the first day of the rest of his life.
Half dazed and uncertain of what he was doing Donn finally got out of his apartment at ten. As his head was still swimming from the visit of Maggie he decided to walk over to the University Station for his mail. Donn kept a box as he didn't want anyone to know his address.
Donn wouldn't have noticed them anyway but in his condition he was totally oblivious to everything. But if had been aware he would have noticed the plain clothes police in the lobby. As usual they stood out like sore thumbs wearing their clothes like disguises peering out from their skulls as through bushes.
Donn grabbed his mail. As he did so the clerk said: 'Oh, Donn, we've got a package for you.'
Donn went to the counter absent mindedly taking the plain manila envelope with no return address tucking it under his arm.
'You're under arrest.' One of the cops said taking him by the arm.
'Under arrest?' Donn said. 'For what?'
'For this.' The officer said tearing open the envelope to show Donn a child pornography video and a child snuff film.
Donn's being sank to his shoes. He actually did turn a whiter shade of pale.
'I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't order those.'
'Tell it to the judge, my boy. Come on, we're going downtown.'
Once again Maggie was placed advantageously to watch Donn booked and jailed.
'The ignominy is yours, you bastard.' He thought, thinking how he had transferred his shame at being refused back onto Donn.
Donn spent the night in jail. He was released the next day on his own recognizance to find a lawyer.
Dazed and wearied by the preceding events Donn forewent climbing the stairs two at a time as was his wont standing disconsolately in the elevator instead. As he emerged from the elevator he was stunned to see his apartment door standing open. Already dazed, his mind reeled as with churning stomach he entered his apartment. The police would blame it on 'vandals.' All of Donn's possessions had been destroyed. His TV screens had been broken out. His computer looked as though it had been hit with a sledge. His records had been overturned spreading across the room. The Pink Floyd record was on the turntable but neat little crosses had been ingrained with a chalky substance at precise intervals which made the cut unplayable.
As he entered the bedroom he noticed a scorched band across his wardrobes. Perversely it was all wearable but with the equivalent of a black armband on the exposed sleeve indicating that he was a dead man. His shoes had been broken. His cot too had been smashed. The end stood loose, the cap of this stash projected. But when Donn withdrew it it was empty.
Then Donn saw the secret that had been hidden under his undershorts. It was a picture of Adolf Hitler. It was lying on the floor with a knife driven through the nose at precisely the place Donns penis would have been as he lay on the cot.
Donn was mystified. It seemed like a strange thing to do. Maggie who had desecrated what had formerly been a shrine to him had completely misunderstood the significance of the picture. He, of course, attributed the possession of the photograph to anti-Semitism. Like all Jews he exaggerated the thought gvien to Jews by the goyim. Actually Donn never thought of Jews. He was unaware even that Maggie was a Jew. While Hitler stood as the symbol of the anti-Semite to Maggie, to Donn he was the symbol of the god of destruction representing the turmoil in Donn's own soul. Hitler represented to him the ability to destroy the world that had destroyed him. So Donn in the nether reaches of his mind wished destruction on those who had made him what he was. There was no vengeance for that too awful.
Donn's rape by his uncle had completely destroyed his self-respect. It had meant the destruction of his world forever. It stood as comparable in his mind to the saturation bombing of Hamburg or Dresden. After his rape his soul resembled to him the shattered and twisted rubble of Europe after the Nazi defeat. Donn's soul thrilled at the notion that Hitler had had Paris wired to be blown to bits. He was glad the order hadn't been carried out but in his mind's eye he could see Paris in ashes. It was this about Hitler that thrilled him. The man had almost done it his way. He had almost overturned the evil that the world had placed on him. And he was doing it in a constructive way by ridding the world of Communism. Failing that he had wreaked havoc on those who had wreaked havoc on him. It would have been so easy for them to go along with his plans in the East. How perverse France, England and the US must have seemed to him. It was that in Hitler that Donn appreciated, revered, adored. That he kept Hitler's picture under his undershorts was no coincidence. No more a coincidence than that Maggie should find the picture as he chose a pair of Donn's shorts to put next to his weenie. The connection between the penis and the brain is a mysterious one.
Thus Maggie, to whom the rest of mankind was inconsequential, saw in Hitler only the instigator of Jewish destruction. Even though Maggie shared Donn's innate fear and loathing, he was able to turn the destruction of his people to a sort of positive use while Donn suffered only its negative effects.
Dumbly, acting instinctively he released the picture from its pinion to destroy it before the police arrived. The police had only shrugged when they arrived, for what could they do as they said. Under the best of circumstances they stood little chance of locating the culprits; now to do so would be inconsequential.
Closing the door behind them, Donn stretched wearily on the canvas of his army cot on the floor, pushing the stuffing back into the slashes on his pillow, he flipped it over and lay down his weary head.
God, he thought, what did I do wrong?
Donn's life had been completely shattered. His mind reeled beneath the blows coming from whence he knew not. For the nonce he couldn't imagine who had set him up with the child pornography. He could understand how the goods may have been sent in his name by anyone but he couldn't understand the knowing leer on the face of the clerk or the presence of the police.
He would have lain around in his despair for weeks but the pressing need to find a lawyer to keep himself out of jail drove him from the apartment. The days were reaching their apex in length as he went forth. He knew Jerry Lang of Lang, Ingalls, Adams, Rank and Smith. Lang's was one of the most prestigious firms in the city. Donn knew the importance of image, he had no desire to go to some unafilliated 'nice guy.'
The receptionist's smile turned to a frown as the reply came back from Jerry Lang. She coldly motioned Donn to a seat saying the Mr. Lang would be out shortly. Donn wasn't used to the freeze out. Within five minutes he was on his feet.
'Which one is Jerry's office, I'll just pop in.'
'When Mr. Lang is ready he will come for you.' The receptionist said coldly, aw heck, icily. 'Please remain in your seat.'
'Oh, Jerry and I are friend…' He began.
The receptionist pointed coldly to the chair.
Time passed slowly. Rebuffed again after fifteen minutes Donn thought to storm out but then the numbing realization of his predicament robbed him of volition. He sat and sat. After a full hour Lang strode into the waiting room with that solicitous, overly sympathetic manner of the put-on artist. He was a consummate lawyer.
'Sorry to keep you waiting Donn buddy, but I…well, you know? What can I do for you Donn?' He said with the air of one who already knows the situation as he slid behind his desk.
As was usual in knowledgeable attorney's offices he had one chair beside him behind the desk and another chair in front of his desk. Normally he would offer his client the choice of either. If the client took the confidential chair beside him then the interview would be conducted in a more sympathetic manner; if the client took the confrontational chair opposite him the interview would be more businesslike.
Donn didn't know the protocol but it didn't matter, Lang motioned him into the confrontational seat. Donn's problem, which was news in Lang's circle, was already a hot topic with him. Maggie had spread stories of Donn's TVs so that Lang was predisposed by these rumors. Donn wasn't aware of how the Networks actually operated even though he had been a peripheral of them.
'I've got a serious problem.' Donn began. 'I was arrested two days ago. I was charged with receiving child pornography through the mail.'
'Really? What kind of pornography?'
Donn frowned and winced, 'Child snuff films.'
'You mean the kind where they actually kill children before the cameras?'
Donn nodded yes. He shouldn't have. He didn't know what was on those videos. He had never seen them. He hadn't even seen the titles or cover pictures as the envelope had been confiscated before he had had a chance to open it. But as he knew what snuff films were he only assumed that that is what they were. He'd temporarily forgotten Terry Roberts had gone to jail for ten years for buying baking soda.
'Oooh, that's very bad, Donn.'
'Oh, hey, I didn't do it. You don't think I'd do something like that?'
'Well, it was mailed to you?'
'Yeah, but anyone could do that.'
'Yes, I know, but when we checked- nothing personal, but we'd have to investigate this thoroughly Donn- when we checked the manufacturer the next thing you know we'd have your credit card number and the order in your handwriting.'
'That's impossible…' Donn flustered.
'Well, we'd have to see, Donn. You know, this is not the kindof case I really like to handle, but I'd do it for you, Donn. You know, they'll want to make an example of you to stop this sort of thing. They're going to throw everything at you. This is going to be very expensive. I'd guess forty or fifty thousand dollars maybe more. Possibly lots more. Do you have that kind of money, Donn? Can you give me a twenty thousand dollar retainer?'
Donn very nearly went into shock. His face drained of color as his jaw went slack. He breathed stertorously as his head slowly wobbled back and forth in indicate, no. The indication wasn't even meant for Lang. It was more like a silent scream for help.
'Well then, Donn, I can't help you. I'd like to but I can't. I don't work for nothing.'
Lang held his open palm to the door showing Donn the way out.
What the hell are friends for? Donn thought as he stumbled out into the unseasonable ninety-eight degree heat. He was about to learn the meaning of friendship.
He had to control the feeling of convulsions as he the full nature of his predicament hit him. Tens of thousands of dollars for something he hadn't done? Donn's nervous agitation plus the heat soaked his clothes through.
His body drained of strength. His reflexes disappeared as he drove back to his apartment. His ankles shook uncontrollably as he walked across the garage. Unable to do the stairs even one at a time he rode the elevator.
His mail for the last couple days lay on his smashed computer unopened. To allay his despair he picked them up. The top piece was his Visa bill. He remembered what Lang had said. With bated breath he tore open the envelope. And there…there before his eyes was the charge slip from Ace High Publications. Someone had charged the videos to his account. An involuntary sob broke from Donn's chest as he reached for the phone book.
He knew Don Barger who worked for Carter, Harley, Exner, Agatson, Turner and Snyder. The firm didn't have quite the same cachet as Lang's and Barger wasn't a partner but he was good. Donn made an appointment.
A microphone had already been concealed in the mouthpiece of Donn's phone by Maggie. It transmitted to a voice activated tape recorder in Maggie's possession. It not only recorded Donn's phone conversations but picked up any conversation in the room or even any monologues Donn might have with himself.
As in keeping with custom the receptionist took his name and number and advised that they would call him back. The firm then checked around to find Donn's status before they called him back.
Thus that evening when Barger dined out with his family at the Multnomah County Country Club he happened to run into Maggie. While it was common but unspoken knowledge that Maggie was a homosexual, Don Barger, in the obtuse socially acceptable manner was ignorant of the fact. Barger was privately opposed to homosexuality. As it was not politic to avow such an opinion he discreetly kept his silence. He was also the father of a twelve year old girl and an eight year old boy. He was frantic to protect them from baleful influences. He was a sworn enemy of drug users and sex abusers.
In the course of their brief converstation Donn's scandalous arrest was mentioned. Maggie, who was aware of Don Barger's opinions let out that Donn was a homosexual and the nature of the videos. Barger's smoldering reaction let Maggie know he had hit his mark. Maggie bid him a pleasant goodnight.
Donn never knew what hit him. He was ushered right in but Barger had his arm up finger pointed toward the door before Donn had said a word, nor was he even offered the confrontational chair.
'I've seen the arrest report. I'll need a retainer of fifty thousand dollars to handle the case. You don't have it?' He said without pausing for an answer. 'Then I'm afraid I'll have to bid you a good day.'
Donn was dumbfounded. Frozen in his tracks, his mind reeled. He intuited the impossibility of finding decent representation even if he did have the money.
He gasped: 'But I have to have representation. How will I get it?'
'I'd check our Charlie Pooter.' Barger said. 'He may be able to do something for you. Once again, good day.' All the time with his finger pointing to the door.
Donn stumbled out of the office, down the hall and out before the elevators. 'Charlie Pooter?' He thought. Charlie Pooter? That guy doesn't even defend people, he just negotiates for the lowest possible sentence.'
Indeed, Pooter for years had been taking the petty drug cases, guys busted for a joint or two or a gram or less. It was agreed between he and the court that he wouldn't defend his clients but settle for whatever sentence the judge wished to impose. Now Donn was being shunted to him for sentencing. Donn could see clearly which way the railroad ran.
The elevator deaccelerated to stop with thump which was how Donn felt. He'd hit bottom. He stepped out of the elevator to cross the lobby. As he approached the doors, as if by chance, Warren Mogulson accosted him. Mogulson worked for the Assassin. He was a nasty little man. His brow was perpetually knitted in advance recognition of the little indignities the world would inflict upon him. He carped at everything. He began the next day's griping in his dreams. Sunny or wet, the day's weather was a matter of grief to him. His shorts were either too tight or too loose. Living in a food paradise in which fresh strawberries were available six months of the year, frozen ones year round, Warren complained that there wasn't an adequate choice of food. He had a choice between range fed, corn fed, or chemically fed beef but he still beefed on endlessly. Gripe, gripe, gripe, grind, grind, grind,gnash, gnash, gnash, endlessly, endlessly, endlessly.
His mind was tied in knots, none of his thoughts could proceed in a straight line. He lived to inflict his grief on others. Any little sneaky injury he could do, he did. He did it for pleasure. It was he that Maggie has used to place the cocaine in Donn's desk.
Maggie liked him. They had somewhat the same conception of self. They both had a prissy conception of being well dressed. Warren wore high waisted pants with those belts of a matching fabric with the little brass grommets. They both tried to wash their psychological dirt by being overscrubbed. Warren usually made a good first impression.
Today Maggie sent him to gather Donn's reactions and intentions.
'Oh, Donn, imagine meeting you here. What are you doing these days…now that you're no longer with the Paper.' He couldn't resist the dig.
'I, oh, I, had to see someone.' Donn said evasively trying to brush Mogulson off. Donn had no use for him; being of a euphoric temperament himself Mogulson only brought him down.
'I'll bet I know.' Warren burbled on. 'You were seeing a lawyer about that little trouble you had.'
'Well, yeah, I…' Donn began in a sickly troubled manner.
'Come on, Donn baby, let's go have a cup of coffee and get some of this off your chest.' Warren always had more than enough time to glory in other people's troubles.
Donn wanted to split but unaccustomed to the pressure, he needed to talk to someone.
'I didn't do it.' Donn said weakly as they walked up to the nearest national burger chain, which also passed for a restaurant.
'Of course you didn't, Donn. At least you didn't do anything wrong, at least I don't think you did. After all, it's all genetics. We're only realizing our destiny. Why shouldn't it be filmed? Don't you just hate those homophobic bigots? What right do they have to interfere in another man's pleasures? God knows those nasty heterosexuals have their faults. They're not perfect either.
Don't they know what damage they do to themselves when they repress genetic needs? The fuss they make about eight year old boys realizing their destiny. Don't they know nature's bounty? There's a million more in the womb at any given time. God!
Warren was talking loudly so others could hear.
He was trying to give Donn the character of a child abuser. Those who heard would transfer his expressed sentiment to Donn. Warren was talking sincerely for himself at the same time however. As a pederast he favored young virgin boys.
'I mean, after all, our third sex is genetic. One is born a homsexual whether one realizes it or not. A man's real nature is imprisoned by a lot of blathering social expectations. It's part of the the heterosexual plot against us to keep us from realizing our true nature, from enjoying life as only we know how.
After all, all we are doing is freeing the true child when we accept their love. After all , isn't freedom what America's all about? Freedom from that Medieval moral claptrap? I liken it to sculpting. I mean, how would anyone have even known those four presidents were concealed in Mt. Rushmore if they hadn't been blasted out? It's like that marvelous sculpture of the Christ by Da Vinci in which the Christ in the stone is only half released. The real man has to be full sculpted. Why shouldn't boys be affirmed in their true nature and be educated as one of their own sex. The third sex.
I mean…' Warren was capable of going on for hours in this manner but Donn interrupted him: 'Enough, Mogulson, enough. Stop. I don't want to hear it. Everybody is listening.' Donn got up to leave, Warren pulled him back down.
'Alright. Don't be rude. So what are you going to do?
Grief at his predicament overwhelmed Donn. In a moment of anguish he made up his mind and blurted out his intention.
'I don't know. I guess I have to leave town. They're going to put me in jail.'
'When will you leave?' Mogulson asked eagerly overjoyed at this success.
'Right away.' Donn said, wiping a tear away. 'I'll leave tomorrow.'
'Where are you going?' Mogulson persisted.
'Oh god, I don't know. Leave me alone, Mogulson, get away from me with your obscene chatter.'
Warren scurried away with a hateful backward sneer at Donn. He had partially succeeded, he could report back to Maggie that Donn was going to jump. He smiled a smile of satisfaction at Donn's discomfiture.
Dismissing Mogulson from his mind Donn raged over his legal predicament. He was innocent of this charge but unable to defend himself for lack of cash. Even then why should he have been required to spend cash, enormous sums, to clear himself. Disco Donn Contrales who had never worried about fairness before lamented that it wasn't fair.
Well he had to leave, that was clear. Perhaps if he were to be caught in another state, he thought, the evidence against him wouldn't be so compelling; perhaps he could exonerate himself that way without the enormous expense. But he didn't want to be caught. Too chancy, besides he knew these guys all hung together.
With fair presence of mind he had withdrawn his savings of several thousand dollars issued in travelers checks. He threw his credit cards away so his movements couldn't be traced from them. Then he went back to his apartment to pack his few undamaged belongings and rest.
As the morning sun streamed through the window Donn had made up his mind to head North to Seattle to plan his further course. In addition to his cash he still had his cosmic wheels, the Porsche, which he thought he would be able to sell for a good price if he ran out of money. Such thoughts as renewing his expensive insurance in the future hadn't occurred to him.
Donn's spirits lifted somewhat as he sat behind the wheel of his magnificent car that expressed less than the real Disco Donn Contrales as a specious imitation of him. He threaded his way across town to take 205 at the Everett access. His apprehension was acute as he joined I5 and inched along in the morning traffic toward the Interstate Bridge. He scanned the highway for police constantly. He felt a sense of relief as he touched down in Vancouver on the Washington side of the bridge. The Vancouver traffic thinned out as he forced his way through North. Then after Mill Plain he was able to open the throttle some until the open highway to Seattle beckoned.
Get your motor running,
Get out on the highway,
Born to be wild,
Born to be wild.
Mars Bonfire
The highway is for gamblers.
-Bob Dylan
The French homosexual, Marcel Proust, spent several thousand pages in an attempt to prove the superiority of homosexual lust over heterosexual love. His thesis was that heterosexuals surrender their personalities to a lifelong bondage in exchange for doubtful sexual privileges while homosexuals retain full autocracy while satisfying their lust in brief encounters in back alleys or wherever convenient.
Proust was a great student of ritual. He described with great clarity of detail the means and methods of homosexual encounters but he lacked psychological depth nor was he ever able to explain the origins of homosexuality. In his eyes homosexuals lived carefree unfettered lives. I'm sure homosexual marriage would have been incomprehensible to him.
Disco Donn was now learning what the denial of one of those casual carefree encounters could mean. Because of his denial of one such demand he was being pursued and driven to the depths of despair by a disappointed applicant. Donn had known the law of the lawless brotherhood; open the door and assume the position. He hadn't the power to refuse while Maggie Spingold had the power to make him repent his arrogance.
Now, behind the wheel of his cosmic vehicle, his astral wheels, as he imagined, safe out of Oregon, Donn relaxed behind the wheel snuggling into his seat, lulled into a euphoric state by the exhilaration of his purring engine and the open road. He didn't notice the bear in the air keeping pace with his progress down the highway. Washington at that time kept at least one helicopter patrolling I5. One of these now followed Donn up the highway. It was aided by the transmitter placed on the bumper by Maggie's hitman. A car trailed Donn about five miles back. The car had a shortwave. Its code name was Next Year.
Donn's agitation was slowly subsiding when a large blotch of crankcase oil spewed out behind the speeding Porsche. With earsplitting noise the pistons cracked and shot out the block. Donn's astral wheels rolled to a stop right here on Earth. They would never wheel him down the Betelgeuse Bridge no more.
The Bear transmitted the news to Next Year who pulled to a stop to receive further instructions. Donn understood his situation immediately. He had been sabotaged. He no longer had transportation and his cash reserve was thereby destroyed. He would have to leave many thousands of dollars on the apron of the highway.
Men don't cry and Donn didn't, at least not externally. Inwardly he spent five minutes in total grief before he got control of himself and disgustedly grabbed his bag to get out on the highway with his thumb out. As luck would have it the car had coasted to as stop at the Mossyrock exit, US 12.
Donn, who was faced with a quick decision abandoned his notion of going to Seattle preferring to get off the main highway. He walked the offramp up to Twelve to stand in glum expectation of a ride. Twelve isn't the best hitchhiking road in America. It leads across the Cascades between Mts. Ranier and St. Helens into the deserts of central Washington. There was only one good highway across the state to Spokane and Idaho. The only other good road led back to Oregon. Donn didn't know and he wouldn't have cared if he had known. His only thought at the moment was to avoid being picked up by the police.
He thought he was being pursued. In fact the charges would be quietly shelved. Maggie's objective had been attained. A trial might possibly have exposed the frame which might lead to who knows where. The police would not pursue Donn but his disappointed lover would.
There he stood in his grey silver toed boots, grey pants, waiter cut grey jacket, shades and grey flat hat. Out of his element he cut a ludicrous comic figure by the side of the road. He was oblivious of the fact. Donn's heart nearly stopped when a black Porsche identical to his own came off Interstate 5 to stop in front of him. Maggie was truly vicious. The door accommodatingly flew open.
'Hop in.' Said a smiling voice.
'Yeah, thanks.' Donn said.
The shining Porsche splashed out on Twelve. The driver smiled over at Donn.
'You ever driven one of these? Great car. You'd love it. Just point it in the direction you want to go and it'll go there. Incredible suspension.'
'Yuh, I've ridden in one.' Donn said ruefully.
'I'm taking this little buggy to New York. How far are you going?;
Donn should have given an evasive or false answer but his hammered state of mind and joy at his luck prevented his seeing the obvious ruse. He hadn't known where he was going but with the prospect of a through ride things clarified themselves.
'St. Louis.' Donn said.
'St. Louis? No kidding? How lucky can you get?: Why St. Louis? What are you going to do there?'
'TV anchorman.' Donn replied matter-of-factly not realzing how ludicrous that sounded coming from a hitchhiker in what now could be seen only as very eccentric garb.
Donn, not yet used to his status of knight of the road, leaned back unaware of his preposterousness. In any other driver it would have raised a smile but his host, the same as had been following him, Next Year, took it all in seriously as he was acquiring the information he had been sent to obtain. It no longer made any difference what Donn did on his way to St. Louis, his reception would be prepared when he got there. Nor is it likely that had there been an opening for a TV news announcer in St. Louis Donn would have been refused; he was good looking, confident and personable. Personable to the extreme when he turned it on.
The driver having now obtained the information he needed became amiable. He and Donn got along famously. The car climbed into the mountains, Ranier on the left, the stump of St. Helens on the right.
The lake at Mossyrock slipped by as the afternoon warmth was negated by the air conditioning. A few miles beyond Packwood the driver suddenly realized that he had failed to turn off the sprinkler.
'Oh, damn, I'm going to have to go back to do that.' The driver smiled ruefully at Donn. 'Sorry, buddy, you'll have to get out. Sorry 'bout that, old pal.'
The car made a U leaving Donn by the side of the road away out there. You don't know how far out that is until you're standing beside an inhospitable road with your thumb out. The afternoon heat still shown on the mountain crests. The scenery was stunning there in the woods, but Donn didn't notice it. He stared glumly up and down the road. There isn't that much traffic on Twelve and what there is is mainly short hops.
The sun went down on Donn as he stood away out there, solitary, silent and glum. When one wonders how alone you can get; Donn's situation was a fair approximation. No matter how hot the day it gets pretty cold up there at night. The sparse traffic ceased completely. Cold and disconsolate he shouldered his bag and started walking just to keep warm.
Donn's boots weren't made for walking. It didn't take long for his feet and legs to start howling. In despair Donn threw down his bag, sat on it, put his head in his arms and roared and bellowed.
He sat in the pitch black night for hours oblivious of time. He heard the roar of an engine in the distance laboring uphill. It sounded like a big eighteen wheeler, an old one.
Even though the truck had been some distance away when he first heard it he had just gotten to his feet when its headlights penetrated the darkness of the uphill slope on which he stood. Donn edged out into the roadway the better to be seen. As luck would have it the driver was lonely and pulled to a stop.
It was an old, old rig. Not a cab over, its long snout protruded before the windshield. It might have been a White or Mack but any identifying insignia had disappeared long ago. The color was either rust or brown. The driver was pulling two empty gravel bottoms.
Donn gratefully leaped in. Putting the truck through its innumerable gears the driver regained momentum. The truck roared so loudly you couldn't hear yourself think. The driver wanted to talk. Donn was obligated to do so. Groggy from lack of sleep, exhausted by anxiety he tried to shout over the engine. Unable to be heard he had to scream.
As the driver came down the mountain he let the big rig roll. It was the most terrifying ride of Donn's life. The sides of the bottoms flapped and banged behind him. The truck careened down the highway at breakneck speed seemingly pushed by the bottoms beyond anything but the driver's ability to steer it.
'How do you stop this thing if you have to?' Donn screamed at the driver.
'Don't know. Never had to." The driver shouted back with a complacent smile enjoying some kind of trucker humor.
'Jesus. Can't.' Thought Donn.
Donn heaved a sigh of relief as the driver pulled over just after leaving the Douglas Wilderness Area to let him out.
Beat and tired he stood by the side of the road trying to collect his thoughts. Then he grimly realized where he was. He was standing in this burning desert with the sun rising. July in the desert is no picnic. This was where the Wobblies had been packed into sealed rail cars in July to be transported hundreds of roasting miles across the central desert of Washington and Oregon. They hadn't had any water then; Donn hadn't had anything to drink since noon the previous day.
Hands on hips Donn stood looking up and down the highway kicking dust all over his beautiful grey boots with the silver plates. Suddenly he realized how quickly one got seedy away out there. His boots were dusty, his clothes rumpled. By the end of the day he would be smelly, if he lived. For the first time he realized how ridiculous his outfit was. He wished he had regular clothes. He looked around for some sign of running water but found nothing but scorched desert.
At ten he began to get uneasy. At eleven, as the heat began to build he got desperate. Just at that moment a car appeared in the shimmer to pull over. It wasn't a mirage. The back door flipped open. The car was an old jalop. Some big huge sedan dating back to the thirties, possibly a Ford V8. The car was enormously roomy. Donn could stretch his legs all the way out without touching the front seat. There was just enough room on the seat for him. The other side was piled high with junk.
Donn pushed his bag into it staring at the assortment of articles with wonder. He had been engaged in this for two or three minutes when, mouth open, he turned his eyes forward. His eyes were met by a ragged leering countenance.
'Hi! I'm Zadok, this here's Amirah. We're Cristins.' Zadok said from deep in his throat. 'How about you?'
'I'm dying of thirst. You wouldn't happen to have a drink of water, would you?' Donn croaked, holding out his hand in anticipation.
'Water? You need 'living' water. All I gots still water.' Zadok said meaning that he couldn't give Donn the spiritual 'living' water of Jesus. Donn thought he meant that he didn't have carbonated Perrier.
'That's alright. It'll do.' He said, motioning for the water.
'Hand me the water. I'm dying of thirst.'
Zadok paused then passed back a full half gallon jug.
'Ya always gotta have this kinda water out here, especially further out, ya never know when ya might break down.'
Donn gulped a couple slugs, skull aching from being up all night. His feet were killing him.
'Well?' Zadok pressed.
'Uh, oh yeah, excellent water. Thanks.' Donn nodded.
'Well, ya gonna answer or not?'
'Answer what?' Donn said, having forgotten the question.
'Well, you Christin' or not?'
Donn wobbled. He hadn't felt the need of the grace of god since perhaps he was twelve; on the other hand he had never formally rejected the notion of god in his mind. He really didn't know for sure in the circumstances.
'Not a very devout one.' He replied equivocally and prudently.
'Well, ya better git devout.' Zadok said thrusting his jaw at him. 'And right away. Do ya know what's gonna happen?'
Donn will be excused for taking the sally as some kind of threat. Actually Zadok was just a blunt speaker. He and Amirah were pretty crude guys. His speech concealed reams of suppositions and explanations left unspoken. Donn not understanding the notions behind the question sat erect, compressed his lips and shook his head 'no' ready for anything.
'He's comin' back real soon. You're gonna get left behind if ya don't shape up.'
'Oh yeah, when?' Donn said comprehending and disgusted at his momentary apprehension.
'Real quick.' Zadok said vaguely. 'Me'n Amirah here is real Bible students, we got it all figured out. We got ourselfs a commune of like believers. We live out in the Rattlesnake Hills where it is His comin' back spot. Wanna join our commune?'
Both Amirah and Zakok were rough, mean, ignorant boys who kept moving from the center of society to the fringes. Partially by inclination, partially because they were forced out. They had had a fair chance, coming from the bottom half, but they wouldn't take the chances offered them and they rejected the discipline necessary to take advantage of them. Somehow they, or Amirah at least, had learned to read well enough to puzzle through passages of the Bible. Apparently only a minimum reading skill is necessary.
As they were unable to function in the complexities of society they had gradually found their way out into the desert when no one else wanted to be. Each was convinced that he was destined to make a mark on the world. Through movies and TV they projected themselves on all the leading tough guys and men of action. Their lives were lived through a haze of movie euphoria.
Along the way they had picked up several women by whom each had had a passel of children. These plus a couple male hangers on formed their 'commune.'
These guys were rought tough men given over entirely to the gratification of their vices. Interpreting the Bible in such a way that they personally had dominion over the beasts of the field and the birds of the air. As the anointed of god all men, women and children were subject to their use and abuse. Consequently they indulged their sexual fantasies with any of the women, children and men of the commune. Zadok and Amirah were pretty vile guys. But… Holy.
Donn had all the trappings of culture. These guys revolted him. He wasn't afraid but he should have been more wary. He decided to play with them.
'Hey, Zadok, you know that you use 'ain't' improperly?'
'So! I ain't no snob. So what?'
'No. No. I don't mean you shouldn't use ain't; I mean you use ain't improperly.'
'What the hell you talkin' about? Ain't's aint.'
'No, it ain't.' Donn sparred on. 'Ain't is a contraction of am not. Therefore it can properly be used in I ain't but it is improper to say you, he, we or they ain't. Just a small point. I thought you'd like to know.'
Zadok and Amirah had no idea what Donn was talking about but any display of learning they didn't have was a put down to them.
'I told you so…' Amirah whistled under his breath.
Zadok nodded. 'Yeah?' He said to Donn. 'Well argue with this son-of-a-bitch.' Zadok snarled flopping a big .45 pistol over the seat back, cocking the hammer as he did so.
Donn was from Texas. He didn't flinch. This fact made a big impression on Zadok.
'Hey, put that thing down, man. I was just trying to help. It was just small talk. Relax man.'
'I'll relax when a anti-Christ like you is outta my car.'
'I heard that.' Amirah said as he found a dirt road leading to god knows where.
They had already gone through Yakima and were out on the Rattlesnake Hills road when they turned off. They dropped off several miles out into the desert hills and left him. Fortunately for Donn he held onto the water jug. The sun was blazing down. Donn decided to wait for nightfall to walk out. He got down into the shade of an embankment and waited.
By nightfall Donn, who had been dozing on and off was too weary to move. He was too weary to make a decision so he sat there cold and miserable throughout the night. It wasn't sleep but it was rest. He was alerted to the coming of day as the advance glow from the sun's rays mingled with inspissated gloom of night. The light particles increased in force lifting and driving away the darkness like fog being absorbed by the air as it warmed.
Dispirited but thankful to be alive Donn finished off his still water, pushed himself to his feet and began the trudge back to the Rattlesnake Hills road; fortunately he hadn't encountered any rattlesnakes.
Those boots troubled him mightily. By the time he reached the road his feet pained him greatly. Luck was with him this morning. He had barely put his thumb out when a clean obviously well maintained but old car pulled over to offer him a ride.
'Terrible place to hitchhike son. Whatever possessed you to take this road. There ain't nothing on it for fifty mile or more. You could die out here easy. This heat'n all, no water.'
Donn sat there trying to come up with a plausible answer.
'I don't know. I had a ride and this is just the place they dropped me off.'
'Not very Christian folk were they?' The driver, Al Martin, commented.
'Well, they said they were, but I guess not.' Donn smiled ironically.
'You just goin' up to the Tri-Cities?' Al asked.
'No. Further.'
'Hmmm. You know why I stopped to pick you up, son?'
'Christian charity, I suppose.'
'That's no joke, son, and that's part of it. No, there was just something about you that said you were a fine boy who'd had a streak of bad luck. Am I right?'
'I'm hardly a boy, sir.' Donn responded somewhat testily.
'Well, son, I'm seventy-six years old and I hope you'll allow me some of my fantasies I've entertained since I was a boy. I always wanted to be kind and fatherly.'
'Oh yeah, sure.'
'You look pretty beat. You look like you could use a break today. I got a place up here in Eureka, that's on the other side of the junction with the Snake. You can stay for the night, clean up, get some rest if you like.'
Go to continuation at Part II-2, Disco Donn Demands Deliverance.
Posted in fiction, Gay, Homosexuality, Homosexuals, Novels, Oregon, Portland, Seventies, Stories, Uncategorized, Writing
This is the story of Disco Donn. The story take place in the late seventies. Today is 5/17. I put up ten pages a day so the story will take about 25 days to put up. Read along or wait.
Two Episodes In The Life Of Disco Donn
1. Disco Donn Does Deep Elum. 20 pages.
2. Disco Donn Demands Deliverance 200 pages.
Disco Donn Does Deep Elum
Interstellar Overdrive
Come see. The night was dark; the city was not. The night was also stormy, but it was the mild off again, on again drizzle that descends in a gentle fine mist from the solid overcast skies of Portland, Oregon.
The lights of the city pitched up against the low hanging clouds reflecting back again in a red infernal like haze. The moon was yellow but it was above the clouds where no one could see but the passengers on the big jetliners cruising along at eight miles high.
Contributing to the light storm of Portland was the giant light frieze of Disco Deep Elum deep in Goose Hollow. A score of phantom dancers depicted in tens of thousands of colored light ball gyrated back and forth in simulated ecstasy, their electric spirits undampened by the laughing rain.
Beneath them on the glittering pavement live partyers flowed toward this great sybaritic church dedicated to sexual gratification. In imitation of Hollywood, Sid Epstein, the impressarion had pressed his hands, feet and nose into the concrete. The DJs had done the same, some substituting lips and suggestive drawings for Sid's use of her nose with the two little lines next to it. So far none of the citizenry had been coaxed to leave an indelible record of their existence on Planet Earth as Sid and the others hoped.
Goose Hollow had at one time been one of the loveliest areas of Portland but 26 had sliced it in two with its six lanes of asphalt elevated above the Hollow's floor. What was left was a ruin in which on the West side up against the reservoir sat Disco Deep Elum. If one had been sitting on the dam of the reservoir looking down into the service area behind Deep Elum one would have seen how some of the other half passed their leisure time.
For there lounging among the garbage cans were some eight or nine young men; hommies, just thoroughly beaten up hommies, guys who got their kicks through fatal crashes, mass murders and the like. There among the dented cans, the fetid smells, the little puddles that might at one time have been water, probably something else now, they stood idly far from each other, jealously incommunicative, sullenly waiting, waiting…hating and despising themselves and all that pertained to them. Would the redeemer ever come?
Come see. Donn Contrales was busy putting on the finishing touches of his toilette. Donn lived at 3211 W. Park not too far from the art museum in one of the most charming streets in Portland. The Park Blocks extended from the University on the South end for several blocks to the Gramercy Club at the North end. The Gramercy was where the Old Boy Network headquartered to determine the shape of things to come.
Donn Contrales lived on the fifth and top floor front of the Short Arms Apartments. The Apartments, brick faced, austere, yet somehow relaxed in a state of excitement, as the Oregon Tourist ad once ran, in architectural styling. He looked out his window into the tops of the lofty elms filling the block wide strand separating Ease and West Park. Down through the trees the greensward below shown up.
Donn's apartment which was a kitchen, living room, bedroom and bath was furnished in a peculiar spartan manner. The floors were of a fine old hardwood uncovered except by two small Persian style rugs in the living room one beside his army cot in the bedroom.
The furniture of the living room consisted of a small wooden bench not unlike a church pew, a fairly large flat oak desk which held Donn's new computer, and a matching oak chair. As Donn was both the classical and pop music reviewer for the Oregon Daily Assassin, the States leading paper, there was a set of shelves four high and about six feet long flanked by MacIntosh speakers with the amp and turntable to the left side. A TV and VCR stood before the kitchen door while another guarded the bedroom door.
The light pink painted walls were decorated with pictures of Donn in various sizes and poses in various states of deshabille,as well as reproductions of his signature. The bedroom walls were decorated in the same manner with a couple of nudes of himself. A collapsible army cot was placed against the middle wall beneath a four by six full length reclining nuce of Donn that he called the Naked Mojo. As the apartment had only a small closet there were several rolling department store clothes racks against the walls that contained a wardrobe for each facet of Donn Contrales multi-faceted personality.
There was a lot of out there and Donn didn't want to miss any of it. These were the late seventies. America's years of prosperity, TV, Movie and Recorded Musical fantasies and endless yammering about some mirage that no one ever saw called the American Dream had produced the psychological type named Donn Contrales. As can be seen he even spelled Donn with two enns to express his individuality and superiority to the scene he both loved and professed to despise.
Reality to Donn was the movie screen. Society had passed from the notion that all the world's a stage to all the world's a movie. Real life had lost hits consequence, or so it seemed to Donn. People acted out destructive fantasies as though they were only characters in a movie that could be set aside after the show while the actors resumed their former status. There were people who actually went to prison only to discover to their chagrin that their movie was real life and that they could not resume their former existence.
Donn could separate his roles from such dire consequences, but he did want it all. All was of course what Donn could see and feel and he could not see far or very clearly or feel much. Unlike most of his contemporaries who went around roaring that cliche Donn was capable of getting most of 'it', as he perceived it, if not all. He was capable of adopting a convincing and appropreate persona for each of the many facets of his many faceted personality. Hence his extensive collection of wardrobes.
He had some good Harris tweeds for his appearances at the Daily Assassin which gave him a very solid yet sporty appearance. He had some nice black suits with patent leather pumps for his classical music persona. And of course some wild stuff for the disco. Donn himself was a pretty good looking guy. It was peroxided of course but his tousled shock of blond hair couple with a black mustache, full from nose to lip and from just beyond the corners of his mouth gave him a aresponsible but devil-may-care facade. His face was symetrically square, nice smile and his eyes twinkled blue. He was slightly long in the body and thick in the thighs but he knew how to dress around these defects. At five-nine it may be fairly said that when Donn stood up before the ladies' auxiliaries todiscuss the glories of classical music that a very satisfied body of women sat before him.
The feeling was not mutual. Donn's desires ran in other channels. Donn was a militant homosexual. He wasn't in the closet but he was discreet. He saw the utility of appearing straight but not narrow. He was an ardent advocate of tolerance, which is to say that he thought homosexuals should be deferred to. He had seen too much of the results of bigotry here in the twentieth century he was fond of saying not to deplore homophobia.
Yet he employed the means of bigotry he professed to deplore. He thought it necessary to censor adverse opinion and exterminate the opposition. The Daily Assassin thrugh its editor, Mingo Miyriy, who was herself a closet lesbian and several high ranking editors and employees were in the forefront of this homoseuxal revolution. They were determined that it should triumph in Portland and throughout Oregon.
Donn was currently employed in the Assassin's attempt to destroy a heterosexual County Commissioner by the name of E. (Earl) L. Shaddai. Earl had been elected by an Eastside constituency that was fearful of homosexuality, or as Donn would say, didn't know its asshole from a hole in the ground. Earl had pledged his voters that he would do the best he could to contain it.
The homosexual community was up in arms at his election. They would tolerate no oppostion to their goals, although nominally tolerant. They wanted E.L. Shaddai removed from office. One might say there was nothing they could do about it, Earl was in office and it appeared that he would have no difficulty in being re-elected. There was nothing fair and square or legal that could be done about Shaddai but as Hitler observed: Everyone forgives a successful crime.
Donn had been used, was being used in setting Shaddai up for the fall. While modern political man professes to despise Hitler they love his methods. Donn had befriended Earl in his facet as daytime pop music editor which was much less formal than his classical facet and more sporty than his office facet but less outre than his night time disco facet. He had betrayed the friendship by asking Earl out to dinner. The Community was establishing a character for Shaddai. Oddly enough they were going to destroy him by making it appear that he was one of them but a hypocrite. Consequently Donn take Earl to the Great Gotham Hotel.
The Hotel was a homosexual bath house. The place was run very discreetly so as not to risk interference by religious groups or the police. Not all homosexuals were allowed in on it and, if any, virtually no heterosexuals knew what went on behind its doors. The dining room was along the West wall facing the public rooms. The public rooms were the showers, pissoirs and stools. Donn disappeared just after entering leaving Earl and an attractive young guy in a bath towel who showed up to cross the public rooms together giving the appearance that Earl was taking his date to dinner.
Earl was stunned at the sight of naked men lounging around while one guy who was urinating flashed him a big smile over his shoulder. Earl turned in disgust to rush from the place only to find himself stranded as Donn who had insisted on driving was gone. Laughter, jeers and catcalls followed him down Stark as he headed for the city's premier hostelry, The Oregon Trail, and its cab stands.
Nevertheless Earl could not honestly deny that he had to the Great Gotham. Any explanation could be denied by Donn and several witnesses. A step had been taken to establish his character as a homosexual.
For this night Donn's facet was Disco Donn Contrales. For this one he had a terrific macho cowboy outfit, for Donn portrayed the macho man. For this one Donn didn't put his pants on like an ordinary guy, one let at a time. The pants were very tight, very form fitting. To get the leg proportions right the thighs had to be cut very snug; thus Donn sat on his army cot putting both legs in at the same time. He had to work his pants over the thighs very carefully. Standing up he forced his fly shut turning to look at this reflection in the full lenght mirror. 'You've got your mojo working tonight, you hunk.' Donn exulted to himself. Actually his fanny was a little too flat but he blinked twice and it fleshed out.
Satisfied, he felt the need for a coke break. Donn was a very aware guy. Working for the Assassin he knew exactly how the police powers were used. Consequently he left nothing lying around his apartment. He reached won and knocked the ends of his cot apart, shook a vial of cocaine out of the hollowed out frame strut, tapped out a couple lines, then carefully replaced the vial, reassembling the cot before he imbibed. Disco Donn shook his head in glowing anticipation. He was about to mount his cosmic wheels and roll around heaven for a bit. He was about to make his vision of himself a visionary reality. The cosmic power shot up his nose penetrating his brain like the divine arrow of God, suffusing his brain with a flow of intense omnipotence. His mental vision of himself seemed perfect. He was the God/Man. He before whom all should fall. He saw all, knew all and understood all. It was all his, others used what they had at his sufferance. He would brook no contradiction. For these few blessed moments his life shone. Everything he had ever done seemed right.
He flicked on all four VCRs. Instantaneously the same four videos appeared on the screens. Endless non-stop performances of fellation lubricated the screens. The recond was already on the turntable. ( This was pre-CD) He flipped it on moving the needle over to the last cut, Interstellar Overdrive by Pink Floyd. His song. The powerful rumble of the strident notes and chords reverberated through his soul.
He sat down on the his cot to pull on his boots. Thoughts crowded through his brain, not in any order or sequence. Disco Donn could obviously not support his life style on his income from the Daily Assassin. He glowed with satisfaction at the thought that with his new computer he could transmit his articles direct to the Assassin; there would no longer be any need, he tought, to go into work. This invention would leave him more time to augment his salary by other means. This included selling cocaine.
Donn was a key figure in a network that included a couple cells at the Assassin. It was run off the loading dock. Get it? That was an in joke. The Loading Dock. It was right next to the Loading Zone. (Wink, wink) Mingo Miybriy was not involved, nor could it be said that the Assassin Corp. was involved, but it could also be said that Mingo and management were totally oblivious to the fact. It was just expedient to not notice or make embarrassing equiries. Many companies had cells that were either unknown or ignored. Or, possibly used.,
Donn had a box of demo records to take down and sell, too. He recieved thousands of records a year. It was impossible to listen to them all, he chose what looked most promising or what he had been directed to, often with gifts of cocaine from the record companies, and sold the rest. Then around the corner of his mind he glanced up at one the screens, he remembered a memory that gave him grim satisfaction.
There had been a rock and roll singer in town by the name of Terry Roberts. He wasn't either a good singer or a good rock n' roller but Donn had developed a crush on him. He had pursued him relentlessly but Terry, who had girlish good looks was adamantly hetero. He wouldn't have anything to do with Donn. In fact he made several churlish remarks about 'fags' that Donn took expecial offense at. Well, Donn thought, if you won't go down on me you'll go down nevertheless and you're not going to like it at all.
Terry did like his cocaine. Donn could and had supplied him. Rock n' rollers aroused the antipathy of a lot of people. A large part of the population wanted to see rock n' rollers behind bars. Donn agreed to sell Terry a couple grams. Donn didn't show with the coke but a nark did. Terry was busted and given ten years for buying two grams of coke. The joke was that it wasn't cocaine but baking soda. Terry's attorney didn't 'think' to check so Terry went up for buying baking soda. As Donn thought Terry was having a very bad time in jail. He'd lost his front teeth on the first day. Within six months he would be found hanging behind the prison furnace to the intense satisfaction of all concerned. More than one way to skin a cat.
The images danced on the screen, Interstellar Overdrive penetrated the walls. Donn stood up. His grey snake skin boots with the tuck and roll on the instep, silver plate in front, silver plate behind were resplendent. The sheen on his grey gabardine pants was perfect. His white cowboy shirt was immaculate, his string tie perfection. Donn put on his belt with the huge silver buckle that covered his midriff. the buckle depicted a cowboy astride a bucking bronco. I'm the cowboy that ain't never been throwed, Disco Donn exulted.
He slipped into his grey cowboy jacket that looked somewhat like a waiter's jacket, then he stepped over to the mirror to fluff up the back of his hair. That done he picked up his mirrored sun glasses that the reflected the world back n itself while allowing him to see it. He squared his round brimmed flat topped grey hat on his head fluffing the hair out behind again. He paused for a moment to collect himself on his cosmic wheels, then made sure to turn off his videos. The stereo had already shut off automatically.
Donn went back to snort another couple lines, washing the residue down the drain to as to leave no trace. He stood up, took a deep breath, as he seemed to elongate into the stratospher. He was eight miles high. He thought he could see the big yellow moon behind the clouds just like the folks on that big mainliner up there that goes from sea to sea.
Come see. Disco Donn stepped out of the elevator into the parking garage beneath the Short Arms Apts. He paused striking a heroic pose as he glanced left and right calmly adjusting his mirrored sun glasses. Between his dark, glasses, the protruding brim of his hat that nearly rested on his glasses and the gloom of the parking lot it was amazing that he didn't trip over his own feet, but he walked with the steady purpose of a movie cowboy coming up the street at High Noon over to his shiny black Porsche.
It was amazing, he thought, that the auto manufacturers of this world should design a car that so perfectly matched his character. It was more, he thought, than a coincidence. With a certain awe for their prescience, he sincerely believed they must have known that he was there.
He opened the door, then standing with one hand on his door top the other atop the vehicle, one foot on the rocker panel he gave one more significant glance around the garage before ducking into his vehicle- his Solar Chariot, his Astral Wheels.
The firing of the engine, the roar of power, somehow meshed with the cocaine running round his brain to boost him to yet a higher plateau. His being was filled with euphoric exultation. As he waited for the gate to rise wahich seemed to rise in icrements of millimeters, retrace its increments and rise again, Donn waxed philosophic. He exulted in his power and the control of his world that he felt. It was all in knowing how to use what you got, he thought. It was uncanny how without any training or forethought he just knew what to do. It was just his destiny to be great.
Cocaine and sex- take just two examples for instance. He could use either to create or destroy, he thought. If he liked you, which meant that you went along with his desires, you could share blessed exalted moments with him. If he didn't like you, well, Terry knew about that as well as two or three girls who had not treated him with the respect he deserved. Now, their pride gone, they begged for cocaine for which they had to give him more than money. Could it be said that Donn was running a string? Boy, that's harsh, hey, maybe he just needed a favor for a friend from time to time.
So with sex. That homophobe E.L. Shaddai was going to be destroyed on the accusation of homosexuality, yet he, Disco Donn Contrales could practice it with immunity. It was almost weird, thought Donn, shaking his head in wonder.
Disco Donn was no longer of this world as the cocaine lifted his mind beyond awareness of mundane affairs. The gate banged up as Disco Donn leaned back his head in a manic grin of unvoiced laughter. He roared out into the street unaware of possible pedestrians or traffic. Fortunately the street was clear. But then as yet he was not moving fast. His world was slowed down so that at 25 miles per hour he seemed to sailing through it. Indeed, all else seemed to be frozen in time but himself. The wet pavement glistened black and silver beneath his headlights. Rays of light bounced from the buildings, ricocheting into the pavement against opposite walls and back again or else escaped into the stratosphere.
Disco Donn was no longer of this earth. He had even left his Solar Chariot behind as he mounted his Astral Wheels to climb aboard the Betelguese Bridge far out into the light year starshine of the great and limitless void.
Elated he recalled the lines of a Donovan song which made him tilt back his head and roar with laughter:
If shitting is your problem
When you're out among the stars,
The intergallactic laxative
Will get you from to Mars.
Mars? Mars hell, he thought, I'm on the cosmic transmission belt taking the riches of Earth to Betelgeuse at faster than the speed of light. Faster than the speed of light? Oh, oh he thought, if this is an expanding universe maybe the bridge will separate from Betelgeuse before I get there. What a cosmic leap that would have to be. Warp five burst from his mind.
He had been insensibly speeding up as his fantasy dominated his mind. He had flown through a red light at Jefferson and Fifteenth totally unawares. Now as he was about to plunge the pedal to the metal for War Five the lights of Disco Deep Elum loomed before him. Like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the Terminator his mind plunged from his Astral Wheels and entered his terrestrial vehicle. Reflexively his foot moved from the gas pedal and slammed on the brake.
Disco Donn was somewhat short of Warp Five but he was definitely over the speed limit. Fortunately a Porsche can corner on a dime so Donn was capable of making a right turn, at right angles that is, into the parking lot of Disco Deep Elum. Why was there an empty parking space directly ahead of Donn in the crowded parking lot? Why, because he was Captain Disco Donn Contrales of the Space Patrol of course.
Donn, somewhat breathless from his midnight ride into the far reaches of outer space found it necessary to sit for severral minutes while his brain caught him and he could remember where he was and what he had come for.
Donn Contrales was from down in Texas, a state I dearly love. Given his temperament his youth had been difficult; not hard, but challenges of which the less than successful handling had been costly to his psyche.
The central fact of his existence was of course the rape which had set the terms and conditions of his homosexuality and subsequent life, of which, more in a moment. Secondary was the fact that while Bob Wills may still be king in Texas, football is the foundation of the universe. Donn didn't have the temperament for football. But he had been of good size for his age and it had been demanded that he play. Donn thought he had better things to do with body than be speared under the ribs with a helmet with forty-two gold stars on it. But he had played and the memory of that spearing lived with him every day. His ribs hurt just to think about it.
At SMU Donn, thank his lucky stars, couldn't make the team, or maybe he didn't try that hard. He did take up boxing for reasons that weren't too clear to him, but had to do with his rape. He'd been OK. He had been the intramural middleweight champ. He wasn't in the same class with anyone named Suger but he could handle himself.
The hits he had taken in boxing rankled him too. He liked to hit but he didn't like to be hit. So, his rape, which was a suppressed memory, the football, the boxing was a hammering that conditioned his attitude toward sex.
Come see. Now, look over there. Around the corner, down the long backside of Deep Elum to the service area where among the garbage cans they're still waiting, waiting…patiently waiting, hoping for a deliverer.
These are the ones who have abandoned hope. they have lost all aspects of dignity and self-respect. They have chosen the garbage cans as their assignation place because they feel like human garbage. They have made garbage their symbol. While some old shields used to have a lion rampant? These guys would have had an old dented garbage can rampant. They had been beaten, stripped, pushed down not only the straight world but by their fellow homosexuals, until now their only shred of human dignity is to conceal their hopes of dignity behind a shield of compusive lying. Their only hope of obtaining parity is to conceal everything behind a shield of lies where prying eyes cannot deride them further. They won't even tell you their names. They are know by innumerable aliases. One may injure their bodies but without their correct name one can't reach their true selves.
Nello Nitti leans against the wall with Brando leathers, aloof and disdaining his fellows, as the 'Man.' Chancy Flegenheimer, who has been dancing nervously back and forth for hours is known as Frisco tonight.
Over picking through the garbage cans, tearing open plastic bags, looking for a choice morse. or two is Soupy Feensteen. Soupy retains his own name because he has attained the somewhat specious dignity of being the founder of the Jewish Queers Against Fascism. O, look, he moved aside some lettuce and has found a whole drumstick, not even a bit out of it. His eyes light up as he lovingly brings this delicacy to his lips. God has been especially good to him.
Bullet Bob studies the water streaks on the wall. Some fresh, some surviving from the weeks of constant rain, some terminated in long deltas of mold. Stands of putrid water interlace with the higher levels of the asphalt. Bullet Bob looks down to see his reflection in a little puddle of fetid water when an electric thrill goes through the assembled 'girls.' It was as though they split in two and came together again at his appearance.
Down the long backside of Disco Deep Elum the grey eminence of Disco Donn Contrales could be seen, fire seeming to flach from mirrored sun glasses as though from his eyes. Insterstellar Overdrive still rumbled in is ears. But Disco Donn could easily carry two tunes at one time in his multi-faceted brain. As he slowly paced off the disatance between the them in measured steps at a measured pace with all the drama of John Wayne walking into town with his saddle at this side he sang a verse of the old Slim Whitman song, Rose Marie, in a sardonic fashion.
Oh Rose Marie, I love you,
I'm always thinking of you.
Of all the 'Queens' who ever lived
I'd choose you
To rule me,
My Rose Marie.
He chuckled and sang at the same time in anticipation of his confrontation with the 'girls,' for Disco Donn believed he was one supremely clever guy.
They watched his slow approach with bated breath, half joyfully, half apprehensively, swallowing hard for one never knew what 'he' might do. What 'he' would do or who 'he' would choose. Frisco stopped dancing, the Man remained leaning contemptuously against the wall. The others with the exception of Soupy Feensteen stood tensely waiting. Soupy was too proud to nitice the stranger; he contined his search for delectables.
Then He stood before them silent, unsmiling, commanding, overpowering them with His superior presence. They felt small. They felt insignficant. They felt dirty. They stood trembling in anticiption, waiting for Him to speak, make a gesture. He said nothing, he did nothing, he stood there immobile relecting them back on themselves from his silver eyes. A faint smile flickering on his lips compelled them to speak first allowing Him to keep the upper hand.
Frisco was in awe of the Presence. The grey was beautiful against the lowering skies and under the floodlights. The glasses made Donn seem mysterious. Frisco knew the game, he swallowed what passed for his pride.
'What do you want?' Frisco muttered, looking down and away.
His question was met by a deep chuckle. 'No. I think the question is what do you want?' Disco Donn said sententiously pushing his glasses up with his middle finger. His leer gave Frisco hope.
Frisco jammed his hands into his pockets rendering him defenseless, looked down and glanced over at his buddy, the Man, against the wall.
'Do you want it?' Disco Donn demanded.
The lump in Frisco's throat was too big to speak around. He nodded dumbly.
'Well, it's there. All you gotta do is reach out and take it. You do know where it's at, don't you?' Disco Donn forced out in guttural as the rut overtook him. 'Well, don't you?'
Frisco shook his head yes in open mouthed wonder as his glance went around the garbage cans from eye to eye. With a kind of wondering awe he put out his had to lift the immense belt buckly to unzip Donn's fly. Anticipation dominated his mind, his breath was coming heavily when he heard and then felt the fist smash into his cheekbone and the musty wter on the pavement seep through his dirty jeans.
Disco Donn was reenacting what he couldn't remember: his rape. In that long ago time he had helt the fist of his uncle come out of the blue for no reason he could understand. His innocence had been ripped from him and cruelly thrown back in his face. His uncle saying: 'I'm going to do to you just what was done to me.' had beaten him so that his eyes were black and blue, then grabbing his ears his uncle had manipulated his head in fellatio. Then throwing Donn back down he said: 'You better tell everyone that you got those black eyes from tripping and the stairs and sliding down them on your nose.' that Donn would do. Than as he turned to walk away he said: 'God, you queers disgust me.' By 'queers' of course he meant himself as well. He, like Donn, was capable, sincerely, of denying the act as soon as it was done.
With his uncle's words reverberating hin his ears, Disco Donn pounded Frisco around the eyes until they were black and blue. Then as though repeating an oath behind his uncle's dictation he intoned as he hd many times before and would many times again: "I've done to you just what was done to me. You better tell everyone that you got those black eyes by tripping on the stairs and sliding down them on your nose.'
Frisco lay choking and sobbing as Disco Donn pulled and pushed his head back and forth by the ears. Donn who was squatting lost his balance several times wetting the knees of his pants.
Having finished he threw Frisco's head away from him and stood up, zipping his pants.
'You queers disgust me.' He repeated after his uncle.
Frisco lay sobbing as Shaky Jake stepped our from among the garbage cans. Shaky Jake looked like he souldn't be alive. He was five-two and so emaciated from personal neglect that he didn't break a hundred pounds; maybe he couldn't even hit ninety. His body was wracked by the perpetual rounds of gonorrhea and antibiotics. He had no resistance to diseases. He sniffed and coughed uncontrollably from a cold that had begun six months before. He wore a pair of black jeans with zippers everywhere. the cuffs were zipped tight around his ankles; he had zippers on the knees, his thighs, pockets, across both cheeks, it was hard to tell where the zippers ended and the pants began. He even had zippers on the sides of his shoes. The top button of his pants was open and the fly half unzipped, no underwear. He wore a leather jacket that was also covered with zippers. He wore it open, no shirt. Various chains hung from his shoulders down his legs, crisscrossing his body and anywhere that they didn't make any sense. Shaky Jake didn't care about this or that. There was nothing in his mind but chagrin and remorse for his seduction. shaky's seduction had been gentle and loving creating a wonderful feeling in him, but his subsequent rejection had been cruel and brutal destroying whatever masculinity Shakey might otherwise have salvaged. Around his neck he wore a sign that read: Red is a mean, mean color. Nobody had ever been able to figure it out and Shakey Jake wasn't capable of telling them its meaning.
Now, standing well out of Donn's reach Shakey sternly admonished: 'Heh ma'. Whas wrong witchoo. You can't come back here in our domain and do that.'
'Can't I?' Disco Donn asked in his most quiet and commanding tone.
'No!' Shakey Jake expleted.
'Why not? Are you going to stop me? Do you want some of the same?' Disco Donn laughed motioning Shakey Jake forward.
Shakey Jake took a brave stance shaking his finger at Donn: 'Don't think I couldn't. Your just lucky the law won't allow me.'
Donn laughed contemptuously: 'The law won't allow you? How's that?'
'I'm Black Belt.' Shakey Jake said. 'My hand's are dangerous weapons and they're registered with the police. If I were to kill you, which I surely would, I would be charged with first degree murder rather than self-defense. So you can consider yourself one lucky hombre.'
Donn laughed again but the was stymied. He couldn't reach Shakey Jake and he wasn't going to demean himself by chasing Shakey around. In frustration he made a feint against the Man against the wall. Nitti in his hurry to escape tripped over his own feet tumbling onto the putred wet pavement ruining his leathers. Donn laughed again turning to leave.
But as he turned the sight of Shakey's sign: Red is a mean, mean color, triggered a series of synapses in his mind. visions passed through his brain with violence and speed as though he were standing on the ties as big ten wheeler blew past. The roar of the engine, the force of the wind from the drivers and giant wheels blew him back. He saw all but remembered nothing distinctly. The vision was one of himself with a sign saying: Red is a mean, mean color around his neck while he thought he saw his uncle with Donn's goands on a chain around his neck. The red blood from from the testicles dripped down his uncle's shirt. For a brief instant he understood what Red is a mean, mean color meant.
Then a miracle occurred. The memory of his rape had been suppressed with minutes after it had happened and been converted into a fixation with symbols Donn could not understand. Now the corridlor of his memory which contained the incident opened and for a very brief moment allowed Donn to witness the scene of his rape being reenacted. If Donn had been able to retrieve the memory and retain it he might have freed himself from his curse. But as he turned to enter the corridor in his mind to see better the entrance oozed shut. As Donn tried to push his way through the soft tissue a voice seemed to say: No. You cannot enter here, the drug has blocked your way.
Overwhelmed by his emotions and the cocaine, Donn's head swirled, he staggered a step and then regained control of himself. As he walked, somewhat unsteadily down the long backside of Disco Deep Elum the words of an old Hank Snow song came into his mind which expressed his fears and his hopes:
No use to deny
The day you said we were through.
But now that I find
You're out of my mind
I can't believe that it's true,
I don't hurt anymore.
But if his relief was real it was only temporary. the next tune that would come to Disco Donn's mind as he opened the door of his Porsche would be: 'It just keeps right on a hurtin' every minute of every day.' No, Donn's relief was not just a motion away. It couldn't come from powders, pills or bottles. For just a fleet moment it was there before you but the drugs kept if from you. Now, if undertaken, it would require years of analysis.
Come See Donn Home. As the door of Donn's identity swung open Interstellar Overdrive ricocheted out of his mind. The cocaine's expenditure from his system dropped Donn down to Earth hard on his silver plated heels. The soft persistent drizzle again began placing little stinging cold droplets on Donn's hot hand. His euphoria could no longer support this facet of Disco Donn's many faceted personality.
He flipped his mirrored sunglasses onto the passenger's seat. The memory of what he had just done came back to him as a vision of something which he had just seen. He believed he had witness the brutal act but he wasn't aware that he had done it. It filled his heart with sadness that such criminal homophobia could exist in such a beautiful world. It made him angry. Donn thought he should do something about it. He eased out of the lot as an ambulance pulled from the curb in front of him.
Frisco/Chancy Flegenheimer reported the incident to the police as though a man had leaped from a car and assaulted him as he stood taking to friends. The police report was picked up the Daily Assassin and published as fact. As is usual in these situation there was no attempt to corroborate the story. It was assumed to be the natural act of a 'homophobe' and reported as true.
Donn expiated his guilt by incorporating a denunciation of homophobia into a review of a new version of Beethoven's Ninth.
Donn was emotionally and physically exhausted. As he sank further he took off that strange grey hat and lay it on the seat over his sunglasses. She shook his blond hair and ran his fingers through it to fluff it out. As he did so he caught his reflection in the rear view mirror. He smiled at himself and his spirits revived. The satisfaction he had felt earlier reasserted itself overriding his sense of remorse and sadness.
Donn threw back his head and emitted a short barking laugh.
'Live is just too damned beautiful to wear a long face.' He smiled out loud.
Of course that depends on which end of the stick you're on.
Go to Part Two: Donn Demands Deliverance
and meet Maggie Spingold.
No Ruff For Jimi
Posted in cats, fiction, himalayan cats, persians, Stories, Uncategorized, Writing
A Children's Story by Jeannie Prindle
One day a shiny new kitten arrived at my home and I named him Jimi. Now Jimi was by birth an elegant and regal Himalayan Persian, specifically a Blue Point. This was one impressive kitty and should have been very proud of his heritage. His Dad after all was a Grand Champion and much admired by his peers.
Now Jimi was a happy little kitten, until one day I found him sitting looking sadly out the living room window. When I looked to see what he was looking at, I saw a beautiful large male cat, full chested and regal with a magnificent coat and an imposing mantle of fur aound his neck which almost touched the ground. Jimi was feeling very much inferior because he had no such distinguished ruff, and maybe he was not a pure bred Persian kitty as he had been told.
This sad little kitten that had only yesterday been so happy and joyfull, now just sat in the house all day and stared soulfully out the window. He did not want to be seen by anyone for fear that they would discover his fault and laugh at him.
As Jimi got older he grew more and more depressed, but somthing was happening to Jimi that he was not aware of. I tried everything I could think of to get him happy again. I tried to play our old games and cooked him special treats, but it all was to no avail.
Now as I said, something wonderful was about to happen to Jimi, but it would come as a great surprise.
One sunny morning before I awoke, Jimi stretched himself and took a stroll into the living room. There in front of the window he stopped. He stood at that window for the longest time just staring. Now what Jimi was staring at was a beautiful fluffy male cat with a magnficent regal ruff. Now a funny thing began to happen, when Jim moved, the cat in the window moved in exactly the same manner and when Jimi sat, the cat in the window sat. This shadow dance went on for a few minutes until Jimi let out a yowl, jumped around and finally came to the realization that the cat in the window was none other than a reflection of himself now a mature glorious male cat in all his splendor. He ran to my room, jumped on the bed and curled up beside me and purred himself to sleep.
The next morning first thing he had to go outside to show all his friends and neighbors and he was proud