saying, 'Hang on to it, kid. You're all right, I reckon. Yeah, you'll do. You ain't got a problem here. Listen — there'll be another day.'
——————
And the man was right. On the third morning I woke to find the sheets were dry. Cautiously I opened my eyes and sat up straight. Yes, it had transferred, it had passed over, it had moved on to another place and was now busy somewhere else. And I thought: home, go home.
I slid out of the bag and rang room service. For over a minute I jogged on the spot. Now this is what waking up is supposed to be like. Was it my fancy, or had I lost a little bit of weight? I shampooed my rug. I found a bottle of disinfectant and took a swig of it. I did a press-up. I called the airline.
Half way through the first pint of coffee I torched a cigarette. Mmm, tasted good. Fags and fever really don't mix. I reproach myself for lack of self-discipline, but you've got to hand it to me when it comes to cigarettes. During my sickness, I realized, I had maintained my snout-count by sheer willpower. There was a slight downcurve or shortfall on the second carton, but nothing I couldn't fix if I smoked two-handed.
I touched my toes. I poured more coffee and unpeeled the fifth carton of sticky half-and-half. I yawned contentedly. Well then, I asked myself — how about a handjob?
I flipped a couple of men's magazines out of my suitcase and returned to the sack to check them out. Let's see here... The whole idea was obviously a very serious mistake. It wasn't any fun at all and gave me an unbelievable neck-ache. Besides, pornography is habit-forming, you know. Oh yes it is. I am a pornography addict, for instance, with a three-mag-a-week and at-least-one-movie habit to sustain. That's why I need all this money. I've got all these chicks to support... While I ruefully rubbed my neck in front of the bathroom mirror, and withstood the gaze of my blasted face, I also received another memory from the gibber of my nights of fever here in hot New York. Someone had come to the end of the long passage outside Room 101, once, twice, perhaps many more times, someone had come and mightily shaken the door, and not with the need for entry but in simple rage and warning. Did it happen, or was it just a new kind of dream? I'm getting new kinds all the time now, sadness dreams, drunk dreams, boredom dreams with me or someone else going on and on for ever — and dreams that I can liken only to the strains of search that poets must endure as they wait for their lines to form. I say this tentatively. I don't know what it's like to write a poem. I don't know what it's like to read one either ... About me and reading (I don't really know why I tell you this — I mean, do you read that much?): I can't read because it hurts my eyes. I can't wear glasses because it hurts my nose. I can't wear contacts because it hurts my nerves. So you see, it all came down to a choice between pain and not reading. I chose not reading. Not reading — that's where I put my money.
I rang Fielding at the Carraway.
'Lorne wants reassuring,' he told me.
'Yeah, well you reassure him for a while. I'm going home.'
'Slick, so soon!'
'I'll be back. I got to sort some things out.'
'What's the problem? Women or money?'
'Both.'
'It's the same problem. When's your flight?'
Ten.'
'So you leave for the airport at 8.45.'
'No. I arrive at the airport at 8.45. I'm flying Airtrack.'
'Airtrack? What do they give you on Airtrack, Slick? A spliff, a salad and a light-show?'
'Well, that's what I'm doing.'
'Listen ... I want you to meet Butch Beausoleil before you wing out. Can you get to my club around seven? The Berkeley,West Forty-Fourth. Leave your bags at the door and just walk on through.'
Yes and I rang Martina too. She accepted my apologies. They always do, at first. Actually she was very sympathetic. We're meeting for a quick one at the Gustave on Fifth Avenue, six o'clock. I levelled with the girl, and told her how ill and lonely and
——————
And the man was right. On the third morning I woke to find the sheets were dry. Cautiously I opened my eyes and sat up straight. Yes, it had transferred, it had passed over, it had moved on to another place and was now busy somewhere else. And I thought: home, go home.
I slid out of the bag and rang room service. For over a minute I jogged on the spot. Now this is what waking up is supposed to be like. Was it my fancy, or had I lost a little bit of weight? I shampooed my rug. I found a bottle of disinfectant and took a swig of it. I did a press-up. I called the airline.
Half way through the first pint of coffee I torched a cigarette. Mmm, tasted good. Fags and fever really don't mix. I reproach myself for lack of self-discipline, but you've got to hand it to me when it comes to cigarettes. During my sickness, I realized, I had maintained my snout-count by sheer willpower. There was a slight downcurve or shortfall on the second carton, but nothing I couldn't fix if I smoked two-handed.
I touched my toes. I poured more coffee and unpeeled the fifth carton of sticky half-and-half. I yawned contentedly. Well then, I asked myself — how about a handjob?
I flipped a couple of men's magazines out of my suitcase and returned to the sack to check them out. Let's see here... The whole idea was obviously a very serious mistake. It wasn't any fun at all and gave me an unbelievable neck-ache. Besides, pornography is habit-forming, you know. Oh yes it is. I am a pornography addict, for instance, with a three-mag-a-week and at-least-one-movie habit to sustain. That's why I need all this money. I've got all these chicks to support... While I ruefully rubbed my neck in front of the bathroom mirror, and withstood the gaze of my blasted face, I also received another memory from the gibber of my nights of fever here in hot New York. Someone had come to the end of the long passage outside Room 101, once, twice, perhaps many more times, someone had come and mightily shaken the door, and not with the need for entry but in simple rage and warning. Did it happen, or was it just a new kind of dream? I'm getting new kinds all the time now, sadness dreams, drunk dreams, boredom dreams with me or someone else going on and on for ever — and dreams that I can liken only to the strains of search that poets must endure as they wait for their lines to form. I say this tentatively. I don't know what it's like to write a poem. I don't know what it's like to read one either ... About me and reading (I don't really know why I tell you this — I mean, do you read that much?): I can't read because it hurts my eyes. I can't wear glasses because it hurts my nose. I can't wear contacts because it hurts my nerves. So you see, it all came down to a choice between pain and not reading. I chose not reading. Not reading — that's where I put my money.
I rang Fielding at the Carraway.
'Lorne wants reassuring,' he told me.
'Yeah, well you reassure him for a while. I'm going home.'
'Slick, so soon!'
'I'll be back. I got to sort some things out.'
'What's the problem? Women or money?'
'Both.'
'It's the same problem. When's your flight?'
Ten.'
'So you leave for the airport at 8.45.'
'No. I arrive at the airport at 8.45. I'm flying Airtrack.'
'Airtrack? What do they give you on Airtrack, Slick? A spliff, a salad and a light-show?'
'Well, that's what I'm doing.'
'Listen ... I want you to meet Butch Beausoleil before you wing out. Can you get to my club around seven? The Berkeley,West Forty-Fourth. Leave your bags at the door and just walk on through.'
Yes and I rang Martina too. She accepted my apologies. They always do, at first. Actually she was very sympathetic. We're meeting for a quick one at the Gustave on Fifth Avenue, six o'clock. I levelled with the girl, and told her how ill and lonely and
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