the Last Buffoon Page 13

  “At this time of day?”

  “Already you’re getting nosey.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Before she can change her mind I hang up the phone.

  And on stage, the gay with the golden earring has his arm up to the elbow in the asshole of the other gay! I can’t believe it, and the gays in the audience are screaming and jumping up and down, completely wigging out. The other gay turns around slowly and we can see his erection and the outline of a fist in his belly. I don’t know whether to throw up, shit, pass out, or go blind, but at that very moment, the moment I’m close to total psychological disintegration, there comes swaggering up to me a short figure attired in black leather pants, black leather jacket, black leather boots, chromium chains hanging everywhere, black leather gloves stuck under an epaulette, and black leather Gestapo hat. This short figure is — heaven save me — none other than my lawyer Louis Warmflash!

  “Hello, Frapkin,” he says out the corner of his mouth like a tough guy. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I came to make a phone call.”

  He winks. “I had no idea you were one of us.”

  “I’m not.” I pick up my attaché case. “Warmflash, I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “What’s your hurry?”

  “I’ve got big problems. Have you read about me in the papers today by any chance?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you see the story about the two guys who committed a rape because of a book they read?”

  “I remember seeing the headline — you didn’t write that book did you?”

  “I’m afraid I did, and I have reason to believe that some madman will try to kill me. I’m going into hiding right now. I’ll call in a few days because I think I want to sue my publisher.”

  “Why don’t we have a drink and discuss it right here?”

  “I don’t have time. See you later, Warmflash. Keep the faith.”

  Gripping my attaché case tightly, I weave my way around crowds of gay men who pinch me and grope me, and finally reach the street where I wave my hand in the air and try to attract a cab.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the back seat of a broken-down taxicab, the full horrible significance of today hits me with full impact. I’ve never had so much trouble at one time in my life and I don’t know if I can handle it. I’m only one fragile human being, after all. When I was younger and had problems, I used to think God was testing me. If he’s still testing me he must be a sadist.

  My cabdriver steers up the ramp to the section of the West Side Highway that’s still operational. As we level off high in the air, I turn to the left and see a United States warship berthed beside a pier in the Hudson River. It’s a beautiful ship, and I wish I were on it.

  It reminds me of my earliest major defeat. When I was seventeen I tried to enlist in the Navy, intending to make it my career, but was turned down because I was underweight. If they’d taken me I’d be a happy man today, a Chief Petty Officer by this time, and in five years I’d retire with full pay for the rest of my life. Then I could write without worrying about money, and describe exotic ports of call, and the mystery of the sea. Instead, here I am running for my life.

  I’m disgusted with my life. It keeps going from bad to worse. I don’t know how much of this I can take, but I’m going to fight until the bitter end which from the looks of things isn’t too far off.

  The driver stops in front of the big old building where my second wife lives. I pay, drag out my attaché case, and puff steam into the chilly night as the cab accelerates away. This part of Riverdale Drive used to be a Jewish Gold Coast, but now it houses blacks and Puerto Ricans. I rush to the door and expect twenty of them to jump out of the shadows and beat me to death, for violence is the opiate of the poor. But I make it into the vestibule and press the button next to Lucy’s name. The door buzzes. Entering the lobby, I see walls scrawled with obscenities. The stupid fucking peasants aren’t happy unless they’re defacing something, but they’re driven to this by poverty just as it drives me to do terrible things too.

  I take the elevator upstairs and rap on Lucy’s door. She opens it. “Hello,” she says, looking at me with suspicion. She’s a tall, strong woman in her late twenties, and has a striking face whose characteristics suggest the grandeur of Spain, the cunning of the Indian, and the earthiness of the Negro. “Come in.”

  I enter her hallway, and would like to enter her enchilada.

  “Let me take your hat and coat.”

  I give them to her.

  “Have a seat.”

  I sit on the sofa and look around Lucy’s living room. Her furniture is getting run down. I guess she’s not doing that great either. On the walls are photographs of herself in the many roles she’s played. During our marriage I saw her in a Spanish language version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and she was a real fireball.

  She sits nearby on a big upholstered chair, drawing her long shapely legs underneath her and covering her knees with her skirt. Her eyes are big and brown and her hair straight and black as a horse’s mane. If you saw her on the street you’d want to slow down and really check her out.

  She’s still examining me. “You look like hell,” she says.

  “I’ve been having a few problems.”

  “Can I get you something to eat?”

  “Sure.”

  She goes to the kitchen, rattles around, and returns with a plate of rice and beans, which she places before me with a fork and napkin. I put a forkful of rice and beans in my mouth, and they’re delicious, zinged with lemon juice.

  “Can you listen and eat at the same time?” she asks.

  I nod and continue to scoff up the chow.

  “Good. Now listen carefully. For as long as you’re here, I want you to answer the telephone, because I want word to get around that a man is living here. Raphael will find out sooner or later and he’ll get jealous, which is what I want. Understand?”

  “His name’s Raphael?”

  “Raphael Diaz. He’s about your age but he has all his hair and he’s in very good shape because he plays tennis all the time. He’s a rich Cuban, and you know what they’re like: completely out of their minds.”

  “Is he bigger than I am?”

  “Much bigger.”

  “Do you think he might get violent?”

  “Not if you stay calm and stick to your story that you’re an old friend of mine and I’m letting you stay here for awhile. Whatever you do don’t say we were married. If you get nervous and lose your temper he might become unpleasant, but you’ll be too afraid to lose your temper. You need a little excitement in your life anyway. Maybe this will be something you can write about someday. Now come with me. I want to show you the apartment because I have to get gong to my audition.”

  She shows me the kitchen, bedrooms, linen closet, garbage chute, fire escape, and finally invites me to her boudoir, which has red drapes, a king-sized four-poster bed, an antique dresser, and a make-up table with a mirror surrounded by light bulbs. She lifts a silver container the size of a baseball from her dresser, removes the lid, and peers inside. “There are I think six hits of acid in here. If I were you I’d take two tonight, because you seem more loco in the coco than usual.”

  “How good is it?”

  “Not very — that’s why I said take two. They’ll give you a nice buzz, and you know you need that. Look at yourself in the mirror.”

  I look and see haggard Frapkin in his undertaker suit.

  She puts on her coat. “I should be back late, so don’t stay up for me. Goodbye, you crazy old Jew.” She slings her purse over her shoulder and heads for the door.

  I listen to it close behind her, and her footsteps disappear into the outside hall. I’m alone at last, cleverly hidden from my enemies. All I have to worry about is a rich Cuban madman, but things could be worse. I could be falling head first out of a window.

  It’s very quiet in this sturdy old building. Maybe I can rent a typewriter and w
ork in the bedroom. Maybe the Amazing Frapkin is on the comeback trail.

  First I’ll check the bathrooms to see if there’s a razor lying around, because without this beard I’ll look completely different. In Lucy’s bathroom is the pink ladies’ razor she shaves her legs with, and in the medicine cabinet I find an aerosol can of shaving cream and a nifty new Gillette. In the other bathroom I find another Gillette, plus a Schick, a Gem, and a Persona. I think I’ll use the new Gillette, and here’s a pair of scissors.

  The news will be on in a few minutes, so I turn on the television set and turn it loud enough so I can hear it in the bathroom. There I undress and stare at myself in the mirror as steam from the hot leaky water faucet wafts about my head. I raise the scissors, pause, tremble, wonder whether I really should cut it off, and finally snip a swatch out of my jaw. The tuft of hair falls into my white jockey shorts, and the perfect symmetry of my face is destroyed. The deed is done.

  I snip-snip-snip my left cheek and snip-snip-snip my right. Snip-snip-snip. The news comes on. The Argentine Air Force is rebelling against President Isabel Peron. Snip-snip and oh-oh-, now I remember why I grew this beard in the first place. It was to make my face look bigger and thereby make my nose look smaller — now my big honker is emerging in all its beastly glory. When I was a kid people used to say, “Is that your nose or are you playing the saxophone?” Snip-snip my mustache, snip-snip the rest of my chin, snip-snip my throat. Now I look like a sorrowful bum who needs a shave. In Lebanon the Moslems and Christians are fighting for control of the Holiday Inn.

  I wash my face, smear it with lather, snap a fresh blade into the razor, position the edge near my ear, slice in, and scrape down to my chin, leaving a swathe of pink skin that hasn’t seen light for eight years. The Russians are sending troops to Angola.

  Scrape-scrape-scrape. I have dimples, well whataya know about that. Scrape-scrape-scrape. Look at my beautiful lips and handsome jaw. Scrape-scrape. But I’ve developed jowls like a walrus. Scrape-scrap. That indentation between my lower lip and chin is surely the mark of character. Scrape-scrape. The proud out-thrust of my chin is, I feel, my best feature. Scrape-scrape. I’m almost finished now, and you know, I don’t look bad at all except for that pouch in front of my throat and my big nose. Irish terrorists are holding a London couple hostage in their flat.

  I rinse my face, put on more lather, and shave against the grain for that smooth satin finish. I think I look younger without a beard — if only I had more hair on my head I might pass for thirty-five and be able to hustle young girls who like men with big noses. How strange to touch the skin of my face after all these years.

  I rinse again, dry off, study my face, use another mirror so I can see more angles, and decide that I really don’t look that Jewish. I could be a Spanish grandee, an Italian diplomat, a Turkish poet. Maybe I should give myself a phony Italian name for additional camouflage. I could easily pass for an Italian, and I know all about Italian food, Catholicism, and the Mafia. But what Italian name? Hold on! My nose has a certain resemblance to Jimmy Durante’s. Rink-a-dink-a-doo. I’ll call myself Joe Durante and pretend to be Jimmy’s third cousin on his father’s side. Everybody loved Jimmy Durante and will be so overcome by sentimental memories that they’ll never think of accusing me of being Jewish. When the big pogrom comes I’ll be safe, but who’s that strange guy looking at me in the mirror. What an interesting face he has. I’ll be he could get laid if he really wanted to. They’re rioting in Timor.

  My misfortunes have been a blessing in disguise — I’ve rediscovered my face. The Subtleties of its features, blurred over for so long, is influencing the texture of my mind, making it more subtle. I can actually feel this happening, or at least I think I can. Now I’ll take a shower to wash all this hair off me, and maybe then I’ll drop some acid.

  Two paperback rapists were arraigned in Criminal Court today.

  I run to the living room and see reporters holding microphones near the mouth of a black man.

  “Naw,” he says, “we wasn’t gonna kill her. We was just gonna have some fun.”

  The handsome announcer comes on and says the district attorney is under pressure from various women’s groups to ask for life imprisonment with no possibility of parole. He adds that the author of The Van Killers, Alexander Frapkin, still has not been available for comment. Then a Brooklyn councilman comes on and makes an emotional statement in favor of the censorship of literature detrimental to society. Finally Joe Greenberg is interviewed in his office, seated behind his desk. His tie is in place and his suit jacket on.

  “Lissen here,” he tells the reporter, “are you trying to say that those two guys never would’ve tried to rape somebody if they hadn’t read this book?” The smart bastard holds up a copy and the camera obligingly zooms in. “Both of those guys’ve got records for burglary, robbery, felonious assault, breaking and entering, narcotics — they’re not exactly choirboys. A book,” he wags it before the cameras, “doesn’t make anybody do anything they wouldn’t do anyway. Censorship is a phony issue here.”

  “Can you tell us anything about Alexander Frapkin, the author of The Van Killers?”

  “He’s a good writer, like all the writers we publish.”

  “Why do you suppose he’s been unavailable for comment?”

  “When you find him, tell me. By the way, he’s written seven other books for us, and as far as I know, nobody’s committed any crimes because of them.”

  The camera zooms in on my masterpieces arrayed on his desk. What fantastic publicity it is! I must call Warmflash in the morning and tell him to sue for my royalties. Even after he takes his cut I should have enough left to keep going for a few years in a cheap sunny place where I can write a popular best-seller that’ll make me rich forever.

  A commercial for denture powder comes on. I turn off the TV and return to the bathroom. A strange swarthy fellow looks at me from the mirror, and if his nose were filled with nickels he’d be a millionaire. I take a piss, look in the mirror some more, and notice that my smooth face doesn’t coordinate well with my longish unruly hair, or what’s left of it. A haircut is in order.

  I find some hand mirrors in Lucy’s bedroom, position them around the bathroom so I can see all parts of my dome, and start cutting. Snip-snip-snip. Won’t my friends be surprised when they see me.

  I cut until it’s about an inch long all around, then part and comb it. Next I brush the shorn clumps from my shoulders, clean the floor, put away the mirrors, and take a long shower. Emerging from the tub like a wet sea god, I dry off, don clean underwear and a silk man’s robe I find in a closet, and wonder what to do next.

  Rrriiiiinnnnnggggg.

  Where the hell’s her telephone?

  Rrriiiiinnnnnggggg.

  There’s one beside the living room chair. “Hello?”

  Silence on the other end.

  “Hello?” I say again.

  Nothing. I hang up the phone.

  I’m not sleepy. What should I do? I think I’ll drop the acid.

  In Lucy’s bedroom I open the silver pot. The acid is inside, yellow stains on little squares of paper. I lift two out. Should I do it? I go through this every time, staring at the acid fearfully, hopefully, indecisively. Oh what the hell — it can’t kill me. Even if it’s a bad trip it’ll be over in twelve hours, but the odds are against a bad trip, and a good trip would be so helpful right now.

  I carry two hits to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, and stop cold again. Should I do it? Oh, for chrissakes, stop being such a scaredy-cat. I open my mouth, put the paper in, and wash it down with the water.

  The deed is done. There’s no turning back now. Gulp.

  I break out in a cold sweat. What if the Nazis come for me again? I can feel it — it’s going to be another concentration camp trip — another horror show — but wait a minute! I’ve got a bottle of valiums and if the trip gets too bad I can always take a few and come down. To make sure, I run to my room, claw through my attaché case, an
d find them, plus the Dalmanes. I relax — these’ll be my life preservers. I put them in the pocket of this robe where they’ll be close at all times.

  Okay, what should I do until the acid hits. I’m too nervous to look at magazines, and TV might be a downer, so I think I’ll sit on the floor and do Buddhist meditation. I lay a sofa cushion on the floor, sit cross-legged on it, rest my hands in my lap, and close my eyes.

  Fifteen minutes have passed. When’s this goddamn stuff going to hit? I don’t feel anything and I’m getting uptight just waiting. Maybe I should take one more hit. I go to Lucy’s bedroom, get another one, carry it to the kitchen, and wash it down with orange juice.

  Rrrriiinnnngggg.

  “Hello?”

  Silence, then a click. Somebody’s playing fuck-around with Lucy’s phone.

  I sit on the floor again. I don’t think CRACK this acid is any good WHACK anymore. Maybe it’s been around BZZZZZZZ too long and lost it’s power. What a dragggggggGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVBONGBONGBONGOBANGBANGBANGOBBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPWWWWWWWWWWHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

  BRIGHTNESS!

  I open my eyes and see a Latin man pointing a gun at my nose!

  “Quién es?” he asks, a menacing tone in his voice. He’s wearing a double-breasted suit and a thin mustache, and he must be Lucy’s crazy Cuban boyfriend.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Spanish,” I reply, terrified and tripping and lying in the middle of the living room rug.

  “Who are you?” he asks in a heavy Spanish accent.

  “Alexander Frapkin.”

  “What are you doing een here?”

  “I just got evicted, and Lucy said I could stay here for awhile. She and I are old friends, you see.”