Betting on the Muse, Page 2

cup and hurled it

  into the

  street.

  the man sighed

  heavily.

  then carrying the

  organ

  and dragging the

  monkey

  he walked out

  into the street and

  picked up the

  cup.

  “you stay out of this

  neighborhood!”

  my father

  yelled.

  “this is a free

  country, I can go

  anywhere!”

  the man yelled

  back.

  “yeah?

  get your ass out of

  here or I’m going to

  kick it

  out!”

  “you and whose

  army?” the organ

  grinder

  asked.

  “my army! I

  served in World War

  One!

  where were

  you?”

  the monkey was

  straining at the

  end of his

  leash, pulling

  against it,

  he was

  choking.

  the man picked

  it up, kissed it,

  put it on his

  shoulder.

  “you’ve upset

  my monkey,”

  he said.

  “be glad that’s

  all,”

  said my

  father.

  the organ grinder

  walked off

  with the monkey

  on his

  shoulder.

  my father walked

  back into the

  house,

  slamming the

  door.

  we watched

  the man and the

  monkey.

  they reached

  the end of

  the block.

  then they turned

  the corner and

  were

  gone.

  we all just stood

  there.

  nobody said

  anything.

  then somebody

  said, “well, the

  monkey’s gone,

  let’s do something

  else.”

  “what?”

  “I don’t know…”

  there were five of

  us.

  we turned and

  began walking

  down the

  sidewalk, the

  other

  way.

  something would

  turn

  up.

  Whistler

  she said, “all of a sudden

  someone arrived.

  he was called just

  ‘Edgar’…

  he was a post-Impressionist

  painter,

  dressed all in black.

  it was stunning.

  he was wearing a black

  hat with a large

  brim.

  he was wearing a

  rather high collar and a

  lavaliere, the kind

  that only artists

  wear.

  and he had a black

  cape, was dressed

  like Whistler.

  he was probably in his

  60s

  but he was a most

  handsome man.

  he was bringing a huge

  bouquet—c’était à la mode

  des violettes de Palmes—

  the violets from Palma—

  which are pale violets,

  and he cut a

  fantastic figure.”

  when everybody left

  I said to my grandmother,

  “Who was that man?”

  and she said, “Ah,

  he is an

  Artist.”

  when my grandmother said

  that,

  she meant “Ah,

  mais oui, c’était une artiste!”

  and I answered right away,

  “Ah, moi aussi.”

  oh, Jesus or somebody

  help us, help us, help

  us,

  save us from

  these,

  the centuries have

  reeked with them.

  no wonder the animals

  are what we consort

  with,

  no wonder we sleep

  away the

  nights.

  the pleasures of the damned

  the pleasures of the damned

  are limited to brief moments

  of happiness:

  like the eyes in the look of a dog,

  like a square of wax,

  like a fire taking the city hall,

  the county,

  the continent,

  like fire taking the hair

  of maidens and monsters;

  and hawks buzzing in peach trees,

  the sea running between their claws,

  Time

  drunk and damp,

  everything burning,

  everything wet,

  everything fine.

  those marvelous lunches

  when I was in grammar school

  my parents were

  poor

  and in my lunch bag there was

  only a peanut butter sandwich.

  Richardson didn’t have a

  lunch bag,

  he had a lunch pail with

  compartments, a

  thermos full of

  chocolate milk.

  he had ham sandwiches,

  sliced beef sandwiches,

  apples, bananas, a

  pickle and a large bag of

  potato chips.

  I sat next to Richardson

  as we ate.

  his potato chips looked

  so good—

  large and crisp as the

  sun blazed upon

  them.

  “you want some potato

  chips?” he would

  ask.

  and each day

  I would eat some.

  as I went to school each

  day

  my thoughts

  were on Richardson’s

  lunch, and especially

  those chips.

  each morning as we

  studied in class

  I thought about

  lunch time.

  and sitting next to

  Richardson.

  Richardson was the

  sissy and the other

  boys looked down

  on me

  for eating with

  him

  but I

  didn’t care.

  it was the potato

  chips, I couldn’t

  help myself.

  “you want some

  potato chips, Henry?”

  he would

  ask.

  “yes.”

  the other boys got

  after me

  when Richardson

  wasn’t

  around.

  “hey, who’s your

  sissy friend?

  you one

  too?”

  I didn’t like that

  but the potato

  chips were more

  important.

  after a while

  nobody spoke to

  me.

  sometimes I ate

  one of Richardson’s

  apples

  or I got half a

  pickle.

  I was always

  hungry.

  Richardson was

  fat,

  he had a big

  belly

  and fleshy

  thighs.

  he was the only

  friend I had in

  grammar

  school.

  we seldom spoke

  to each

  other.
/>
  we just sat

  together at

  lunch time.

  I walked home with

  him after school

  and often some of

  the boys would

  follow us.

  they

  would gather around

  Richardson,

  gang up on him,

  push him around,

  knock him

  down

  again and

  again.

  after they were

  finished

  I would go

  pick up his lunch

  pail,

  which was

  spilled on its

  side

  with the lid

  open.

  I would place the

  thermos back

  inside,

  close the

  lid.

  then I would

  carry the pail as

  I walked Richardson

  back to his

  house.

  we never spoke.

  as we got to his door

  I would hand him

  the lunch

  pail.

  then the door would

  close and he would

  be gone.

  I was the only friend

  he had.

  sissies live a hard

  life.

  panties

  hell, I don’t know how old I was,

  maybe 7,

  and Lila lived next door to me,

  she was, maybe 6, and one day

  she was standing in her yard

  and she looked at me

  and lifted her dress and showed

  me her panties.

  something about it looked good

  to me and I stared

  and then she let her dress

  fall back down and she walked

  off.

  “Lila,” I yelled, “come back!”

  she didn’t.

  but thereafter

  every day when she

  saw me

  she would lift her dress and

  show me her panties.

  they were a nice clean white

  and fitted snugly.

  then she would let her dress

  fall back down and walk off

  again.

  one day I was in the back

  yard and 3 kids

  I had never seen before

  came running in

  and started swinging their

  fists at me.

  I surprised myself, I

  fought back well, in

  fact I gave 2 of them

  bloody noses and they

  ran off.

  but the bigger kid

  remained and we

  kept fighting.

  he began to slowly

  wear me down.

  he backed me up against

  the fence

  and I was catching

  3 punches to each

  one I threw.

  his hands were much

  larger than mine

  and he was very

  strong.

  then there was a

  dull thump.

  somebody had hit

  him over the

  head with something,

  a large bottle.

  it was Lila.

  she hit him

  again

  and he ran from the

  yard

  yowling and holding

  his head.

  “thanks, Lila,” I said,

  “show me your

  panties.”

  “no,” she said.

  she walked

  back to her house

  and went inside.

  I saw her many times

  after that in her

  yard.

  I’d ask her,

  “show me your

  panties, Lila.”

  but she always

  said, “no.”

  then her family

  sold their house and

  moved away.

  I never quite

  understood what it all

  meant

  and still

  don’t.

  the dead flowers of myself

  bulls strut in pinwheel glory,

  rockets stun the sky,

  but I don’t know

  quite what to make

  of the dead flowers

  of myself,

  whether to dump them

  out of the bowl

  or

  press them between

  these blank pages

  and go on;

  well, all grief comes down

  to hard death

  and weeping finally ends.

  thank the god

  who made

  it.

  me against the world

  when I was a kid

  one of the questions asked was,

  would you rather eat a bucket of shit

  or drink a bucket of piss?

  I thought that was easy.

  “that’s easy,” I said, “I’ll take the

  piss.”

  “maybe we’ll make you do both,”

  they told me.

  I was the new kid in the

  neighborhood.

  “oh yeah,” I said.

  “yeah!” they said.

  there were 4 of them.

  “yeah,” I said, “you and whose

  army?”

  “we won’t need no army,” the

  biggest one said.

  I slammed my fist into his

  stomach.

  then all 5 of us were down on

  the ground fighting.

  they got in each other’s way

  but there were still too many

  of them.

  I broke free and started

  running.

  “sissy! sissy!” they yelled.

  “going home to mama?”

  I kept running.

  they were right.

  I ran all the way to my house,

  up the driveway and onto the

  porch and into the

  house

  where my father was beating

  my mother.

  she was screaming.

  things were broken on the floor.

  I charged my father and started swinging.

  I reached up but he was too tall,

  all I could hit were his

  legs.

  then there was a flash of red and

  purple and green

  and I was on the floor.

  “you little prick!” my father said,

  “you stay out of this!”

  “don’t you hit my boy!” my mother

  screamed.

  but I felt good because my father

  was no longer hitting my

  mother.

  to make sure, I got up and charged

  him again, swinging.

  there was another flash of colors

  and I was on the floor

  again.

  when I got up again

  my father was sitting in one chair

  and my mother was sitting in

  another chair

  and they both just sat there

  looking at me.

  I walked down the hall and into

  my bedroom and sat on the

  bed.

  I listened to make sure there

  weren’t any more sounds of

  beating or screaming

  out there.

  there weren’t.

  then I didn’t know what to

  do.

  it wasn’t any good outside

  and it wasn’t any good

  inside.

  so I just sat there.

  then I saw a spider making a web

  in the window.

  I found a match, walked over,

  lit it and burned the spider.


  then I felt better.

  much better.

  the snails

  my mother stood at the

  window

  watching my father

  in the back

  yard.

  he was bent over in the

  flower garden,

  very still, very

  intense.

  “what’s he doing out

  there?” my mother

  asked me.

  “I don’t know.”

  “look, he hasn’t moved,

  he’s like a

  statue!”

  “yes.”

  “I’m going to see what

  he’s doing!”

  I watched her walk out

  into the yard,

  she walked up very

  quietly

  behind him.

  then she screamed.

  she came running

  into the house,

  screaming,

  “my god, my god,

  my god!”

  “what’s wrong?”

  I asked.

  “What’s wrong?

  What’s wrong?

  He was watching

  two snails doing it

  to each other!”

  she screamed a long

  and horrible scream.

  the tears were rolling

  down her face.