Last Stop, Tijuana

Henry up early at 10AM, awake but still dreaming of far-away places somewhere in the USA or Mexico.

By 11AM  quickly cleaning up and packing a few pairs of chinos, some sweat-shirts, a parka and a pair of flip-flops, some high-top Converse All-Stars and a swimsuit into an army-navy bag.  He had an ounce of weed, an eightball of cocaine and some heroin, —after all, what was a bus trip without good dope?

On the way to the Queens Bus Station to catch a bus somewhere, anywhere—to be decided at the ticket counter. 

Henry buys a ticket to California, it was a long way from New York City, but he had time on his hands.  

Boarding the bus, putting his bag in the overhead rack, taking an aisle seat in the back of the bus so he could get to the pint-size toilet in the rear of the bus quick to smoke and snort dope. 

The bus heading south through Pennsylvania and West Virginia, Henry plenty high already, pulling into Paducah, Kentucky that evening, a lovely small town with a lot of green trees. Henry gets off the bus to clean up in the station and then walks across the street to a small liquor store called Stan’s, picking up two fifths of Jack Daniels, Stan packs the bottles real nice in paper bags, twisting the paper tops tight.

Henry back on the bus notices a priest at the window seat next to his seat, a handsome guy with a full head of messed-up black hair and dark horn-rim glasses. The father shakes Henry's hand and introduces himself saying, “Nice to meet you I’m Father Murphy.” Henry passes the padre an opened bottle of Jack Daniels still in the paper bag saying, “I”m Henry how about a drink?”The padre says, “I would love a drink Henry, it has been a long day.” 

Father Murphy taking a long hard swig, he could drink alright.

He tells Henry that he is going to visit his sister in Taos, New Mexico—the bus in Arkansas now on Route 66, Father Murphy was thoroughly waisted, Henry saying,” Hey padre whataya say we go back to the john in the rear and smoke some weed, the padre follows.

In the john Father Murphy says, “Henry I haven’t smoked dope in long time, I like it, it brings me closer to the Lord.” Henry laughing and saying, “Cheers padre!”

Father Murphy a very hip priest, he later tells Henry he is a Jesuit on his way to South America to do missionary work. 

The bus stopping at a small cafe in Allen, Texas— Henry and Father Murphy getting out to eat breakfast, sitting in a booth, Father Murphy saying, “I forgot how good food taste when you’re stoned, you can enjoy every bite!”

Back on the bus, the padre falls asleep—that evening the bus pulls into Taos and Father Murphy says goodbye to Henry, “God Bless you Henry!” And he gives Henry a silver Saint Christopher's medal, the traveler's saint. 

Henry sitting alone all the way to Arizona, the bus stopping in Phoenix, going into the terminal to eat a ham and cheese sandwich, then going to the bathroom where he smokes some refer and does a few lines of cocaine mixed with heroin. 

Back on the bus, the window seat is empty, so he spreads out some, passing out and waking as driver the driver taps him on the shoulder saying, “Last stop bud, San Diego everybody off the bus.” 

It was morning and the sun was shining as Henry got off the bus with his army-navy bag in tow. He heads straight to the beach, not far from the station.  On the beach he lights a joint, takes a few drags, changing into a swimsuit. He then skip-steps to the shore and dives shallow into the ocean, the salt water cleansing his body and soul. 

Later making his way to low-life San Diego and finding a cheap room for the night. Wandering the streets and going into a bar full of noisy Marines, keeping a low profile, the soldiers drunk and looking for trouble—Henry doing his best to be a shadow figure, slipping out early.  

Getting a good night's sleep and heading to the bus station in the morning for the short trip to Tijuana. The bus stops at the border and Henry walks to US Customs, he dumps what dope he has left into some bushes at the side of the road. 

Breezing through customs and catching a taxi to Tijuana, finding a cheap hotel, and scoring some weed from the driver for a few pesos, Acapulco Gold. He checks into a dump called “Hotel Del Rio,” only fifty Pesos a night, deciding to hole up in his room until evening, drinking Mexican mescal till he passes out.

He wakes up at 11AM knowing Tijuana is an all-night city, going out to the first dive he can find, a place called, “The Donkey Club.” It is full of Mexican whores, sitting in dark places with toilet tissue on their laps, begging you on with their eyes. 

Henry starts talking to a lovely older gal with long dyed red hair and painted lips and she says, “My name is Rosita baby, I’m here on holiday, my family owns a small ranchero in Central Mexico, I’m here to make a few Pesos for my family and then go home.”

Henry says, “ Ok doll how about we go out and get something to eat? I could eat a donkey.” Rosita laughs and the two go to a street-side taco bar and order hand-patted tortillas with beans.

They head back to Henry’s hotel room and smoke dope and drink mescal till late, the two getting very wasted and passing out. Wouldn’t you know it? Henry wakes up the next day and all his money— out the door with Rosita!

He calls Ruby his regular waitress at Chaim’s Deli in Queens collect from a phone booth asking her to wire him a couple hundred dollars Western Union, so he can get home to Queens. 

Henry was bummed out but not at all surprised by the turn of events, making his way to the San Diego Bus Station, purchasing a ticket back to New York City, staying drunk the whole way, home in six days     

The fucking puta Rosita had ripped off his Saint Christopher medal, Henry figured she was planning on doing some traveling.  

Million Dollar Blow Hole

Henry at home in his Queens pad, recovering from surgery. The surgeon had to rebuild his inner nose, he had lost a hefty portion of his nasal septum and vomer bone. Years of snorting cocaine and heroin had eroded much of his inner nose.

He could still blow away though, pressing on one side or the other of his nose, channeling the blow— snorting heroin (for pain), drinking Jack Daniels out of the bottle like a rock star, standing naked, hands and arms raised high on his 14th floor balcony, tossing handfuls of popcorn and peanut shells on the street-level crowd below, blessing the poor fuckers like he was the pope, chanting in Sanskrit, nodding and praying like a Jew at the Western Wall, doing his best to save the world from itself through prayer. 

By 8PM wasted and needing fuel, dressing— Jim Carroll garb, tight black pants, gym shoes, black shirt and vest, wearing a plastic rosary on his neck to keep the spooks away.

In Chaims Deli by 830PM, sitting at his usual spot, a booth with torn upholstery duct taped to keep the springs from poking people's behinds.  

His regular waitress Ruby approaces him and says, “How’s the nose— the million dollar blow hole?” Henry not taking to the sarcasm well, saying to Ruby,“It aint nothin compared to that million dollar pussy you got babe!” Ruby then says,” Henry watch your language this is a kosher place, a family place—mispokhee.” 

Henry laying a line of heroin on the table and snorting it with one finger pressing on the side of his nose— ordering a Budweiser and some fries with mayo. Ruby giving him the evil eye then turning and walking to the kitchen.  

Ruby bugged Henry—eating at Chaim’s was junk—it was just a habit. 

Henry walking through the Bowery quickly on his way to Chinatown, doing his best not to trip over the bums passed out randomly on the sidewalk.

In Chinatown at Lees Laundry, always open. Lee’s had the best dope in town for sale wrapped in small red cellophane baggies stamped with images of Mao. Henry greets Lee, a bald Chinamen dressed traditional style saying,” Always great to see you Mr. Lee, how about a few bags of cocaine, the flakes and some of your Chinese tar opium?”

Nothing to it, going to Lee’s like going to a pharmacy with a hand full of scripts— off to Times Square to see a film.

The Times Square Cinema marquee up ahead, “I Love You, Alice B. Toklas!” playing. As usual the junk cowboy standing under the marquee, saying to Henry “"Where have you been stud? “I Love You, Alice B. Toklas!” A great film, allot of hippies doping it up, Peter Sellers over the edge, I have some Moroccan hash for you tonight!”"   

Henry sitting in the back row, putting his feet up on the seats in front of him, stuffing and padding down hash and opium into a small pipe and lighting it, taking deep drags.

Absolutely out of the universe as “I Love You Alice B. Toklas!” begins screening—Peter Sellers a lawyer sent on a mission by his mother to find his brother ends up at a hippie party in East Hollywood somewhere. The music, “Strawberry Alarm Clock” and "The Monkees," tripped out and loud—  hippies doing the "Bogalou" everywhere on top of everything in tie dies and bell bottoms spinning like whirling dervishes. Henry hypnotized by it all, going into an opium dream. 

A cop looking for bums trying to sleep all night in the theater pushes Henry’s feet to the floor with his baton and says,” The movie is over get the fuck out!” 

Henry in Time’s Square after the film, not remembering much of the film, knowing he had magical dream— soaring through space, spinning with whirling dervishes.

On his way home he stops at Siam Massage for a happy ending massage. Inside Henry sees May behind the counter and asks her if she is busy? She says,“No darling, never too busy for you.” The two walk hand in hand down a corridor lined with purple cloth and softly lit with blue light, you could smell incense burning.

In room number 7 the couple sits cross legged on cloth mattresses filled with buckwheat. Henry lays a few lines of cocaine on a small mirror and they snort them, he then puts some hash and opium in a pipe which they light up.  

May pulls a couple of cans of Budweiser out of an ice chest and lights inscence and candles. 

They begin groping each other and making out, deep throat kisses full of tongue. May says “Henry I’m so high baby, you know I love you so much.” He says, “I love you too doll, but my dick won’t get hard I’m sorry, I have been partying all day and….” May saying, “It’s OK Henry, I’m wasted too.”

Henry leaving Siam Massage at 2AM and walking home, looking up into the sky and seeing a falling star, wondering if it was his dead mother (Ethel Lucowski) saying something to him like—

Henry you know you will never amount to anything, you're just like your Uncle Pido the tailor, a nearer do well, go home and go to bed.

Margo

Henry sitting on a broken chair in his stark and empty Queens apartment—writing, listening to a Mets night-game on the radio, he didn’t know the score or who was on base and he didn’t care. Listening to the game like music, the sound grounded him, it was steady and regular, it was soft poetry. 

The world full of pundits, political dopes ready to pounce and pummel the other side, out to set the record straight and save the world from things they fear. 

By 10PM Henry was hungry so he left his apartment to go to Chaim’s Deli. 

Sitting in a booth, his usual waitress Ruby, a thin red head in a skimpy uniform with nice legs comes to his table and says, “Henry where have you been? He says, “Oh— I’ve been in the hospital for a week, I had a jumbo size cancerous wart removed from my ass, pus and blood everywhere, I sunbathe naked allot you know and don’t pray for me Ruby.” Ruby simpatico and saying, “Well you know we love you here.” Henry deadpan, blank.

Ruby was the only one who loved Henry at the deli, "WE"" love you here," a fabrication.

Leaving the Deli to wander the city streets aimlessly around 10PM —

Later walking through the Bowery, tripping over a bum on the sidewalk and falling on him, Henry and the bum both down, side by side, looking eye to eye, the bum's voice weak, he says, “ How about a couple of bucks?” Henry getting up off the pavement, brushing off his chinos with both hands and walking on, knowing a couple of bucks wouldn’t help the woebegone bum.

Feeling muzzy, walking the Queensboro Bridge to Manhattan, needing a drink to stabilize, going to the Holland Bar, a hole for serious drinkers. There were a few dozen barflies there spread out in booths and sitting at the bar. He sits at the front of the bar near the entrance, ordering a mug of beer and a shot of tequila, dropping the shot into the glass of beer, watching it fizz.

He notices a svelte and well dressed women standing near the rear exit of the bar, she is waving madly at Henry like she knows him. She is dressed in designer clothes, Dior or Versace maybe, her hair frosted and bobbed. Henry approaches her, they are close up and she says, “Are you Jim Carroll the poet? Well anyways I’m Margo, I own the Sperone Westwater Gallery here in Manhattan” Henry saying, “My name is Henry Lucowski, I'm on crazy pay, I live Zen style in a unfurnished apartment in Queens and I write”  

Margo asking Henry to go out with her to the alley for a smoke. In the dimly lit alley, standing by a dumpster, she fixes —cooking cocaine in a spoon, mixing it with saline, reducing it and then pulling it into a syringe through a cotton ball. 

The two talk some as the fix settles into her system, she pulls a ounce of cocaine in a baggy out of her purse. 

They snort more than a few lines off of Margo's make up case, then going back into the Holland Bar, sitting next to each other in a booth. Henry has cocaine powder on his face, she begins licking it off doggy style, half kissing him, smudging lipstick on his face. No body in the Holland Bar gave a shit, it was that kind of place. 

Margo saying, “Let’s get out of this dump sweets.” 

Henry a clown on crazy pay with a junky Manhattan socialite, it was weird serendipity. 

They leave Holland Bar looking for Margo’s car, she had forgotten where she parked, they are walking and talking about everything in the world, then stopping to snort coke off a police box. Henry tells her to press the red button on her ignition key, a car alarm goes off less than a block up the street.  

Margo had a sky blue Mercedes convertible with a white top. 

Before getting in the car she tells Henry to drive, asking him to drive slow. He follows the GPS on the dash to Trump Towers on Fifth Avenue, parking underground, they get in a gold elevator and go to the forty-ninth floor.  

The gold elevator going up and up into the clouds..

Inside Margo's condo Henry lays down on one of three pink leather sofas placed so they are facing each other in a C shape. She goes to her bedroom and tells him to help himself to a drink, bottles of everything on top of a white marble bar. Henry pours himself a  triple-x rated shot of Black Sombrero tequila in a snifter. 

This condo must be worth millions.

There wasn’t an empty space on the wall— Twenty-First Century American art cluttered the walls, hung very casually; Liza Adams, George Pratt and Tony Pro.

Margo coming back into the living room an hour later, wearing a Naki Kimono robe and black fish net stockings. It was 3AM, she sits on Henry’s lap, pulling him to her, kissing him deeply and saying, “Henry darling I have to open my gallery in the morning, let’s take some valium and go to bed.”

Henry waking at noon the next day, still on the same pink sofa, both of them had passed out around 4AM, he in the living room and she in her bedroom. Margo had left for work, she had taped a note on his leather jacket, written with red lipstick on her personal stationary, saying simply—

See you at the Holland Bar tonight doll, Love you, Margo.