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Authors: Kinky Friedman
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patiently on the cigar, and glanced down at an empty Vandam Street and the building across the way, which now stood almost entirely in darkness except for the light in the woman’s loft. Her place was apparently one floor below mine and it was backlit nicely, almost like a movie set, but I still couldn’t see much without the opera glasses. When I picked them up again and gave my malarial eyes a chance to focus, I saw that the girl was standing up again, gesturing with her hands in an agitated manner, seemingly arguing with someone else who’d evidently entered the room while I’d been watching the cat lick her anus. Life turns on a dime, they say.
As I watched, a dark shadow fell across the table. Then the dark figure of a man moved slowly—relentlessly, it seemed—across the room. The girl appeared to shrink away from him in fear. I could be wrong, I thought. Maybe she’s just upset with him for being late. Very possibly the same scenario was being enacted at that moment in a great many residences all across the city. I had no idea what time it was, of course. I had no way of knowing how late the guy was. I thought maybe he’d stop and they’d stand their ground and argue some more, but that didn’t happen. What happened was he kept moving toward her with an almost menacing grace, moving like nothing could stop him, like a maestro taking the stage to conduct a personal symphony of hate. For there was definitely hate and impending violence in that room and it traveled through the little opera glasses right down to my shivering bones. Sometimes malaria makes you shiver and sometimes it’s only life.
He hit her then, hard, in the face and her head snapped back and her hair flowed and billowed like in a TV shampoo commercial or a movie which this wasn’t and the cat stopped licking her anus and I felt like someone had hit me, too, and there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do about it.
“Jesus Christ!” I shouted and the guy hit her again and Jesus Christ looked sadly down from some little hill or other and there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do either. It was just a small aspect of the human condition called domestic violence and the society was redolent of it and the whole world reeked of it and maybe Hank Williams was right and they did have a license to fight, but the night was cold and the windows were all down and it made no sound and that made the normal shitty human thing all the more horrible and unearthly. And he hit her again and I turned and ran to call 911 and I stepped on an empty bottle and I fell and I was down and I crawled back to the window and I grabbed the little opera glasses and I looked across the blameless night and she was down, too, and he hit her again and again and again and only me and the cat and Jesus could see and it made us all feel sad and lonely, but we keep hoping and we keep trying and we crawl to the desk and grab the blower and we call 911 and we tell the lady who is there who we are and where we are and why we are lonely and why we are sad.
Chapter Fourteen
O kay, where’s the guy who called 911?”
“Right there, officer. You all right, Kinkstah?”
“The guy on the floor? He called 911?”
“You okay, Kink?”
“Of course he’s not okay. You bastards all left and you told me you’d watch him.”
“When we left he was fine. He was sleeping. You said you’d be back sooner.”
“Mr. Friedman, can you hear me? Did you call 911?”
“He’s going to be okay. He’s just weak. He’s recuperating.”
“I’d be recuperating, too, if I was responsible for all these empty bottles.”
“He didn’t drink ’em. They did!”
“So arrest me. It’s legal, innit? Prohibition’s over, innit?”
“I’ll just tidy up now.”
“Don’t touch those empty bottles. What’s his given name?”
“Kinky. He has a few other given names but that should suffice for your purposes.”
“Kinky? What kind of name’s Kinky?”
“You don’t know who that
As I watched, a dark shadow fell across the table. Then the dark figure of a man moved slowly—relentlessly, it seemed—across the room. The girl appeared to shrink away from him in fear. I could be wrong, I thought. Maybe she’s just upset with him for being late. Very possibly the same scenario was being enacted at that moment in a great many residences all across the city. I had no idea what time it was, of course. I had no way of knowing how late the guy was. I thought maybe he’d stop and they’d stand their ground and argue some more, but that didn’t happen. What happened was he kept moving toward her with an almost menacing grace, moving like nothing could stop him, like a maestro taking the stage to conduct a personal symphony of hate. For there was definitely hate and impending violence in that room and it traveled through the little opera glasses right down to my shivering bones. Sometimes malaria makes you shiver and sometimes it’s only life.
He hit her then, hard, in the face and her head snapped back and her hair flowed and billowed like in a TV shampoo commercial or a movie which this wasn’t and the cat stopped licking her anus and I felt like someone had hit me, too, and there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do about it.
“Jesus Christ!” I shouted and the guy hit her again and Jesus Christ looked sadly down from some little hill or other and there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do either. It was just a small aspect of the human condition called domestic violence and the society was redolent of it and the whole world reeked of it and maybe Hank Williams was right and they did have a license to fight, but the night was cold and the windows were all down and it made no sound and that made the normal shitty human thing all the more horrible and unearthly. And he hit her again and I turned and ran to call 911 and I stepped on an empty bottle and I fell and I was down and I crawled back to the window and I grabbed the little opera glasses and I looked across the blameless night and she was down, too, and he hit her again and again and again and only me and the cat and Jesus could see and it made us all feel sad and lonely, but we keep hoping and we keep trying and we crawl to the desk and grab the blower and we call 911 and we tell the lady who is there who we are and where we are and why we are lonely and why we are sad.
Chapter Fourteen
O kay, where’s the guy who called 911?”
“Right there, officer. You all right, Kinkstah?”
“The guy on the floor? He called 911?”
“You okay, Kink?”
“Of course he’s not okay. You bastards all left and you told me you’d watch him.”
“When we left he was fine. He was sleeping. You said you’d be back sooner.”
“Mr. Friedman, can you hear me? Did you call 911?”
“He’s going to be okay. He’s just weak. He’s recuperating.”
“I’d be recuperating, too, if I was responsible for all these empty bottles.”
“He didn’t drink ’em. They did!”
“So arrest me. It’s legal, innit? Prohibition’s over, innit?”
“I’ll just tidy up now.”
“Don’t touch those empty bottles. What’s his given name?”
“Kinky. He has a few other given names but that should suffice for your purposes.”
“Kinky? What kind of name’s Kinky?”
“You don’t know who that
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