August 4
So, after chess, I bade the dykes a good evening and ran down the yellow carpeted stairs at a brisk clip to re-join Steve in the Garage. I also wanted to get home for some dim reason. Perhaps I felt an urge to play the harpsichord for a while. I had, after the afternoon joint with Bill and the obligatory joint upstairs with Zandra and Azu, had enough pot to stone St. Stephen. Steve, of course, wanted to smoke more. I was certain that more dope would turn me into a complete zombie. Another layer of anxiety concerned getting a phone call off to Mara Monetti. I wanted to see her just one last time. Mara’s line was busy. Steve went to the store for ice cream. The rain started up again. Shorty Zinn came in like the gray ghost that he is, for his usual evening shift, and set up a chair facing the gas pumps and the street. He lit his cigar.
A fellow and his family of six in a shit box pulled up to the pumps. I was not punched in, but I thought, “what the hell,” I’ll help out and pump it. Shorty said that he’d just as soon sit where he was, on account of the rain, and he’d be happy to watch me do it. So off I went, out into the drizzle, cocky, half-cocked, but fully crocked, maybe even totally cooked. Just so posterity is clear about my state of mind, I can declare that I was no longer really in Massachusetts.
The dude in the driver’s seat seemed to have a dark complexion in the glare of the mercury vapor light and rain, and he was certainly in need of a shave. He didn’t strike me as the sort of person who was going to buy a lot of gas at Winston’s “low gas prices.” I asked him what he wanted, and I could have sworn he said, “fill it up.”
“Cash or Credit,” I ask
“Cash.”
“You know, sir, we’re pumping at 71.9 per! Is there a limit? Some people who’ve asked for a fill up stop at $10 when they realize the expense.”
He said, “no.”
Had I used the King’s English incorrectly in my dazed and confused state?
Did the dude even speak English? Well, he had said, “fill it up” without an accent.
So I filled his tank until the handle clicked. It came to thirteen bucks for eighteen point one gallons of no lead. I was thinking all the while, this guy is nuts. So I go to the driver’s side, out into the street and rain, and ask him for thirteen dollars. Please.
He hands me a five.
“Whoa! This is a five!”
“I said ‘four bucks.’
“No, you said, ‘no’.”
“Huh?”
“I asked you for the limit. You said ‘no’.”
“Four bucks,” he simpered.
“I need eight dollars more, or I’m gonna have to get my manager.”
A glance in the direction of the Garage, and I could see that Shorty, backlit in the big doorway, was now standing. He could see the deal going south. I looked down at the wet street and then back into the rolled down window of the beat-up dark green shit box car. A spark of panic shot visibly through the man; his wife began to fidget in her seat.
“There’s a big difference between ‘four’ and ‘thirteen.’ It comes to eight,” I say now, my voice developing a less certain tone.
I held out my hand for a moment, but I wasn’t getting through. The fellow looked distressed. He turned and spoke in an inaudible murmur to his wife. I could see that the kids in the back seat were asleep, stacked against each other like sacks of groceries. A family outing to the big city ran low on gas. Better ‘fill up’ before heading back out, or up, or down. He looked up at me, pleadingly, silently, one last time. I began to withdraw my outstretched hand. It had developed sort of a mind of its own. I felt my face flushed and hot. I was just beginning to tremble. Doing a lot of that lately. My hand, on its own orbit, was into my pants pocket, feeling around for…
…ah there it is! My wallet. Fishing it out of pocket. I have always kept it on my ventral side, with most of the bills in my shoe since I was pick-pocketed on the bus to/from Harvard square in year one of my education. It’s now in my hand, and I use the other hand to fish out a single. I now hand the single to the man. He takes the bill. He gives me a confused look.
“Your change sir,” I mumble. “Sorry about the confusion. You all, uh, have a good night.”
I step back, the car starts and pulls away rapidly. For just a moment there, I am Mark Twain. I have fucked up, I have made good. I am the guardian of civilization, of smooth relations between peoples, of harmony, understanding, truth, justice, and the American way. Only for a fleeting moment does this whole transaction make sense to me. Then: my head explodes with the realization that I now must walk back into the Garage and pay my employer for the gas I have just pumped. The books and the little numbers on the pump have to match up.
I yelled and cursed all the way down the floor to the register. Then I grabbed my time card and jammed it into the clock. Ca-chunk.
August 5
So. I bought some little weasel nine bucks worth of gas. I should have kept the whole five, or at least negotiated for it. There was an epilogue, a coda: Steve got back with his ice cream. I was still purple with rage. I still hadn’t gotten through to Ms. Menotti. I demanded a violent Frisbee game. "Let’s take some paint off ‘a some ‘o these nice cars." Steve balked, holding up the ice cream bag. I told him the story. I got a literal kick in the pants. Well, fuck! I paid for my mistake. My once-stocked wallet is now bereft of bills. Eight, nine bucks takes me four hours to earn in this joint. I simply couldn’t have done it otherwise with a clear conscience. (Yet, I occasionally eat too much, smoke too much dope, sleep too late, and enjoy the company of women without any deep desire for real attachment. Which of the deadly sins are these?) Steve ate his ice cream. I was fairly cranky. I kept refusing the proffered pipe. I finally got through to Mara and we set up a meeting at her place for 1:30 PM on the sixth of August. Steve dragged me, literally, down the floor as I emerged from the office, and put the pipe to my lips. This guy is a starker! A big gorilla, a bear of a man! I sucked and blew meekly. We both allowed as how we must initiate a policy of writing to those we love. After some violent Frisbee throwing, I was unsure of my nature; animal, mineral or vegetable. I was sure of my fatigue and sour mood. I retired to my apartment after Lamont came in and broke up the party. Justin and Lucy were in the kitchen on their way to the bedroom. I crashed after satisfying my harpsichord urge some.
August 7
(I’ve now caught myself back up to yesterday. The time machine is still very warm.)
I got up early-ish (yesterday) to go to the bank, have coffee and a bowl with Justin, and a slice at Charlie’s. Then it was 1:30 and I was walking somewhat surreptitiously towards Mara’s. If my friends could see me now! They've all heard this song to death.
Mara had no intention of sitting with me alone in her apartment. What did I expect? We went out to Radcliffe Yard and saw the first half of a dance performance. Harvard was as muggy as the rest of the world, and the heat in the gymnasium where the performances were held was enough to wilt concrete. The dances themselves were varied. I recall the second and last ones only – the first choreographed by a member of Merce Cunningham’s company and the last piece, with music by Phoebe Snow, choreographed by the Gypsy Queen. The instructions in the programs indicated that the whole audience (about 100-150 people) was to get out of the gym and head for an adjacent theater for the next batch of works. I used this opportunity to split for work. It was 5:00 PM. An hour’s preparation would be better than a last minute scramble to get to the Garage. After the previous days’ nonsense, I was determined to go to work in a more focused state of mind. I left Mara to join the rest of the audience in the cool of the theater, and called “see you later, then!” as I hurried down the corridor. I'll likely never see her again.
But let the record show that just being near that woman makes me high. She doesn’t blur the light like a Fresnel. She focuses the beam, like an ellipsoidal reflector. After four years of obsession and friendship, my first dancer is still my favorite. I cannot help that. Her illumination is undimmed. Losing the light of my life is difficult. I was able to tear off the band-aid in a single flash. Under the patch, there’s the pale skin and a thin, longish scar. I will never forget her.
Work turned out to be riveting…, one of the most elaborate confusion finales ever witnessed within the walls of the parking garage and car wash at forty-five Westland Avenue. It was about twenty minutes of pure Rossini-style razzle-dazzle. So get comfortable in your seats. Get your opera glasses focused. Put that program in your lap, because the lights are dimming in the house, the orchestra is starting the overture, and the curtain is going up on…
“Jeff Takes a Hit”
Lamont, Steve and I began the evening with the usual banter, trips to Westland Foods, and other small tasks. Lamont left early, at about 7:35. Laird had called and asked about chess and Frisbee. I suggested that he grease the wheels and bring by a joint for Lamont. But Lamont had split by the time Laird arrived. I was playing, and losing, my sixteenth straight game of chess with Stevie. This ad hoc tournament had been played over the three separate nights that we had worked together of late. First Justin stopped by on his way to something or other, and then Laird showed up and began to pass around that J I’d asked him to bring. So much for working straight. All of this questionable activity was going on right up front with Mrs. Wilson, Hoover, or whatever Westland Ave.’s female guardian’s name is, looking on from her swank flat across the street. You could plainly see the curtain drawn back and the shades cracked a little. This drew a sotto voce “she’ll tell Wilson anything” from Stevie, which was amplified later in the evening during our bull sessions. On this particular evening the topic was a freewheeling comparison of notes on the subject of “employees, mercenaries, ‘doing a good job,’ and ‘pushing karma around’.” But I’m getting ahead of myself. Then Justin joined us again, bearing a six of Budweiser. Beers were rapidly distributed. A second joint was passed around. Laird and Justin took a board in the office and played two speed games. Justin lost both. During these games, they smoked yet another doobie. Does this begin to seem a bit excessive? “Nothing exceeds like excess!”
My game was finally going in the right direction out front – my 18th against Harrison. God! How I longed for a win! But it's a game of skill, not chance. I just suck at chess. While we were playing, a pair of passing dudes challenged Steve to a game of chess. They were being very aggressive about it. One of ‘em, embarking on a vicious kibitzing campaign, leaned in over my shoulder for a moment, slammed his fist into his palm, and yelled, “I thought you knew how to play this game!” I had just lifted a piece to make a move. “Hey. What can I say,” I said, “he’s already beaten me seventeen straight!” I snapped my piece down on the board. “Check!”
One of the pair says “c’mon” to nobody in particular. His compatriot pivots around to Stevie’s side of the board, saying “he’d be back to whip somebody’s ass later.” A beauty in bright pink tights, a prostitute, in her late twenties, claims to be able to play. She stands close by, sputtering mildly about the game. Soon there is a small crowd gathered around watching us play. Stevie and I were both working on dispersing the crowd with subtle hints, trying hard not to damage a lot of the tender feelings concentrated in violent, armed street people. Our body language and put-offish replies to questions did the trick. But my concentration slipped – I fucked up and lost a much needed rook. It was downhill from there.
Al Poole’s wife called and asked me to remind Poole to bring home some ice. Was there even any ice left in the ice machine? There was. Justin and Laird emerged from the office. Laird sits down at the table where Stevie is clearing the gore and setting up the pieces again. Another opening commences. Justin’s got the Frisbee and was jerking it in my direction, making like he wants to toss it with me. I’m seeing this out of the corner of my eye. My gaze is directed at the chess game, but as I look up toward a flash of something nearby out in the street, I see an amazing thing unfold.
Some asshole drunk, trying to pull up to the pumps, drives his shit-box green Chevy into the no lead pump. Boom! The pump leaps aside. It tosses its glass cookies all over the street and the hood of the car. Stevie and I are stunned motionless for a moment. Poole drove in while we're still staring at this disaster, and, miraculously, I remember to remind him about the ice. Stevie suggests one of us go get Lamont. One of us is going to have to go out and try dealing with the driver. I could see that it was that tall, mustachioed black man whose dog once pissed in the Garage after Lamont had let loose with one of his deep baritone “get the fuck out of here!” blasts. He's the dude that sings standards from the forties and fifties in a resonant, if whiskey-burnt voice. The last time he did this, it was during the first hour of the afternoon shower, the day I worked the car wash with the day crew (August 1). He'd started in on one of those old tunes about doing it in the rain as he strolled by in the rain. Now, the stewed old boy had driven a shit box into Winston’s pump. I’m not sure which building Lamont’s in, so I’m on my way out to the street to see what I can otherwise do.
I found our fool struggling with the door handle, very fucked up, stinking to high heaven. He got out of the car and asked me to “fill it up!” I suggested that he go sit in the office and cool out, to wait for Lamont to get down. Scheft came in, and while I was getting his car out of the way, the drunk wandered off across the street. Stevie gets down after putting Poole’s car away, and then he’s off, crossing the street, ducking traffic, heading for Lamont's apartment.
At this point I had to ask Laird and Justin to leave since Lamont will be over and he’ll be calling the police. He’ll also be making a speech about how there was some way we could’ve prevented this fuck up if only we weren’t so stoned and –god forbid - drunk. Yes, two beers are enough to get me pretty fucked up, I’ll admit. Laird expressed his regret at having to abandon the chess game. He knows all about all things business related, and knows that games must wait. So with friends gone, beer cans hidden, chairs and table out of the way, beer breath doused by one of Winston’s Pepsis, Lamont’s arrival on the scene – swaggering in like John Wayne as always – was a tad anti-climactic. He didn't make the speech I'd anticipated, but went right about the business of talking charge of his kingdom. I had driven the green Chevy into the Garage. The bum talked to L, then disappeared.
When the police showed up, Lamont sent me up to 79 Westland where the bastard lives in tawdriness under the auspices of old man LeBrun. Walking up the street, it hits me that this is where I started out in this town, that first day, audition day. I strolled purposefully over the very spot where "Huntington Munroe the Third" had hit us up for bus money. I walked at a brisk clip in the summer evening nodding at the prostitutes I'd always seen but never known in the biblical sense. I walked past the building where sweet Xenia had leaned over me so that I could see down her blouse in attempt to bring me out of my funk. She was promptly invited, by Rod, to stop doing that with wave of his hand and shake of his head. And after that, she came out as a dyke before I could ever get another look. Ah, all of this is coming to an end, I thought, as I followed the path of my errand to old man LeBrun's.
I open the outside door. Marble, dinginess and room tone.
Standing in the vestibule, ringing the bell. Dog barking. (The bum’s dog?) The old man comes to the door. I ask for the lanky, mustachioed black man with the resonant voice.
“We got no black people in the building,” says LeBrun.
‘Horseshit,’ I think. ‘No prostitutes either, I'll bet. Like the vestibule isn’t green.’
I thought I’d try one more tactic.
“Do you own a car,” I ask?
“Yes.”
“What make?”
“Ford wagon.”
Well, that leaves him out entirely.
It turns out the car belongs to a person in Brockton. Fade to black.
The Curtain falls as our hero walks back in the summer swelter to the scene of these crimes.
