Betting on the Muse, Page 3

  my father walked in.

  “oh, shut up!”

  he said.

  “Why did you do

  that?

  Why did you watch?”

  “I told you to shut up!”

  I walked out of the room

  and into the

  bedroom and closed the

  door.

  I could still hear them

  screaming,

  it went on and on.

  then there was the sound

  of

  breaking glass,

  then the slamming of a

  door.

  I walked out into the front

  room.

  my mother was sitting on

  the couch,

  the tears were still running

  down her face.

  she looked at me.

  “why did he do that?

  my god, why did he do

  that?”

  “I don’t know,” I told

  her.

  then I turned and

  walked back to the

  bedroom.

  again

  now the territory is taken,

  the sacrificial lambs have been slain,

  as history is scratched again on the sallow walls,

  as the bankers scurry to survive,

  as the young girls paint their hungry lips,

  as the dogs sleep in temporary peace,

  as the shadow gets ready to fall,

  as the oceans gobble the poisons of man,

  as heaven and hell dance in the anteroom,

  it’s begin again and go again,

  it’s bake the apple,

  buy the car,

  mow the lawn,

  pay the tax,

  hang the toilet paper,

  clip the nails,

  listen to the crickets,

  blow up the balloons,

  drink the orange juice,

  forget the past,

  pass the mustard,

  pull down the shades,

  take the pills,

  check the air in the tires,

  lace on the gloves,

  the bell is ringing,

  the pearl is in the oyster,

  the rain falls

  as the shadow gets ready to fall again.

  the World War One movies

  were best, the aviators drank at the bar

  every night, fighting over the one or two blondes,

  and it was gallant because in the dawn they

  might die going after those Fokkers with their

  Spads, so they lined up along that bar

  and slugged them down.

  we kids loved those movies, the men weren’t

  like our fathers, those men laughed and fought

  and loved slinky blondes in long tight dresses.

  each dawn was glorious, they’d go to their Spads,

  pulling on their goggles, a quick wave of the hand and

  a long white scarf flowing out behind them. They

  grinned and flew off into the blue.

  and then came the Germans high above the

  clouds.

  they’d spot the Spads, the leader would give the

  signal and they’d dive downward with a roar,

  coming down through the clouds, their machine guns

  spitting fire,

  and the Spads would see them

  but not before one of the planes would be hit

  and roar down in flames—usually

  the guy with the sense of humor, the guy who

  had made everybody laugh at the bar—

  there he’d go, his hands rising in the

  flames, then oil splashing his goggles, he’d

  wiggle trying to free himself to parachute to safety

  but it was always too late—

  you’d see the Spad crash into a hill

  exploding in a mass of flame.

  the dogfight was a real spectacle, the hero

  would have a Fokker on his tail, have to pull

  an Immelman to get him off.

  then he’d be on the other guy’s tail

  and the bullets would rip through

  the German, his mouth would open, a

  spurt of blood and his plane would head

  toward the earth with a WHINING roar.

  the dogfights were exciting and lasted a

  long time but the Germans always lost

  and one or two of their remaining planes

  would limp off and that would be it.

  then the Spads would begin their

  journey back to the airfield.

  this was always very dramatic because

  one or two of them would be shot up,

  crippled, being nursed back, often

  the pilot hit by 3 or 4 bullets but

  determined to bring the plane back

  in and land it safely.

  the ground crew would be

  waiting and they would count the Spads

  as they came in: one, two…6, 7,

  8…but there had been ten…

  the ground crew would be

  badly shaken.

  the crippled planes would come in first,

  followed by the

  others.

  it was a very sad time.

  but that night the remaining pilots would

  be back at the bar with the slinky blondes,

  even the aviators who had been shot were

  there.

  they had their arms in slings, their heads

  bandaged but they were drinking and

  making the slinky blondes

  laugh.

  outside the movie theaters they displayed

  parts of a Spad, a huge wing, a

  propeller, and at night there was a

  searchlight probing the skies, you could

  see it for miles.

  all we boys loved those World War One

  movies

  and we built our own balsa wood

  model airplanes, Spads and

  Fokkers.

  most kits cost 25 cents

  which was a lot of money in the

  1930s but somehow

  every kid had his own

  plane.

  we were in a hurry to grow

  up.

  we all wanted to be

  fighter pilots,

  we wanted those slinky

  blondes, we wanted to lean

  against that bar and gulp

  down a straight whiskey

  like nothing had

  happened.

  we had dogfights with our

  model planes and they

  sometimes developed into

  fist fights.

  we fought until we were

  bloody and

  torn.

  we fought for our

  honor

  while

  our fathers watched us

  and

  yawned.

  to hell and back in a buggy carriage

  that was one of the popular sayings, I didn’t

  know what it

  meant, standing on a corner in the mid-thirties

  with a cigarette dangling from my mouth like the

  tough guys in the movies, scoring for some beer

  was the big thing and once in a while

  some whiskey but there was no money anywhere

  for fathers or sons or anybody and we were all

  bluffing, tough, nothing else to be, we stood

  around flexing our muscles, getting down to the

  beach now and then but the young girls ran with

  the rich guys with cars (even in bad times

  there were rich guys), kids driving canary yellow

  convertibles, pulling up to corners, opening doors,

  laughing, I could kick any of that ass but it meant

  nothing to the girls, they were off with those richies,

  their hair flyin
g in the wind, it was a crappy time

  for us, standing there on the street corners, our

  cigarettes dangling, nothing to be tough about,

  nothing near enough to fight and hating our

  fathers who sat in chairs or read newspapers

  all day, they couldn’t find work, their guts hanging

  out and their lives hanging out—dried, dead, useless.

  dinners of beans and canned meats, still we

  grew, inching out of our old clothes, leaving our

  homes late at night to stand under street lamps or

  sit on park benches sucking at wine, beer, gin,

  talking, smoking, going to hell and back in a

  buggy carriage.

  we were tough with nothing to be tough about,

  we were the depression kids

  and we swore we’d never be like our fathers

  or our fathers’ fathers.

  we’d break through the crap and the

  fakery.

  we knew something.

  we knew something, sitting in the dark,

  drinking and smoking.

  it was all a matter of which one of us

  got there first.

  the ends of our cigarettes glowing in the

  dark.

  as perfect as we could get.

  the laughter like knives cutting the

  stupid air.

  Los Angeles 1935.

  stages

  back then, you’d go through stages,

  one of them being that you’d get so

  deeply tanned it was almost horrifying,

  and you’d lift weights, learn

  acrobatic techniques,

  and all of this was done with

  a demonic zest—it was a matter of

  fighting back against the stifling

  forces everywhere and you had

  huge tanned muscles

  and you walked like an ape

  trying to hold a load in his buttocks.

  when you walked into a room, all

  conversation stopped, you looked

  dangerous, indeed, and you had a

  way of staring at people with an

  off-hand disdain, and you were not

  the only monster from hell, there

  were usually one or two others with

  you.

  you would walk down the street

  as if your very feet could break the

  sidewalks.

  you would work little routines, like

  walking up to a fruit stand with the

  clerk watching,

  you would pick up an apple with

  one hand and crush it,

  then smile at him and

  replace the crushed apple on the

  stack.

  you ripped phone books in half,

  picked up cars by their front

  bumpers.

  the stronger you got the more

  you wanted to use it.

  and you not only had strength

  but an ultra-quickness—

  you caught flies in mid-flight,

  shadow-boxed with frightening

  speed—left jab, left jab, zip, zip,

  right lead, right hook, left hook,

  uppercut, you had a pair of red

  boxing gloves and you

  laced them on with great calm

  as your opponent waited, his

  eyes jumping with fear.

  that was the first stage, the

  other was when you gave it

  all up, the muscles shrank,

  you paled, slouched,

  assuming the worst

  posture imaginable, smoking

  cigarette after cigarette, coughing,

  masturbating, drinking

  endless coffee and all the

  booze you could steal.

  you had more friends that

  way, now you really looked

  dangerous and people hung

  on your every word, you were

  now the ultimate discontent,

  your mind a dirty saber

  which cut through all the world’s

  crap.

  you found that this stage

  garnered you far more

  attention, not only from your

  peers but from your parents,

  the neighbors, the girls and

  the teachers.

  you were always in the

  principal’s office, not because

  you had done anything

  heinous but because you

  looked like you might and,

  actually, you felt like you

  might.

  “It’s your ATTITUDE, Mr.

  Chinaski, it’s horrible, in

  and out of class.”

  “huh?”

  “Do you want to

  graduate?”

  “I dunno…”

  “Don’t you care?”

  “’bout what?”

  “Mr. Chinaski, you will now go

  and sit in the phone

  booth and you will remain

  there

  until I tell you to come

  out!”

  “o.k.”

  it was his phone booth

  torture chamber.

  I’d go in there, rack my

  knees against one wall,

  loll my head back and

  pretend to go to

  sleep.

  it pissed him something

  awful.

  I graduated, still in the

  2nd stage,

  and I think that I have

  been stuck there

  ever

  since.

  escape

  the day you were starving and watching the

  swans in the park,

  it was truly not a bad day

  watching them circle,

  it was quiet,

  you looked at their feathers, their necks,

  their eyes.

  for a moment you thought of

  catching one, killing it, eating it.

  but

  you had nothing to cook

  one on.

  and you knew you couldn’t do

  it anyway.

  there were many things you

  couldn’t do.

  that’s why you were starving

  in a public park.

  then there were voices, a

  young lady in her summer

  dress, and she was with her

  young man and they were

  laughing.

  you looked at them and made

  them dead,

  you placed them in their

  grave,

  you saw their bones,

  the skulls.

  then you got up from the

  grass and left them there with

  the swans.

  you walked out of the park,

  you were on the boulevard,

  you began walking,

  walking seemed sensible

  and it wasn’t a bad

  day,

  just another day,

  walking the sidewalk,

  the world slanting through

  your brain—

  a white shot of

  light.

  being alone you decided, was a

  magnificent

  miracle.

  nothing else made any

  sense at

  all.

  woman on the street

  her shoes themselves

  would light my room

  like many candles.

  she walks like all things

  shining on glass,

  like all things

  that make a difference.

  she walks away.

  CONFESSION OF A COWARD

  God, she thought, lying in bed naked and re-reading Aldington’s Portrait of a Genius, But…, he’s an imposter! Not D. H. Lawrence, but her husband—Henry—with hi
s bauble of a belly and all the hair he never combed and the way he stood around in his shorts, and the way he stood naked before the window like an Arabian and howled; and he told her that he was turning into a toad and that he wanted to buy a Buddha and that he wanted to be old and drown in the sea, and that he was going to grow a beard and that he felt as if he was turning into a woman.

  And Henry was poor, poor and worthless and miserable and sick. And he wanted to join the Mahler Society. His breath was bad, his father was insane and his mother was dying of cancer.

  And besides all this, the weather was hot, hot as hell.

  “I’ve got a new system,” he said. “All I need is four or five grand. It’s a matter of investment. We could travel from track to track in a trailer.”

  She felt like saying something blasé like, “We don’t have four or five grand,” but it didn’t come out. Nothing came out; all the doors were closed and all the windows were down, and it was in the middle of the desert—not even vultures—and they were about to drop the Bomb. She should have stayed in Texas, she should have stayed with Papa—this man is a goon, a gunnysack, a gutless no-nothing in a world of doers. He hides behind symphonies and poetic fancies; a weak and listless soul.

  “Are you going to take me to the museum?” she asked.

  “Why?”