order here.”
“Don’t spend too much, Dee Dee.”
“It all goes on the expense account.”
She took out a little black book. “Now, let’s see. Who am I taking to breakfast? Elton John?”
“Isn’t he in Africa …”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, how about Cat Stevens?”
“Who’s that?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Well, I discovered him. You can be Cat Stevens.”
Donny brought the drink and he and Dee Dee talked. They seemed to know the same people. I didn’t know any of them. It took a lot to excite me. I didn’t care. I didn’t like New York. I didn’t like Hollywood. I didn’t like rock music. I didn’t like anything. Maybe I was afraid. That was it—I was afraid. I wanted to sit alone in a room with the shades down. I feasted upon that. I was a crank. I was a lunatic. And Lydia was gone.
I finished my drink and Dee Dee ordered another. I began to feel like a kept man and it felt great. It helped my blues. There is nothing worse than being broke and having your woman leave you. Nothing to drink, no job, just the walls, sitting there staring at the walls and thinking. That’s how women got back at you, but it hurt and weakened them too. Or so I like to believe.
The breakfast was good. Eggs garnished with various fruits . . . pineapple, peaches, pears . . . some grated nuts, seasoning. It was a good breakfast. We finished and Dee Dee ordered me another drink. The thought of Lydia still remained inside of me, but Dee Dee was nice. Her conversation was decisive and entertaining. She was able to make me laugh, which I needed. My laughter was all there inside of me waiting to roar out: HAHAHAHAHA , o my god o my HAHAHAHA . It felt so good when it happened. Dee Dee knew something about life. Dee Dee knew that what happened to one happened to most of us. Our lives were not so different—even though we liked to think so.
Pain is strange. A cat killing a bird, a car accident, a fire. . . . Pain arrives, BANG , and there it is, it sits on you. It’s real. And to anybody watching, you look foolish. Like you’ve suddenly become an idiot. There’s no cure for it unless you know somebody who understands how you feel, and knows how to help.
We went back to the car. “I know just where to take you to cheer you up,” said Dee Dee. I didn’t answer. I was being catered to as if I was an invalid. Which I was.
I asked Dee Dee to stop at a bar. One of hers. The bartender knew her.
“This,” she told me as we entered, “is where a lot of the script writers hang out. And some of the little-theatre people.”
I disliked them all immediately, sitting around acting clever and superior. They nullified each other. The worst thing for a writer is to know another writer, and worse than that, to know a number of other writers. Like flies on the same turd.
“Let’s get a table,” I said. So there I was, a $65 a week writer sitting in a room with other writers, $1000 a week writers. Lydia, I thought, I am getting there. You’ll be sorry. Some day I’ll go into fancy restaurants and I’ll be recognized. They’ll have a special table for me in the back near the kitchen.
We got our drinks and Dee Dee looked at me. “You give good head. You give the best head I ever had.”
“Lydia taught me. Then I added a few touches of my own.”
A dark young boy jumped up and came over to our table. Dee Dee introduced us. The boy was from New York, wrote for the Village Voice and other New York newspapers. He and Dee Dee name-dropped a while and then he asked her, “What’s your husband do?”
“I got a stable,” I said. “Fighters. Four good Mexican boys. Plus one black boy, a real dancer. What do you weigh?”
“158. Were you a fighter? Your face looks like you caught a few.”
“I’ve caught a few. We can put you in at 135. I need a southpaw lightweight.”
“How’d you know I was a southpaw?”
“You’re holding your cigarette in your left hand. Come on down to the Main Street gym.
“Don’t spend too much, Dee Dee.”
“It all goes on the expense account.”
She took out a little black book. “Now, let’s see. Who am I taking to breakfast? Elton John?”
“Isn’t he in Africa …”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, how about Cat Stevens?”
“Who’s that?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Well, I discovered him. You can be Cat Stevens.”
Donny brought the drink and he and Dee Dee talked. They seemed to know the same people. I didn’t know any of them. It took a lot to excite me. I didn’t care. I didn’t like New York. I didn’t like Hollywood. I didn’t like rock music. I didn’t like anything. Maybe I was afraid. That was it—I was afraid. I wanted to sit alone in a room with the shades down. I feasted upon that. I was a crank. I was a lunatic. And Lydia was gone.
I finished my drink and Dee Dee ordered another. I began to feel like a kept man and it felt great. It helped my blues. There is nothing worse than being broke and having your woman leave you. Nothing to drink, no job, just the walls, sitting there staring at the walls and thinking. That’s how women got back at you, but it hurt and weakened them too. Or so I like to believe.
The breakfast was good. Eggs garnished with various fruits . . . pineapple, peaches, pears . . . some grated nuts, seasoning. It was a good breakfast. We finished and Dee Dee ordered me another drink. The thought of Lydia still remained inside of me, but Dee Dee was nice. Her conversation was decisive and entertaining. She was able to make me laugh, which I needed. My laughter was all there inside of me waiting to roar out: HAHAHAHAHA , o my god o my HAHAHAHA . It felt so good when it happened. Dee Dee knew something about life. Dee Dee knew that what happened to one happened to most of us. Our lives were not so different—even though we liked to think so.
Pain is strange. A cat killing a bird, a car accident, a fire. . . . Pain arrives, BANG , and there it is, it sits on you. It’s real. And to anybody watching, you look foolish. Like you’ve suddenly become an idiot. There’s no cure for it unless you know somebody who understands how you feel, and knows how to help.
We went back to the car. “I know just where to take you to cheer you up,” said Dee Dee. I didn’t answer. I was being catered to as if I was an invalid. Which I was.
I asked Dee Dee to stop at a bar. One of hers. The bartender knew her.
“This,” she told me as we entered, “is where a lot of the script writers hang out. And some of the little-theatre people.”
I disliked them all immediately, sitting around acting clever and superior. They nullified each other. The worst thing for a writer is to know another writer, and worse than that, to know a number of other writers. Like flies on the same turd.
“Let’s get a table,” I said. So there I was, a $65 a week writer sitting in a room with other writers, $1000 a week writers. Lydia, I thought, I am getting there. You’ll be sorry. Some day I’ll go into fancy restaurants and I’ll be recognized. They’ll have a special table for me in the back near the kitchen.
We got our drinks and Dee Dee looked at me. “You give good head. You give the best head I ever had.”
“Lydia taught me. Then I added a few touches of my own.”
A dark young boy jumped up and came over to our table. Dee Dee introduced us. The boy was from New York, wrote for the Village Voice and other New York newspapers. He and Dee Dee name-dropped a while and then he asked her, “What’s your husband do?”
“I got a stable,” I said. “Fighters. Four good Mexican boys. Plus one black boy, a real dancer. What do you weigh?”
“158. Were you a fighter? Your face looks like you caught a few.”
“I’ve caught a few. We can put you in at 135. I need a southpaw lightweight.”
“How’d you know I was a southpaw?”
“You’re holding your cigarette in your left hand. Come on down to the Main Street gym.
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