Read Online The Fan Man by William Kotzwinkle - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Kotzwinkle
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umbrella and wind-wheel, man. Jogging, healthful invigorating jogging … slow down, man, stop jogging or you will collapse with a blood clot in the big toe, man.
I’ve covered a lot of ground, man, and through the trees is the roof of the Central Park boathouse, man. I HAVE, IT, MAN! I WILL TAKE A LONG SLEEP IN A ROWBOAT, MAN, OUT ON THE LAKE, WITH NO ONE TO BOTHER ME!
What an idea, man. I am going straight along to the boathouse, man, going to the ticket window, saying to the lady, “Give me a ticket, pleebe.” Make monkey-face, stick ears out, roll eyes up, hang tongue down. Ticket lady is sitting in ticket booth, half-asleep, man, and she wakes up suddenly into a Horse Badorties face and jumps, man, with a ticket. And as she hands it through the window, man, I slowly sink down beneath the window, and with only my hand showing I take the ticket and crawl away to the entrance to the ramp that leads to the boats, where I immediately straighten up into nautical carriage, man, for there, ahead, tending to the rowboats is one of the most important figures in the Puerto Rican Navy, Admiral Rodriguez, man, in his official white yachting cap from John’s Bargain Store.
Commodore Schmuck salutes the Admiral, who returns the salute, and shows me to my boat, man.
“Hang onto my umbrella a second, Admiral, while I crawl in, as I don’t want to drop anything in the water. Giant eels, man, live down there. OK, man, hand it over, thanks.”
“Hokay,
amigo
, here you go,” says Admiral Rodriguez, giving the boat a little shove, man, and I am going out into the channel, manning the oars, man, making gentle ripples in the water and pulling away from land.
Waves sparkle oars rise, fall, and as the boathouse slips away behind me, man, the roof gleaming in the sunlight, it seems to become a Chinese pagoda. Long ago, man, I was a Chinese boatman, skilled with oars, able to make a boat move fast. The old Chinese boatman vibes are taking over now, man, making the oars really work, moving the boat faster, churning up the water, splash splash … OH NO!
“Stop the boat, man, hold everything. I have to return to the land and call a doctor. I just got a drop of this motherfucking stagnant poisoned water on my lip, man … arrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh !”
Wiping mouth and tongue off on jacket sleeve like wild animal, man, biting at the wool, attempting to remove from my lips before it is ingested the drop of deadly Central Park lake water, man, which is more toxic than the venom of a black mamba, give me galloping typhoid, man. Spitting in the lake “Hock-tooooeeeeee, man!” Open satchel, dig down into dark depths find antiseptic solution, gargle immediately, full-strength.
But what is worse, man, far worse than the terrible cramps and sudden mind lesions produced by this water, is the speaker of a transistor radio in the distance, through which Puerto Rican music is being broadcast, man. Dig down into satchel for Commodore Schmuck naval action earflap cap. Puerto Rican water music, man, cripple, drive insane. Everything is OK now, man. I am in the soundproof hat, and can resume gentle rowing up the channel. I’m getting tired, man, and my feet are getting cold, the poison must be spreading through my body. I had better administer the antidote. Out of my satchel, man, comes Doctor Badorties’ huge Ann Page Blue Cheese Dressing bottle, which is filled with clear spring water. Fitted into the neck of the bottle is a number four black rubber two-holed chemistry stopper. A chemist’s thistle tube, conveniently shaped like the bowl of a pipe, is passed through the number one hole of the number four stopper. Through the number two hole is fitted a mouthpiece hose. And out of the special Culpeeper’s herbalist pouch, I am taking a few sprigs of wild asparagus leaves, and sprinkling them in the thistle tube.
And now, man, I am once again coming up with the award-winning superb-design perpetual Japanese Match. This small container, no
I’ve covered a lot of ground, man, and through the trees is the roof of the Central Park boathouse, man. I HAVE, IT, MAN! I WILL TAKE A LONG SLEEP IN A ROWBOAT, MAN, OUT ON THE LAKE, WITH NO ONE TO BOTHER ME!
What an idea, man. I am going straight along to the boathouse, man, going to the ticket window, saying to the lady, “Give me a ticket, pleebe.” Make monkey-face, stick ears out, roll eyes up, hang tongue down. Ticket lady is sitting in ticket booth, half-asleep, man, and she wakes up suddenly into a Horse Badorties face and jumps, man, with a ticket. And as she hands it through the window, man, I slowly sink down beneath the window, and with only my hand showing I take the ticket and crawl away to the entrance to the ramp that leads to the boats, where I immediately straighten up into nautical carriage, man, for there, ahead, tending to the rowboats is one of the most important figures in the Puerto Rican Navy, Admiral Rodriguez, man, in his official white yachting cap from John’s Bargain Store.
Commodore Schmuck salutes the Admiral, who returns the salute, and shows me to my boat, man.
“Hang onto my umbrella a second, Admiral, while I crawl in, as I don’t want to drop anything in the water. Giant eels, man, live down there. OK, man, hand it over, thanks.”
“Hokay,
amigo
, here you go,” says Admiral Rodriguez, giving the boat a little shove, man, and I am going out into the channel, manning the oars, man, making gentle ripples in the water and pulling away from land.
Waves sparkle oars rise, fall, and as the boathouse slips away behind me, man, the roof gleaming in the sunlight, it seems to become a Chinese pagoda. Long ago, man, I was a Chinese boatman, skilled with oars, able to make a boat move fast. The old Chinese boatman vibes are taking over now, man, making the oars really work, moving the boat faster, churning up the water, splash splash … OH NO!
“Stop the boat, man, hold everything. I have to return to the land and call a doctor. I just got a drop of this motherfucking stagnant poisoned water on my lip, man … arrrrrggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh !”
Wiping mouth and tongue off on jacket sleeve like wild animal, man, biting at the wool, attempting to remove from my lips before it is ingested the drop of deadly Central Park lake water, man, which is more toxic than the venom of a black mamba, give me galloping typhoid, man. Spitting in the lake “Hock-tooooeeeeee, man!” Open satchel, dig down into dark depths find antiseptic solution, gargle immediately, full-strength.
But what is worse, man, far worse than the terrible cramps and sudden mind lesions produced by this water, is the speaker of a transistor radio in the distance, through which Puerto Rican music is being broadcast, man. Dig down into satchel for Commodore Schmuck naval action earflap cap. Puerto Rican water music, man, cripple, drive insane. Everything is OK now, man. I am in the soundproof hat, and can resume gentle rowing up the channel. I’m getting tired, man, and my feet are getting cold, the poison must be spreading through my body. I had better administer the antidote. Out of my satchel, man, comes Doctor Badorties’ huge Ann Page Blue Cheese Dressing bottle, which is filled with clear spring water. Fitted into the neck of the bottle is a number four black rubber two-holed chemistry stopper. A chemist’s thistle tube, conveniently shaped like the bowl of a pipe, is passed through the number one hole of the number four stopper. Through the number two hole is fitted a mouthpiece hose. And out of the special Culpeeper’s herbalist pouch, I am taking a few sprigs of wild asparagus leaves, and sprinkling them in the thistle tube.
And now, man, I am once again coming up with the award-winning superb-design perpetual Japanese Match. This small container, no
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