The Door to Door Portrait Artist

Henry chills at home while Lu Lu's out shopping, listening to a never-ending Mahler Symphonies, flashing back to the yesteryear's hurricane, the turbulent seconds it took to move on, and the days of rain it left behind.

Time waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me; a lyric from Time is On My Side, penned by Jerry Ragovoy that's on loan to the Rolling Stones for an unknown sum.

The summer is over, the harvest is in, and we are not saved; Jeremiah 8:20

Jeremiah's Old Testament proverb vetted the coming famine when the wheat, fig, grape, and olive harvest was shredded to nothing by a swarm of locusts in 600 BC.

The dewy-eyed novitiate asks the Clown Monk;

your highship, I have nothing to do,

 

butterfly, talk about sex, do drugs, watch La Liga and Bonanza on TV, avoid telling the truth.

1984, a year when computers are as slow as molasses, and cell phones are bulky and rare. Stable operating systems are few, and the World Wide Web is a year old, the year cocaine is more popular than computers. Henry asks his wife, 

have you read the articles on computers in Science Magazine, or Oasis Xylophone?

Honestly, I'm not a geek, I'm a mermaid.

Henry and Lu Lu talk over going for a swim in the seawater pool, safe because the saltwater neutralizes the viruses, then he says, 

fuck the swimming pool, let's stay home and smoke dope.

Baked, the couple nurses a joint, in a fog Lu Lu fesses up, sayin, 

I fucked Fidel Castro; it was do it or go to jail. We'd party at his Havana house, he had the best of the best, ganja as well as cocaine. Did you know Fidel and Gabriel Garcia Marquez were best friends in the day? Year after year. Marquez would bring his beautiful wife, Mercedes, to Castro's house, where they'd talk about Latin music and literature. Both were the best at what they did. One night I said to Fidel,

mi amor, your passion for the Russian rockets and AK 47s is secondary to your passion for sex, Castro says, 

in my position, wearing one's heart on his sleeve is impossible. When I listen to cold and rigid Russian concertos, I remember the El Movimiento 26 de Julio and the revolutionaries who fought and bled by my side. 

Henry wonders, 

do you still love Fidel? 

He's arrogant, a wild lover hung like a burro. He’d rub cocaína on his pollo to stay hard. He had so many women, 1000s; I'm hot let's jump in the cold tub.

As they're eating chicken salad sandwiches the doorbell rings; Henry opens the front door and a Black man holding a white cane says, 

my name's Andy Higgins, I’m a blind man, a door-to-door portrait artist, 

 

please come in,  

Henry leads Andy around the bungalow, walking him to the kitchen table, where asking him,

how bout a drink or some pot? 

Thank you, yes, Seagrams & 7, and roll a fat joint. 

Lu Lu cranks up the air conditioner, it's clear Andy is hot.

Then she spins an LP on the record player; the George Shearing Trio tickles the keys playin, Unreachable Heights. Andy asks, 

George Shearing?  He's blind, ain't he? Does he play without looking at the keys? I have no musical talent, I became a photographer to prove that a blind man can do anything if he puts his mind to it. Let's go to work, Henry grab my Polaroid and the tripod. Set the kit up facing the sofa; think like you're doing a portrait.

Henry secures the camera to the tripod, looks through the lens, frames the shot, goes back to the sofa, sitting next to Lu Lu. 

The couple didn't dress fancy, he was wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and she was nude.  

Andy stands, walks to his camera, knocks it down, then catches it in 1 hand, Henry asks, 

How’d you catch the falling tripod?

Everything's feel for a blind man. OK, here we go, I’m going to say, get ready, count to five, and shoot, now let's smile!

Henry and Lu Lu don't pose, they ignore Andy, making out, playing scissors, rock, and paper, even wrestling on the sofa, Andy says, 

I can smell your body, she answers curtly, 

keep your nose to the grind pal.

In minutes Andy says,  

I think we have enough shots, for an extra 5 bucks, I’ll immortalize your portraits in a plastic-bound photo book.

Henry goes to the kitchen, mixing drinks, martinis this time, bringing them to the living room on a tray. 

On the sofa, the couple pages through the Polaroid portraits, laughing insanely.

They love the photos, the work is realistic, raw, 

well— you all know how much Polaroid film costs, how about 200 bucks for the works?

Henry stands, reaches into his pocket, walks to Andy, handing him 2 hundred-dollar bills, the blind man asks, 

Can you call me a cab? 

Henry laughs saying, 

Trust in the Lord, Ray Charles, 

I'll be trustin in the Lord alright, Henry, gotta go, my cab is here.

Lu Lu leads him out of the bungalow to the sidewalk; he faces her asking, 

what ya think? She answers, 

Andy Higgins, without a doubt, the GOAT of blind photographers.

Malika

 

In 1979 I was 22, living in Harlem working as a dishwasher, it was a strange time, a period when disco and cocaine boomed; I'm up for a few lines anytime, but fuck disco.  

I was the only White guy working at Amy Ruth’s Soul Food joint, and I began to feel accepted when my Black coworkers called me honky, or rabbit. The word nigga was persistently bandied around the kitchen, by everyone except me.

My wages were less than minimum wage, $2.00 an hour cash, tax-free. I never have paid taxes since, because the US Government fucks the middle class and the rich don't pay nothin.

I worked At Amy Ruth's from 9 AM till 5, 6 days a week; the staff was served soul food at a large metal table in the kitchen, I loved it and was gaga for sweet potato pie. 

After work, I'd hit Harlem bars; The Red Roaster, Jumbo's, Big Time, and others. I had a hard-on for Black girls.

Often, I'd be the only White guy in the bar; intuitively knowing to speak softly and be mannerly. At times, you'd see a White guy flashing cash at the bar, a big mistake because he'd get mugged outside. 

Sometimes dead drunk White dudes would hit on Black girls who didn't want the attention; getting their asses kicked; unless you're a Chuck Norris, the Black dude wins every time.

One night at Jumbo's I played my cards right, prudently chatting up an Ebony gal named Malika, a Colombia law student with short hair, wearing 60s-style black glasses, and a hot dress. Tulip wasn't the sexiest gal in the bar, but she had charisma.   

I spent a week's pay on 7 & 7s, then around 11 Milka says, 

Henry, you're sweet boy, I like you, let's go to your place.

wow sure!

I lived in a cheap room at Wilson Men's Club, no women allowed so I lied, 

ah, Tulip, I live at my grandmother's. She's a no-nonsense Catholic virgin who is racist.

Tulip laughs saying,

do Black people intimidate her? 

I suppose, 

okay, Henry, we'll go to my place, I live with my parents they don't like White folks. 

We take a bus to Central Harlem passing the Apollo Theater, Moshe's Deli, and Sam Gluck's Shoes,

Tulip says excitedly, 

I love Moshe's Deli, blintzes, and matzah ball soup, and I say, 

maybe you're a Black Jew, 

We chuckle, feeling this could become a regular thing.

Exiting the bus at 357th Street, we walk a short distance to Tulip's family apartment, a brick 3-story walk-up. She unlocks the front door and we amble up 2 flights of stairs to her family flat, then before going inside she puts her forefinger to her mouth, whispering,  

shush,

Taking off our shoes we tip-toe to her room, there's a desk piled high with law books, and the curtains, wallpaper, and bedspread are flowered. 

We strip and caress on the bed, masturbating; 69, doggy style, missionary, mutely at first, then so wildly that the bed board hammers the wall.

Alerted by a loud knock on the door then illegal entry, her parents march into the bedroom, they're shocked by what they see, and her mother wails, 

what are you doin with that White boy, girl? 

Then, Malika's daddy shows with a shotgun, aiming it in my direction. 

In  boxer shorts, I dive head first through an open window, landing on the fire escape, hustling to the sidewalk, and catching a bus home. 

On the bus in my underwear none of the riders batted an eye, New Yorkers have seen it all.

The following day I'm washing dishes at Amy Ruth’s Soul Food and Malika walks in the kitchen, I ask,

how'd ya know where I work? 

You told me, Henry, I don't care, I love you, but I want you to better yourself.

I will baby, I love you too.

Cantinflas, the Genderqueer, & Jesus

Somewhere between Abilene and El Paso, goin Southwest in my 73 Polaris wagon, I exit at a speck on the map, Salt Flat City, parkin at a Tex Mex joint, Pedro’s Cafe. 

Inside, I sit at the counter, looking over the menu.

The waitress is genderqueer with a florescent Cleopatra wig on, saying to me, 

howdy handsome, do you like Tex-Mex food? Honey, and if you all is game, I give the best head in Texas.

No thanks, sweetie, I'm impotent, I'll have el especial, keep the coffee common, cariña.

In due course, I'm served by Miss Brittany CoxXx, ha ah; chicken quesadillas, cheesy baked burritos, tamales, Tex-Mex  with native aroma, delicioso.

By 9PM, I'm on my way to the El Paso border crossing, it’s closed, I do a U-turn and drive to Gala National Forest, parkin, grabbin my sleeping bag, finding a bushy area, laying it on a bed of pine; on my back lookin up at the sky, tunin into the Earth Mother and da stars above; 

Like a Cowboy in the Boat of Ra.

That morning at 6AM, I pack up the wagon sucking down 3 Red Bulls like there's no tomorrow, hyper-buzzed, drivin' to the El Paso border crossing, stoppin my car at the checkpoint, showing the Mexican agent, who resembles Cantinflas, my passport, and car insurance, he's indifferent, smirking and sayin,  

Don't get the clap, Gringo.

 

Going south to Torreón, Mexico, is 7 hours from El Paso, halfway to Mexico City. , rockin' to Ranchera and Mariachi music on the radio. 

At Chihuahua, I pull into a liquor store, buying 2 pints of mescal, a Zippo lighter, and ultra-thin rolling papers.

Driving out of town on Avenida Bolívar I see a Black cowboy standing on the sidewalk, pimpin' somethin, maybe himself, I ask,  

you got any weed, man?

Sure gringo, I got quarter ounces of Diesel Gold for 1000 pesos, 

let me smell some, 

he opens a Ziploc bag, and I take a whiff; the shit’s pungent, so I hand over a 1000 Peso note. Driving into an alley I roll a few.

Driving 45 Southeast, I light a joint, alternating tokes with swigs of mescal, turning up the radio; the Mariachi this time, it's archetypal, it's Mexican folklore the band sings, 

Clap it, clap it, make it loud

Strike it, strike it, with your proud

Broken heart just made me strong

The music won't let me down

C'mon, c'mon, clap it now

Move it, move it, till you drown

Rise your head with the liberation

I won't let you down

By dark I can see the lights of  Zacatecas on the horizon, weary I turn into Parque Nacional Sierra de Órganos; no one is there, not even a watchman.

I lay a sleeping bag on the rooftop of the wagon, counting stars and fading out.

Up early,  I drive into Santana Ciudad buyin half a dozen bolillo

I'm no linguistic and Mexican might as well be Swahili 

In 3 hours, I’m in Mexico City, passing grimy brick buildings, exhaling soul shadows that shake me to the bone. 

In the comunity of Tepetos, a dicey area, I notice a rusted neon sign at the end of an alley, El Last Exit.

I park on Calle Juarez and walk to it, inside I see a big gal in a metal cage, who asks,

do you want a woman gringo? 

Señora, I want to book monthly,

esta bien señor, 2000 pesos and a 500 peso deposit. 

I walk to room 107, unlocking the door. There's a made-up double bed, a hot plate, and a cold-water WC. It's not a good room, it's akin to the dumps young Bukowski lived in. 

Horny to get a taste of the city, I quickly ditch the room.

Outside it smells like a septic tank, I duck into Rico's Cantina. It's dark inside, smelling like stale beer. The hard-drinkin' Mexicans eyeball me, el camarero comes close face to face, his breath is awful, I order, 

let see now, I'd like a shot of top shelf Tequila and a Corona Extra, 

The greaser grabs a machete from under the bar, slamming it on the counter like Noriega like Noriega or Pablo EEscobar 

I belt out;

fuck you, greaser,

running to the safty of  Saint Christofer's Church, buying a red rose from a lady dressed in black; a thorn pricks my finger, and it drips blood. 

Catching my breath, I kneel in the 2nd pew, looking over the crucifix on the sanctuary wall. 

I see Jesus and his face is in motion, it's the color of  Silly Putty, He moves his lips, speaking;

Henry, is there something you want to tell confess? 

May I share a story, 

yes, my son, 

I met a Gypsy kid on a bus goin from Greece to Albania, and he told me a story;

Romani Folklore has it that when You were crucified, a Gypsy stole the holy nails from Your wooden cross, and You were so grateful You told him in the future the Romani people could loot and plunder sin free, Jesus says, 

Yes, son, it’s a faithful tale.

He looks at me earnestly saying, 

Henry, in the coming months human beings will be raised, entering the Kingdom of God, Eternal life, are you ready to skyrocket into the Heavens my son? 

Yes, ah Jesus, it sounds, well, breathtaking, but I'll miss mescal, tamales, and pussy.

Without warning, I wake up in the 2nd pew, feelin horny and wantin a drink. 

I never had another religious experience, which was fine by me.

Back at La Exit, I ask the mamasan to send a woman, fresh orange juice, ice, and a bottle of tequila to my room.

After partying through the night, things felt right again