the Last Buffoon Page 2

  I carry my two books to the counter, wondering what bookbuyers around me would do if they knew I’m the author of fourteen published novels — a great artist. They’d probably mob me, beg for my autograph, touch my magic coat, and the pretty young girls among them would try to stick their tongues up my ass.

  Speaking of pretty young girls, one is holding forth behind the cash register at this very moment. She’s a nimble wench with long brown hair and sultry eyes, perhaps I should reveal my true identity to her: Hello there, I happen to be the author of these novels and I wonder if you can tell me how they’re selling. If she works in a bookstore she must be a book junkie and might pull down her pants for the great Alexander Frapkin. But I can’t say anything — it’d only stamp me as a braggart and a hack. Besides, intellectuals have contempt for books like mine. They don’t realize that the great archetypal hallucinations of our times are contained within so-called trashy books, while literary establishment authors like Updike, Barth, Roth — that ilk — are effete dilettantes who should be teaching lit courses in colleges, and in fact many of them are, the scumbags.

  “Two ninety-eight,” says the brunette behind the counter, casting a disdainful eye at the cover of my Kung Fu classic, perhaps wondering what a cultured gentleman like me is doing with such a piece of shit. Again I’m tempted to reveal myself, but again I refrain from manifesting myself as a fool. I remove my sunglasses, hand her three bills, try to capture her heart with my Rudolf Valentino stare, but she only drops my books into a bag, throws me two pennies change, and looks at the customer behind me, a reeking hippie creep, to whom she gives a big smile.

  I’m reminded once more that for Alexander Frapkin, life is an unfair proposition.

  Chapter Two

  Jake lives in an old brownstone on Bethune Street, only a few blocks from the mighty, malodorous Hudson River which I smell as I climb his stoop. He’s in semi-retirement at the age of fifty — his wife is a top-dollar copywriter on Madison Avenue and maintains the household. He’s an ex-pimp, ex-con man, and ex-smuggler who sells drugs of the highest quality to a select group of connoisseurs.

  In the hallway of his building I tap his button three times. The door buzzes. I push it open and enter a dark labyrinthine corridor: creaky stairs covered with red carpeting, a polished wood bannister. On the top floor one of the two doors is open a crack. Jake’s making sure I’m a friend and not Norbert the Narc, for Jake did five years in Leavenworth for sale and possession of horrible drugs, which is what prompted his semi-retirement and intelligent marriage. When he sees it’s only Frapkin the viper he opens the door all the way and holds out his hand.

  “How ya doin’, man.” His voice suggests a barrel of shit being dragged across a gravel pit. He looks like a fat wolf and wears one of those expensive robes his thoughtful wife has purchased for him: velour with broad vertical stripes in yellow, black and red.

  His apartment is large, comfortably furnished, and cluttered with the books he and his wife read voraciously. Her taste runs to so-called literature, while he prefers novels of war, crime, and violence. He leads me to a sofa facing two stereo speakers through which a woman is singing:

  Oh baby

  I can’t get enough

  Of your ooh-la-la

  Oooooooo-la-la

  I wish some pretty bitch would grab my ooh-la-la. Draping my outer clothing over a chair, I lower myself onto the sofa. Before me is a round table about three feet in diameter, a nice size for friends to sit around and smoke dope.

  Jake sits on the chair opposite me, his stout, varicosed legs visible to the knee beneath his robe of many colors. He always has a skeptical look on his face, as if he doubts the truth of my existence.

  “What’re you up to these days?”

  “I write most of the time.”

  “Sell your big one yet?”

  “Not yet, but I picked up a couple of others for you.” Reaching into my Burberry, I withdraw the paper bag from Bookmasters and pass it to him.

  He takes the books out of the bag, looks at the covers, and smiles. “Thanks, baby,” he says with a chuckle, putting them down on the round table. “What else is new?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You got an old lady yet?”

  “No.”

  He wrinkles his nose, because he has an old pimp’s contempt for guys who don’t have old ladies. “How come you ain’t got an old lady?”

  “Because I want a beautiful old lady, and the only ones available to me are pooches.”

  He points a stubby finger at my eye. “You wanna know why you ain’t got a good-lookin’ old lady?”

  The crap you have to put up with to buy a little fucking grass. “Why?”

  “Because you’re a recluse, a nut, you look peculiar, you never go anyplace, you’re nervous as a bedbug, you’re always on some kind of crazy diet, you never have any cash, and you’re apt to sit on the floor and start chanting. What broad who’s got anything going for her would want you?”

  “I’m sure there’s one someplace.”

  “You’re a complete basket case when it comes to women, but I guess that’s because your momma died when you were a baby. I’m the complete opposite of you — my old man died when I was little and I was raised by my momma. Thanks to what I learned from her, when I was sixteen I was makin’ a thousand bucks a week as a pimp.”

  “I can’t help admiring pimps,” I confess with a sigh. “They really know how to handle women. By the way, where’s the grass?”

  “You know what your other main problem is?” He narrows his eyes and cocks his head to the side. “You’re too uptight, man. You’ve got to learn to let the good times roll.”

  “That’s why I’m here, man. Where’s the grass?”

  Jake gets up and waddles to the kitchen, his feet swollen with gout. Returning with one of his wife’s turkey roasting pans, he places it on the table. He removes the lid. Inside the pan is a plastic bag filled with smoking enjoyment. The aroma is luscious and sweet.

  “It’s top quality Colombian, man. I’ll roll a few joints.”

  He takes out a handful and drops it into a Penthouse centerfold of a girl showing the pink petals of her snatch. Shredding the buds between his fingers, he separates the seeds and rolls three joints as slim as nails. He lights one, takes a toke, twitches his big nose, and passes the joint to me.

  I stick it ‘twixt my lips, inhale lustily, hold my breath, and let the smoke slacken my sinews and tendrils, smooth the texture of my mind. I take another hit and feel myself recovering from the terrible illness known as everyday existence.

  “This is some strong shit,” I tell him.

  “Maybe it’s your mind that’s weak. How much you want?”

  “How much is it?”

  “Fifty bucks an ounce.”

  “I’ll take two ounces.”

  “You got a hundred bucks?”

  “I’ll have it in a few days. I’m getting married again.”

  He takes his scale out of the turkey pan. “Another alien?”

  “I may not know how to get laid, but I know how to get married.”

  “Where’s this one from?”

  “Argentina.”

  “She good-lookin’?”

  “I haven’t seen her yet, but my lawyer says she is.”

  “Maybe if you’re cool, she’ll give you some pussy.”

  “Maybe.”

  He weighs the Colombian, spills it into a baggie, and hands it to me. “You’ll bring the bread here in three days?”

  “Immediately after the wedding ceremony.”

  He stands up, the signal that my audience with him is over. I put on my hat and coat, adjust my shades, and put the baggie in my pocket.

  He reaches down and hands me the other two joints. “Take these witcha.”

  “I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “You’d better.”

  Outside on the sidewalk, night has fallen and I realize I’m starving to death. Shall I have a sumptuous repast in Chi
natown in celebration of my upcoming marriage, or should I go home and have some economical yoghurt and wheat germ bread? I decided to compromise and go to the Nathan’s on Eighth Street for tasty french fries made from fresh unfrozen potatoes, and then see where my pure Buddha nature takes me. It’s only six o’clock, the night is young, and I am beautiful.

  I proceed east on Barrow Street, passing tenements and brownstones made of gingerbread and cake icing. In order to see better, I put my sunglasses in my pocket, but also lower the brim of my Borsalino because I don’t like strangers to see my eyes. I’m afraid if they do they’ll know everything about me, and I want to remain Secret Agent Frapkin. I breathe in deep draughts of the putrid air, and the material world around me throbs and sparkles with the energy of the Tantra. When I’m an old, successful author I’ll write sutras to the Lord Buddha, if I last that long.

  Through the Village I go, a sinister figure in trenchcoat and fedora, bending slightly into the wind that makes my broad lapels flap. I pass women who look like secretaries, and men with attaché cases returning home from wage slavery in uptown office buildings. I used to dance that jig and know where they’re at. They’re tired but happy, for they feel their day has been spent in purposeful activity, the poor deluded fools. They’re only toiling to make rich men richer, and their miserable wages are never enough to prevent them from falling into debt to other rich men. But there’s a revolution brewing — I can feel the sidewalks rumbling beneath my feet right now — and Alexander Frapkin will be in its very forefront fighting for truth and justice.

  But first it’s time for a few more tokes. I slide into an alley between two tenements, crouch behind an overflowing garbage can, take a joint from my pocket, and light the Flame of Truth and Knowledge. A mangy alley cat looks at me curiously as I inhale a gigantic cloud of iridescent fume, hold it in my lungs, and blow out noisily. The alleyway sags as if made of rubber; the cat sprouts wings and flies away. I don’t know who I am, and stroll nonchalantly out of the alley.

  A hunger pang shoots across my belly, causing me to realize I’m not an ethereal being. One must eat, wear clothes, have a home, and fuck occasionally. Here’s a stand-up pizza joint where the chef really knows his mozzarella.

  “A slice, please.”

  The chef, a crew-cut bruiser, should be a sergeant in the French Foreign Legion. I feel a creation coming on — I’ll write a story about a former sergeant in the French Foreign Legion who now operates a pizza stand in New York City. He used to fight Arabs in the Sahara; now he makes pizza on Sheridan Square — how are the mighty fallen. Quick — out with the notebook — I’ve got to write this down before I forget it.

  “Fifty cents.”

  “Can’t you see I’m writing?”

  “Write after you give me fifty cents.” He raps his calloused knuckles on the counter.

  I throw him a buck and continue jotting down the basic idea of the story. This’ll be a good one for Playboy. Maybe I’ll throw in some sex — he’s fucking a meter maid or maybe a gorgeous insane model is in love with him. Playboy pays three thousand dollars for a story. If they buy it I’ll move to California, land of bilk and funny, and write even more brilliantly.

  “Make it two slices and a container of milk, while you’re at it.”

  He screws up his face. “Milk wit pizza?”

  “If you please.”

  He thinks I’m a jerk but I need protein because I have a big night ahead of me. I can’t let this fantastic high go to waste so I think I’ll go to one of those crazy discotheques and swing my motherfucking ass off. But first I need a few more tokes.

  “Is there a men’s room in here?”

  “Whataya think this is — Grand Central Station?”

  What a nasty disposition he’s got. Maybe at the end of the story two black kids in sneakers hold up his pizza stand and knife him to death. He fought innumerable battles against heathen Arabs and survived only to get cut down by underprivileged children. How beautifully poignant. Playboy ought to snap it right up, although they’ve never bought anything from me before, the shitheads.

  Here comes my waxed cardboard container of milk and my first slice of pizza dripping with cheese and stewed plum tomatoes. I lunge for it.

  “You owe me anudder eighty-five cents.”

  I throw him anudder bean and raise the slice of pizza to my lips. Rich folks paying thirty dollars for a meal in fancy restaurants uptown aren’t dining as well as I am right now. The Italians really have it together where food is concerned — they were busy cooking when Mussolini took over their country.

  It’s a terrific night. I’ll feast leisurely and then get me to the nearest discotheque, where I shall boogie all night long.

  Chapter Three

  Frapkin in Nighttown floating through rainbows, passing bars, hamburger joints, bookstores. Frapkin on the move surrounded by young people shining like angels on spit-spattered sidewalks. Automobiles careen like drunken elephants, bums beg for dimes, and Frapkin is the satyr of darkness, disguised in Burberry and Borsalino, his eyes safely hidden behind the genuine imported French sunglasses. Ah, Frapkin, you’re the living end.

  The Highroller Disco is on Seventh Avenue near Sheridan Square, convenient to all modes of public and private transportation, a magnet for those who want to swing their asses off. At the door is a monstrous black dude in a white turtleneck sweater. I pay him five clams and step into roaring music and drooling lights.

  On the wooden T-shaped floor hundreds of drug-crazed young people dance with wild exuberance, propitiating their degenerate gods. I check my Burberry and Borsalino, and, retaining my chromium sunglasses, make my way to the dance floor, where I let the primordial beat transform me into a frenzied Dionysian priest, rocking and rolling in the temple.

  I don’t know what I’m doing and I probably look ridiculous, but Lord, it feels good. I shake my skinny ass in time to the music, make figure-eights with my hands, and jump up and down, my eyes closed, my head bobbing from side to side. If only we could take off our clothes and have a real orgy.

  “Lookit that fuckin’ guy!”

  I don’t give a shit what you think, kid. I don’t give a shit what anybody thinks. I’m the Amazing Frapkin and I need this for my soul.

  Oooohhhhhh

  take me in your arms

  and rock me baby

  I’ll rock you baby, oh boy will I. I do a few authentic Twist steps although that great dance has long since disappeared into the dustbin of history. I do the Stomp, Hully-Gully, and the Madison. Reincarnated as Bojangles Frapkin, I perform my famous cakewalk to the amazement of dancers all around me. For variation I skip through some Lindy steps, a Cha-Cha-Cha, and then execute a spectacular Rudolph Nureyev grande jete into one of the rails at the edge of the dance floor, almost breaking my spine. I’d better settle into my basic all-purpose two-step before I kill myself.

  I hip and dip casually through three songs, and now I’m getting tired — I ain’t no kid anymore. All good things come to an end, but fortunately, so do bad things. Dance your way to the rim of the floor, Frapkin old boy, sit at one of those tables. Wait a minute! Unless my eyes deceive me, sitting at the table right under the blue neon light is an attractive woman about my age, and one seldom sees women my age in these musical fruit bins. Alexander Frapkin will now impersonate Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief.

  “Hi there. Mind if I sit down?”

  She looks up, her hair is long and straight, obviously dyed black. She’s been misused and is ready for someone decent like me. “If you want to sit down, sit down,” she says. “What do you have to ask me for?”

  I sit beside her. “What’s your name?”

  “None of your business.” Her face brightens. “Here comes my boyfriend.”

  I look up and see a teen-aged black guy in a purple suit and smile big as a billboard. “Let’s go baby,” he says to her.

  She gets up, hooks her arm in his, and without so much as a glance at Cary Frapkin, walks off.

  I’m
alone at the table, loudspeakers are making my skin pulsate, and I’m plunged into thoughts I’ve been having for several months now, to wit: The white race is weary, corrupt, and neurotic — we’ve civilized most of the world, brought about the Industrial Revolution, developed brilliant philosophical systems, invented everything, and now we’re running out of steam. The black race is taking over. It’s natural for white women to prefer sexy black men over white men who’re plagued with doubts, impotency, and self-loathing. It’s also natural for rats to desert sinking ships.

  I have just had an idea for a fantastic book! Let me get out the notepad and start writing. It’ll be a science-fiction novel set in a future where black men and white women rule the universe. White men will be worker-slaves and black women will do all the housework. White girls of exquisite beauty will be gestated in test tubes for the pleasure of black men, and black women will be used as breeding machines for more black masters. But where will more white men come from! I guess I’ll make them in test tubes too. This looks like one of my better ideas but I won’t know until tomorrow when I go over these notes with a clear head. I’ll call the novel Chiaroscuro and it’s entirely possible that in one stroke the great Frapkin will become the dominant figure in science-friction.

  “What would you like to drink, sir?” asks a gay waiter in a red shirt unbuttoned to his navel.