The Guru

Henry reading feedback on his last story ”No Rainbow.”  A history professor from Columbia wrote that the story left him hanging and he wanted to know why Henry didn’t go to Yagur’s Farm?  And why did the Greek bartender get so angry? 

Henry is no hero, he’s weak, he didn’t go to the farm because the bad vibes shook him up, and the Greek bartender had issues, he was psychotic, an alpha-male on steroids.  

A few years ago Henry took a bus trip to New Mexico, he had an aunt in Taos who painted pet portraits.

The bus pulled into Taos at 10PM, Henry checked into the El Camino Motel, a dump with a neon sign in front, a few miles out of town.   

He got settled in his room, and downed a pint of Mescal, watching rodeo on TV. In the morning he would hitch-hike to the Lama Foundation, Baba Ramdass’s commune. 

Henry up early, he ate some tacos for breakfast at the local diner, then walked across the street to the liquor store and bought two fifths of mescal.

He walked out of town a mile or so and began hitch-hiking, waiting an hour until a Dodge Polara Wagon pulled over and stopped on the shoulder of the road. Henry walked to the car, opened the door and got in, eye-balling the driver, a young long haired Native Indian guy, drunk. 

The skin put the peddle to the metal and made tracks down the highway. Henry asked him his name, he said it was Ugh, short for Ugly.  

Henry pulls a bottle of Mescal out of his pack and passes it to Ugh, saying that he is going to the Lama Foundation, Ugh says, “Let’s go!”  He didn’t talk much. 

They pulled off of Route 66 turning onto a dirt road, the Dodge spreading dust clouds in the air. Henry could see a couple of long haired guys wearing jeans and collarless Nehru shirts up ahead, it was the front gate of the Lama foundation. Ugh stopped the car and rolled his window down, the guards saying "Today Baba Ramdass will speak, no alcohol or drugs allowed," Henry surrenders one of the bottles of Mescal, he had another bottle under the car seat, Ugh driving slowly to the parking area. 

Ugh parked the Polara and the two walked to a large Geodesic Dome, the floor inside lined with Native Indian blankets. There were hippies everywhere, bra-less long haired women spirit dancing, guys playing wood-flutes and bongo drums, Henry and Ugh getting drunk, passing the bottle between them.  

Baba Ramdass enters stage left chanting Vedic prayer,  hippie girls run to him and hang Lotus garlands on the guru. It was quite the scene Henry thought. 

Ramdass now lecturing the crowd on vegetarianism, renouncing drugs, alcohol and sex. 

Ugh jumps up on impulse and runs to Ramdass, leaping on him, kissing him wildly, then puking on the guru. In seconds security is pulling on and beating Ugh, Ramdass quickly exits, soaked in vomit, shaking. 

One of the security guys confronts Henry and says, “You and you friend have to get out of here now,” he gave Henry the keys to the Polara.

Henry goes to the parking area,  security dragging Ugh through the gravel, his hands tied behind his back with twine.  The security guys open the rear car door putting Ugh in the Polara.  Henry wanting to get away quick, before security called the sheriff.  

Back at the El Camino Motel, Henry lets Ugh sleep it off, later that evening bringing his sick friend some tacos. Ugh eating the tacos, feeling better, Henry asking him what happened? Ugh saying  “It’s the Native Indian curse, devil alcohol.”

Ugh tells Henry that he is on his way to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. He says he is the son of the medicine-man Crow Dog, and that Native Indians believe getting drunk cleanses the soul. 

At 11 PM, Ugh thanked Henry for helping him, walked out of the room, got in his car and drove away, Henry never saw him again. 

After a week in Taos smoking dope and hiking daily in the Sangre Del Christo Mountains, Henry bought a bus ticket back to New York City. He never contacted his aunt, the pet portrait painter. 

Burroughs Snubbed Me

Henry in a different room, using different type-set, superstitious and wondering if he could write? He was on a roll— his last 4 stories with over 100 hits a piece. 

He had written 10 stories dealing with night-time walks in Queens.  Henry afraid to break out of the pattern, opting for the tried and true. 

Saturday night in Queens, Henry bolted out of his apartment at 10pm. As usual going to Chaim's Deli for a snack, needing fuel—Espresso mixed with Arak, mustard sardines and raw onion slices on pumpernickel . 

Eating quick, in and out of  Chaims in 10 minutes, lighting a beedi, inhaling the night-air, eyeing a group of hookers up the street, card carrying cock-suckers, doped-up to the max, jazzed. As he approached the group one of the girls says “Hi Henry,” he says “How’s tricks baby?” she saying, “Oh Henry you're a doll,” heart-felt chatter and yak.

Henry moving down the street past the hookers walking through the Bowery,  bypassing the bums, green at the smell of puke and piss. The bums barely hanging on to the last rung of life, uncaring, good for nothing, he hated them. 

Heading uptown to The Museum of Modern Art.  Ruby (Henry’s regular waitress at Chaims) had mentioned that William Burroughs was going to read at the museum tonight. He could see a herd of punks with fluorescent hair in motion, shaking, snorting something at the museum entrance. This must be it he thought.

Walking in like he owned the place, the reading was in the basement, a bunker far from the modern art.  There was a roped off area at the rear of the cement hall, Henry walked in telling security he was a reporter for The Columbia Times. There was a buffet of sorts, rye-bread, cold-cuts, some cakes and fruit on a long table. Henry could see William Burroughs standing and holding court, a paper plate in hand, talking to some literati. He approached William Burroughs and said “ Bill Burroughs nice to meet you,” the colonel took a look at Henry, sized him up and did an about face and walked away. 

Henry didn’t hit it off with Burroughs, He (Henry) sitting cross-legged on the cement floor, in the audience as William Burroughs was introduced by a local poet, a guy they called Antler. The colonel getting down to business reading a poem—

I was standing by the wax before dead whistle stop already

cross the red moon terminal time scarred end.

he strode towards the actors in the city "Here he is now"

obsidian morning sniffing quivering need masturbating afternoons

spitting blood dead rainbow flesh he moved as sharp as

on the iron streets fish smell and dead eyes water reeds

scarred metal faces running into the mines liquid typewriter

So on and so forth, Henry thought Burrough's poetry was odious, then one of the punks hands him a baggy with clear liquid in the bottom, Henry says, “ No thanks mate I’m in NA, off the stuff.” 

Henry nodding out some during the reading, then waking as Burroughs rants  “ His sphincter shuddering, in Tangiers junked—”

Nothing was working here tonight from start to finish, Henry out the door, not staying for the big finish, thinking it would be better next time.  

Pull my Daisy

Henry in a different room, using different type-set, superstitious and wondering if he could write? He was on a roll— his last 4 stories with over 100 hits apiece. 

He had written 10 stories dealing with night-time walks in Queens.  Henry afraid to break out of the pattern, opting for the tried and true. 

Saturday night in Queens, Henry bolted out of his apartment at 10pm. As usual going to Chaim's Deli for a snack, needing fuel—Espresso mixed with Arak, mustard sardines and raw onion slices on pumpernickel . 

Eating quick, in and out of  Chaims in 10 minutes, lighting a beedi, inhaling the night-air, eyeing a group of hookers up the street, card carrying cock-suckers, doped-up to the max, jazzed. As he approached the group one of the girls says “Hi Henry,” he says “How’s tricks baby?” she saying, “Oh Henry you're a doll,” heart-felt chatter and yak.

Henry moving down the street past the hookers walking through the Bowery,  bypassing the bums, green at the smell of puke and piss. The bums barely hanging on to the last rung of life, uncaring, good for nothing, he hated them. 

Heading uptown to The Museum of Modern Art.  Ruby (Henry’s regular waitress at Chaims) had mentioned that William Burroughs was going to read at the museum tonight. He could see a herd of punks with fluorescent hair in motion, shaking, snorting something at the museum entrance. This must be it he thought.

Walking in like he owned the place, the reading was in the basement, a bunker far from the modern art.  There was a roped off area at the rear of the cement hall, Henry walked in telling security he was a reporter for The Columbia Times. There was a buffet of sorts, rye-bread, cold-cuts, some cakes and fruit on a long table. Henry could see William Burroughs standing and holding court, a paper plate in hand, talking to some literati. He approached William Burroughs and said “ Bill Burroughs nice to meet you,” the colonel took a look at Henry, sized him up and did an about face and walked away. 

Henry didn’t hit it off with Burroughs, He (Henry) sitting cross-legged on the cement floor, in the audience as William Burroughs was introduced by a local poet, a guy they called Antler. The colonel getting down to business reading a poem—

I was standing by the wax before dead whistle stop already
cross the red moon terminal time scarred end.
he strode towards the actors in the city "Here he is now"
obsidian morning sniffing quivering need masturbating afternoons
spitting blood dead rainbow flesh he moved as sharp as
on the iron streets fish smell and dead eyes water reeds

scarred metal faces running into the mines liquid typewriter

So on and so forth, Henry thought Burrough's poetry was odious, then one of the punks hands him a baggy with clear liquid in the bottom, Henry says, “ No thanks mate I’m in NA, off the stuff.” 

Henry nodding out some during the reading, then waking as Burroughs rants  “ His sphincter shuddering, in Tangiers junked—”

Nothing was working here tonight from start to finish, Henry out the door, not staying for the big finish, thinking it would be better next time.  

Shrink

Henry lounging on the balcony of his 10th floor apartment in Queens, watching the parade of stiffs going to work below on the street, happy he didn’t work. 

He had a mix of stale popcorn, ashes and peanut shells in a paper bag on his patio table. He started tossing handfuls of the mix into the air towards the stiffs on street level, chanting Vedic verse, blessing everything, feeling holy. 

Henry out the door at 10 AM headed to the welfare office. He never went out in the day, but this was official business, things bureaucratic took the piss out of him.

The office was in downtown Queens, he had been there many times. Henry queued and sat down in a hard plastic chair, row 14. 

He wore Ray-Bans because the florescent light irritated his eyes.  Henry felt the gray unremarkable environment was doleful. Jails, schools, welfare offices— desolate and glum.

Number 103, his number flashing green in an electrified box on the wall. Henry smiles at and nods hello to a attractive black women at a small metal desk. She looks at him and verifies his name and case number, Henry Lucowski, #3459875. Then saying “Mr. Lucowski we have reason to believe that you have lied to the board about your mental health for financial gain. You know we have eyes everywhere and we have been watching you. Please go to the psychologist’s office, room 534.” 

Henry nods and makes his way to the 5TH floor queuing again. 2 hours later Henry enters the psychologist’s office and sits down. The shrink a witchy women, middle aged, humorlessly goes to work, a bad sign he thought, serious business. 

“Mr. Lucowski  how is your mental health these days?”  Henry says “Oh, deteriorating by the minute,” She then says, “Mr. Lucowski have you been taking your medication?” He nods yes, lying— he would give the medication to Ruby at Chaim’s Deli, he didn’t know why she wanted the stuff.    

“Mr. Lucowski take this test and return it when you're finished.” 

It was the usual, Rorschach test, the ink-blots and a series of multiple choice questions like—

Which does not belong? 

A- Henry

B- Irwin

C- Fredrick

D- Grasshopper 

Or, 

Did your mother? (Choose answers or answer that apply) 

A-  Drink excessively

B- Make you wear a dress

C- Punish you harshly

D- Dance naked in the living room

Henry siting down in a plastic chair, the test pages on top of a hard bound book, on his lap, using a pencil, trying to be neat.   

He knew he had to be careful not to test too crazy, the welfare cops could lock him up in Rikers Island. It was a delicate balance, He knew the drill. 

Henry had been in the Queens Welfare Office all day, from 10 to 5.  7 hours in the comfortless world of the system, depressing, it felt like jail.

His SSI reinstated, corroborated  by the shrinks at the welfare office. 

Henry soldiered-on, still free in the world of the stiffs.   

The HIgh-Road

Henry in his apartment, sitting, looking at his lap top and thinking he wanted to eat. 

He ordered a bowl of potato-leek soup and a Bud-Light. Chaims was empty, it was the end of the month, allot of folks in Henry’s neighborhood broke.   

Henry tipped  Ruby something, his regular waitress at Chiams. On his way out Chaim says to Henry, “What about them Mets?”  Henry shrugged and walked out the door. 

Henry not flush so a massage was out 

He was bone-tired of the bars on the Bowery, green at the smell of piss and puke, done-in at the sight of bloodied bums hitting the pavement.  

He walked for an hour or so making his way to Times Square, quit the show, drag-queens, junks and midnight cowboys. A lady-boy wearing tie-died overalls and a multi-colored wig says, “Wanna party?” Henry asking her if she had Cocaine?  She says “Dear I’m a professional cock-sucker, don’t insult me.” 

Henry thinking —  great, a gratified cock-sucker. 

Henry eyeing the marque at the New Amsterdam Theater notices a John Cocteau film “The  Blood of the Poet” is playing.  Buying a ticket, slouching as he walks to the front row, sitting down, then walking slouched over with a bottle in his hand to the front row. He the wild Turkey mixed with Robitussin out of his vest-pocket. The mix just right the slow moving, cartoon-like, surreal Cocteau film. Henry enjoyed the ongoing motif of suicide and violence, and a scene where a young son escapes his mothers whining by levitating and hovering on the ceiling.  

He figured the film was a Cocteau opium dream.

He took a taxi home, done-in from the Wild Turkey and Robitussin mix. 

Henry opting for the high-road tonight, passing on a “Professional blow-job,” going to an art film instead. 

Escalaphobic

Another day another story.  

Days of Heaven, Johnny be good, Henry in his apartment on Thursday afternoon, he could hear music at street level— angelic harp and acid fused trip music, Moroccan pipes of pan, Hari Krishna  hippies chanting, jumping up and down in the  opium fields and canyons of New York City.

You could still find magic in the city Henry thought,  it was July 3, 1969, his birthday.

He planned to go out in the evening to celebrate, alone. Henry superstitious, believing it was bad luck to tell people it was your birthday. 

9 PM, peeking outside to see if it was dark, then heading out. 

Henry walking down 10 flights of stairs  to avoid the elevator because he was escalaphobic— the elevator scared the shit out of him. He wondered what was holding the god-damn thing on the side-rails? What would happen if it busted lose, broke free from the hinges or cables and fell free? He wondered if there was a big spring that would cushion a free-fall at the bottom of the elevator shaft? 

On street level he felt safe again. First stop Chaim’s deli for a bowl of matzo ball soup and some cream soda, sitting in a booth eyes down not wanting to make eye contact, afraid someone would wish him a happy birthday. Fat chance the waitresses hated Henry, he never tipped. 

Leaving Chaim’s happy to escape the place.  Siam Massage was a few doors away from the deli.  He told the cashier he wanted Sweet Water, a hill tribe gal.  The two old friends walked hand in hand down a dark hall to a marquee covered with Indian prints. The tent had a mat on the floor and smelled of Frankincense. The pair got naked and sat on the floor cross legged, then snorting coke and drinking Thai whiskey.  Henry laid belly down on a mat and Sweet Water went to work on him. As she massaged him he felt like he was falling down into space, then he fell asleep. When he woke up she was snorting lines of coke off the angel tattoo on his chest, then she blew some coke in his nose with a straw,  Sweet Water was a laugh he thought.

Henry tipped Sweet Water and made his way to a dive in the Bowery, Suicide Hall. He would sit at the bar and watch the bums drink cheap wine. It was a real show, they would talk nonsense to one another, get in fist fights, fall off bar stools, piss themselves, or just die in place. He admired the bums because they were on full throttle all the time and didn't care about anything. 

Later that morning the bums would pass out, piss their pants and vomit some more inside boxes or on park benches.  The 9 to 5 stiffs on their way to work would walk by the bums, not caring, too busy thinking about the stock market, the Mets or sex. 

Henry home and in bed by 4 am always, sleeping till noon, happy he didn’t have to work like the stiffs. 

Sam Lee's Laundry

Henry’s last story, “Easy Boulevard” only 50 hits at Busted on Empty—busted flush, a clinker. 

Siting in a booth at Chaim’s eating pickled carrots, noshing. Thinking that his work was full of old man talk— moaning on page about his peculiar despair, a romp down the Via Delarosa, mugged by Romans.

Folks tired of Henry’s junk, the jitter and jive.

Leaving Chaim’s, no tip, out the door— the waitresses didn’t like him, very few cared much for Henry the strange-bird, people avoided him. 

Lighting up an Indian Spirit, inhaling the stuff— muzzy, walking the best he could. Drinking Jack Daniels from a pint, just a warm-up, heading to Junk Street, looking for a kick-start.

Henry static but moving, doing the pelvis grind for some camp-followers, enjoying the side-show, whores on parade in line, desperately in need of this or that,  wanting just enough to get through. 

Henry walking through the Bowery now, passing dive-bars, The Cripple’s Den, Suicide Hall, The Flea Bag, carefully walking around drunks and pools of urine.

Henry hated the Bowery,  the bums a spastic army that puked all over everything and themselves. 

Junkies puked in their rooms, hiding from the world. 

Henry on Junk Street, ducking into Sam Lee’s Laundry scoring two eight-balls of coke for 60 dollars.  The Chinese laundry had an opium den in the attic. Henry would go home.

He took a taxi home to avoid the bums. Later, sitting in his apartment on a pink sofa with his feet on a cheap coffee table, listening Ray Charles and Little Walter, snorting, drinking, smoking some--- 

For a few hours despite it all, Henry was the king of the world. 

Easy Boulevard

The drill was the same, plugging into You Tube, putting on headphones, formatting Text Edit, setting the caps— American Typewriter, large print. 

A good story got 200 hits at Busted on Empty, a bad story got 50. 

Warming up —Henry, sit ups and recitations, nothing much mixed with blah, blah, blah.

Henry waxing bullshit for hours in his head, writing it down, walking out the door of his Village apartment for some air.

Lighting up, taking a deep hit, feeling the night air, then just feeling— in his stride on Easy Boulevard. 

Chaim’s Place for a bowl of borscht with sour cream and horseradish. Chaim’s full of stoners, it was in and out, hit and run for the employed and the religious. 

Easy Boulevard a place for nobody really, a dead end for losers and a temporary destination for those just passing through—  everything written down in the blind man words. 

Henry at 58th and Easy Boulevard— feeling something coming on, a storm—knocked down dead in his tracks, on his hands and knees— cocooned in white and blue light— Tabula Rosa, Hare Krishna, OM!

Henry eyes wide open, down on the sidewalk, a loaded camp follower squatting beside him peeing, she letting loose with a cascade of golden sprinkle. 

Henry the happiest man in the world—

Tabula Rosa, Hare Krishna……OM!

Breath

Henry’s last story “ A Peculiar Vision” was written in March— four or five months ago. In the dry time Henry thinking daily or nightly that he was finished, nothing else to say, dried up, kaput, time to off himself like Hemingway or Tennessee Williams. (Williams out in a kind of slow booze and dope fizzle, not a bang really.)

Simply put, he had nothing to say anymore, he was empty inside, there was nothing there, just some shit and a little blah, blah, blah. 

He was sick inside, his head thick, abandoned, neither robust or spiritual. 

At nights Henry would walk to  Seventh Street, the greatest show on earth— Whores and strumpets, sailors and sinners, here and there, chanting mantra forever—Henry could find some peace here. 

Come little children into the arms of Jesus, let him embrace you and lift you up!

Walking the dark and cold streets, through the city canyons, Henry felt poetry at work around him, perfuse, passing through it all. Silent whispers and breath keeping it all going.

People on the streets, just shadows to Henry and he invisible to them. They had breath enough to make it to the next stop he thought. Enough breath to pass the graveyards and slaughter houses, enough to make it home tonight—Henry was no different he needed breath too.