the Last Buffoon Page 8

“Oh! Well, what a nice surprise. When did you get in town?”

  “About twenty years ago — I live here.”

  “How good of you to call.”

  “How could I not call?”

  “I thought you might be too busy.”

  “I’m not that busy. What are you doing tonight?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Let’s get together.”

  “Would you like to come up to my place?” she asks temptingly, and I slide my hand into my pants to save my swelling erection from strangulation by jockey shorts.

  “Where do you live?”

  “At 275 West 38th Street.”

  “You live in the garment district?”

  “Yes — I have a loft that I’m subletting from a photographer. It’s very nice.

  “What would be a good time?”

  “Six?”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “I’ll look forward to meeting you, Mr. Wimbledon.”

  “And I’ll look forward to meeting you, my dear.”

  What an incredible stroke of luck this is! It just goes to show you that if an artist works hard and is completely dedicated, the world will respond eventually. Covering my typewriter with its vinyl coat, I unbutton my shirt and enter the living room, almost tripping over my wife on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor.

  “My God — what’re you doing?” I cry.

  She looks up, an Yves Saint Laurent bandana around her head. I’m cleaning your filthy floor.”

  “Do you have to get down on your hands and knees like that?”

  “Do you have a maid?”

  “No.”

  “Then I have to do it. If I am going to live here it must be clean.”

  “Aren’t you going a little overboard?”

  “It takes work to make clean. I do not want to catch a disease.”

  “If you do, I’m sure your boyfriend will cure you real fast.”

  “Why not go back to your office and let me do my clean.”

  “I have a business appointment, and I have to get ready.”

  I run to the bathroom, close the door, undress, and turn on the water. It’s cold in here so I push down the window. The rotted bottom of the sash hits the sill, breaks apart, and falls into the bathtub, followed by the glass window, which crashes as it lands, becoming tiny jagged triangles and parallelograms. I now have an open-air bathroom. This fucking building is falling apart and naturally this had to happen at the crucial moment when I’m preparing for a great sexual experience. I wrap myself in my towel, speed barefooted out of the bathroom, cross the living room where my wife is playing scrubwoman, enter my office and dial the number of my landlord.

  “Shapiro Realty,” says an old broad.

  “Lemme speak to Shapiro.”

  “Whoze callink please?”

  “The Commissioner of Housing.”

  “One moment please.”

  Click clack.

  “Hello,” coos my landlord Shapiro, the nastiest man alive.

  “This is Alexander Frapkin in apartment 22, 123 Christopher Street and — ”

  “My secretary said you were the Commissioner of Housing. His voice has returned to its normal gangster tone.

  “That old nut’s liable to say anything. I’m calling because my bathroom window just fell out and I’d like to have it fixed immediately. This is November and it’s cold in there.”

  “Put your coat on.”

  “I can’t take a shower with my coat on.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Frapkin! I know who you are — troublemaker!”

  I make my voice hard as a truncheon. “If you don’t have this window fixed by noon tomorrow, I’m going downtown to the Department of Housing and raise hell until they make you fix it, and you know as well as I that they’re fed up with all the violations in your buildings. They’re liable to drag you into court and fine you twenty thousand dollars, so what’s it going to be, slumlord?”

  “Someday something terrible’s going to happen to you, Frapkin.”

  “Something terrible happened the day I moved into this building. When’re you going to get somebody over here to fix my window?”

  “Lemme write down the information. You say you broke the window in the bathroom?”

  “I said it fell out because the wood was rotten all the way through.”

  “You mean it fell out all by itself? How could it fall out all by itself?”

  The bastard’s trying to figure a way to send me a bill. “It fell out when I tried to close it. The broken glass made a two-inch gash in my hand and right now I’m bleeding profusely. I’ve already spoken to my lawyer and we’ll probably sue.”

  “Will somebody be there the rest of the day?”

  “I’m leaving for the hospital right now, but my wife’ll be here.”

  “Your wife?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You got a wife, now?”

  “That’s right, and if anything happens to me, she’ll carry on the fight.”

  “She must be a meshuginah like you.”

  “She’s even worse.”

  Shapiro takes two deep audible breaths. “I got a man working in your neighborhood. I’ll send him over to your place maybe today.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Goodbye, Frapkin. Don’t step into any open manholes.”

  “I’m living in an open manhole.”

  I hang up the phone and wonder how many months it’ll be before he fixes the goddamned window. Oh what a miserable unrelenting life this is — hold on — I forgot that tonight I’m going to have a great sexual experience with one of my fans. On my way to the bathroom I pass my wife squeezing a sponge saturated with abominations into a bucket of water.

  “Do you always run around your apartment like this?” she asks.

  “The window fell out in the bathroom. The landlord said he’d send somebody over in a little while, so stay home.”

  “I must go out to get the rest of my clothes.”

  “You’ve got to stay until seven o’clock at least. I’d stay myself but I have, as I told you, an important business engagement.” I take three steps to the bathroom but remember I’ve got to cover the hole so I don’t catch pneumonia on this crucial night, and by the way, what time is it?

  I return to my office-bedroom, check my watch, and see it’s about a hundred minutes to sexual intercourse. Opening a dresser drawer, I take out a fresh tan cowboy shirt, remove the rectangle of cardboard inserted by the laundry, open my tool box, select a hammer and a few nails. I carry these to the bathroom and attach the cardboard over the hole as best I can. Then I very carefully clean all the broken wood and glass out of the tub.

  And now for a leisurely shower in which I shall prepare my body for the rites of love. I turn on the water, adjust temperature, and get in. warm water pours onto me from above and streams of cold air from the window stab my kidneys. While I’m in Japan I must go to one of those public baths where geisha girls wash you and clean your pipes. Maybe I should move to Japan instead of California. I could study karate and Zen, and if things ever got really bad, I could commit ritual disembowelment, and the Japanese would understand.

  After the shower I shave my neck in the big magnifying mirror, noticing with dismay that I’m looking more and more like my father, and I’m turning into a crackpot like him too. I fought the old bastard from the time I could walk, but now, in death, he’s taken possession of me.

  Clean, shaved, cologne, and wrapped in a towel, I open the bathroom door and see my wife scrubbing years of grease, peanut butter, spilled orange juice, milk stains, dried rice kernels, and ossified roach carcasses, off the kitchen tiles. Her angelic tanned face is oily, eyes tired, lips pale. I really ought to help her, but I must help myself to some pussy.

  “When will you be back?” she asks.

  “I have no idea.”

  “I was hoping you would help me move some of my things in.”

  “What’s wrong with you
r boyfriend?”

  “He’s on duty tonight at the hospital.”

  “Sorry, I guess you’ll have to get one of your other boyfriends.”

  She looks at me angrily. “I am not a cheap American girl like the ones I am very sure you know. I do not have twenty boyfriends.”

  “I know you’re not cheap — your boyfriend paid a thousand dollars for you today.”

  She stands up, puts her hands on her hips, blows hair away from her mouth. “That was a loan!”

  “Sure it was.”

  “I know you do not believe me. You think everybody does everything for money just like you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well I want you to know that I am not like that.”

  “Sure you’re not.”

  “You are such a stupid low-class man!”

  I should empty that bucket of slop over her head, but she hasn’t been in this country a very long distance and doesn’t know any better. What time is it? I leave her standing in the kitchen and rush to the office-bedroom — it’s quarter to seven. I have plenty of time. Slowly and carefully I dress in my customary clothes, puffing Colombian buds in my handy home glass hookah as I do so. I shouldn’t waste my time and energy in arguments, because my life situation shows signs of improving. I have a thousand dollars, some excellent dope, an apartment in the process of being cleaned, a rendezvous with a possible sex slave, and my latest Triggerman is almost finished. If all continues well I’ll have enough money soon to relax for a few months and write a serious novel. I can see the headlines on the front page of the New York Times Book Review now: MAJOR NEW WRITER BURSTS UPON LITERARY SCENE. I roll two joints and tuck them in the top of my Burlington no-static socks. Lastly I put on my Burberry, my Borsalino, and my French sunglasses.

  My wife is scrubbing the greasy mess underneath the kitchen sink. “You are leaving now?”

  “Do you think I hang around the house dressed like this?”

  “I have to talk with you about something.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I was thinking — I will sleep on the sofa, yes?”

  “You can sleep in my bed if you like.”

  “Where will you sleep?”

  “In my bed with my arms around you.”

  She smiles diplomatically. “I will sleep on the sofa. Where will I put my things?”

  “I don’t even know where my things are, so how should I know about your things?”

  “I can hang clothes in your closet?”

  “If you can find room.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome very much.”

  She goes back to scrubbing. “That is all I wanted to ask you about. I hope your business goes well.”

  “See you later.” I slap her fondly across her lovely ass.

  “I am not accustomed — ”

  Before she can finish I’m out the door.

  West 38th Street is in the heart of the garment district, and both sides of the street are lined with trucks loading and unloading when I arrive. Puerto Ricans and blacks push racks of dresses and coats over the streets and sidewalks, and other workers are leaving the area on their way home. It is here that I shall initiate my sex slave into esoteric erotic practices. Oh Frapkin, if Masters and Johnson had only known about you.

  She lives in an old five-story commercial building whose ground floor is occupied by: SAM GRUPSKY, WHOLSESALE FEATHER MERCHANT.

  If his feathers weren’t wholesale I’d pick up a few with which to tickle Betty’s clitorini. The poor girl doesn’t know what she’s in for — sexual deprivation has made me even more depraved than when I wrote Patti’s Honeymoon.

  To the left of Grupsky’s window display is a door which I open, entering a small vestibule. I look at the buttons and next to the one for the fifth floor is “Betty Herndon” typewritten on a little sliver of paper affixed with scotch tape. I press the button twice, wait several seconds, and press twice again. No answer. My heart sinks as I speculate that perhaps something happened and she won’t make it home.

  “Who is it?” asks Betty Herndon’s sweet voice over the intercom.

  “Lancelot Wimbledon.”

  “Oh, hi. I’m on the top floor.” The door buzzes and I push it open. Up the stairs I go. Dirty yellow paint is peeling from the walls but I’ve been in loft buildings worse than this where the apartments were sensational. On the Second floor is the VENUS LINGERIE CORPORATION, surely a good omen, on the third is MANCHESTER KNITTING MILLS, the fourth is split between a hat maker and a job lot distributor, and on the fifth floor I see the door to paradise. I fly to it, knock, it opens, and standing in front of me is a wet dream come true — a Marilyn Monroe blonde with big tits, rosy cheeks, and a short dress.

  “Mr. Wimbledon?” she says with a smile.

  “Yes indeed.”

  “I’m Betty — please come in.”

  She turns around and displays an adorable round ass into which I soon shall ram my dick. I follow her into a corridor where large chunks of plaster are missing from the walls, and the door closes behind us. This looks like a vacant factory loft, and how did the door close behind us? I turn around and see standing there a big ugly nightmare with a beer belly and a nose like a pink turnip. Betty Herndon scampers down the corridor, and passing her coming my way is another big ugly nightmare, this one in baggy green workpants, blue bomber jacket, and battered fedora on the back of his head.

  A gallon of adrenalin pours into my bloodstream. “What’s going on here!”

  Paloof! Right in the mouth, stunning me cold. Kaplow! On the other side of my face, and my genuine imported French sunglasses shatter against my nose. My skull feels split open, I see stars, and I fall back against the ropes, ready to go down for the count with the very next punch.

  Turnip Nose and Bomber Jacket grab me by the arms and drag me into the big room. In its center is a man dressed in a suit, topcoat, and homburg. He’s got a trimmed mustache and black hair going gray at the temples. He flexes his fingers inside tight black gloves.

  “Hold him in the light so I can see him,” he says.

  “This has got to be some kind of terrible mistake,” I groan through bloody lips.

  “Are you Lancelot Wimbledon?”

  “Yes but — ”

  “Did you write this book?” He pulls a worn copy of Patti’s Honeymoon out of his coat pocket.

  “Yes but — ”

  “You sick bastard!” He rears back his black fist, the two goons hold me tight, and his fist grows larger. Kerbamm! My chin swaps places with my forehead, my legs become macaroni. “I caught my thirteen-year-old daughter reading it!”

  Bomber Jacket slaps me down, finds my wallet, takes it out, and hands it to the gentleman, who looks through my cards. “Alexander Frapkin’s his name. He lives on Christopher Street in the Village. That figures.” He shoots a hard right jab to my stomach, doubling me over. Rice Krispies with whole-wheat toast climb my throat.

  “Open the window,” he says to Betty Herndon, who’s been standing in a corner.

  “My God, you’re not going to throw him out!”

  “I said open the window.”

  She unhooks the latch and bends to push it up as I yell, “No!”

  Pabamm! In my mouth again. A thousand and one nights fall over me. I can feel myself being lifted, pushed, kicked, and when I open my eyes I’m hanging head-down out the window!

  “How do you like it out there?” asks the gentleman above me.

  I can see an alley, the back of a building. Oh God, I’m going to die. Tears fill my eyes and drip into my few remaining hairs.

  “I said how do you like it out there?”

  I open my mouth to speak, but my throat is constricted with fear and no sound comes. Coughing to clear out, I manage a garbled scream. “I don’t like it very much.”

  They let go of my left foot, and I catch a glimpse of my grave. “Please don’t drop me!”

  They release my right foot, and the gra
ve opens wide for me, but after falling a few inches I’m caught by my left foot again. “How’d you like that one?”

  “I’ve got a little daughter with polio and she’ll be an orphan!”

  “No man with a daughter would write a book like that, you filthy pervert!”

  “Helllllpppppp!”

  “Nobody can year you — pig!”

  If I ever get out of this alive I’ll go to shul every Friday night and Saturday morning. I’ll become a good person and won’t jerk off so much. I’ll give to charity.

  “Hey, cockroach!”

  “What?”

  “If I ever see another one of your books on the stands we’ll do this again and next time we’ll drop you — understand?”

  “I understand.”

  The goons haul me up; I scrape my hands trying to hold the brick wall away from my face. As I go over the sill, buttons are torn from my Burberry coat, and I don’t even know where my hat is. A man like me should carry a gun at all times.

  Turnip Nose and Bomber Jacket grab me by the arm and slam me against the wall. My head bounces off it and makes a sharp hard noise. The gentleman stands in front of me and to his left rear is pale Betty Herndon. They’re in a kaleidoscope that someone is turning.

  “I’m not kidding, degenerate,” the gentleman says. “Next time you’re dead, and if you go to the police, you’ll be worse than dead!”

  What can be worse than being dead?

  He makes a fist. Blam blam blam! I am falling.

  I awaken alone on the floor of the loft, my beard wet with blood, hatchets whacking my head. I can’t breathe through my nose and there are ten angry rats chewing their way out of my stomach. I appear to be alive, although to what extent I’m not quite sure.

  I think I can get up, but before I do I must resolve never in my life to use my real name on a book, never answer a fan letter, never permit a photograph of myself to be used anywhere, and never do any publicity whatsoever. Fear of incidents like this must be behind the paranoia of Salinger and Pynchon, of James Joyce. Faulkner said don’t tell the bastards anything, and he was right. This is my own fault.

  I’ve got to get out of here. I place my palms on the greasy floor and raise up a few inches. An axe hits my dome and the rats take huge bites out of my intestines. I pause for a few moments until the pain diminishes. Steady as she goes. I’m on my knees now, and all the way up. I’m standing next to the open window; cool zephyrs caress my aching face. That feels better. Frapkin will survive even this.