Years of booze and dope abuse was catching up with Henry. He was 43 years old and looked 60, his long hair was prematurely white and his face haggard. He had heroin eyes, slanted with pinpoint eyeballs.
Most people in their early 40s were still vital and active— Henry was drained, during the day he stayed in his apartment and wrote, at night he walked the sacred streets and byways of New York City, pushing himself every step of the way, doping to endure.
Henry was a layabout, he never cooked at home and didn’t use his small kitchen. He was lazy and didn't know how to clean. He lived in Zen-like simplicity (He wasn't into to Zen, his place was empty because he was poor). He had a futon, a patio chair, a small termite infested wooden table with a plastic stool, a fake leather sofa and a 2nd hand Mac laptop, so there was less to clean and less to collect dust.
Occasionally Ruby, his waitress friend who worked at Chaim’s Deli— who loved him in an undecided way, motherly love maybe, would come and clean his apartment, it was a mission of mercy. His apartment had a pleasing odor though, he never used the kitchen and burned Japanese green incense constantly.
Once a year he would get a check-up at the welfare office in Queens. It was always the same— the doctor would interpret the results and then lecture him with a queer look on his face, a mixed look of phony upbeat optimism and impending doom. The doc goes on to say,
Mr. Lucowski I have good and bad news for you, which do you want first? Henry says,
How could it possibly make any difference? Let's flip a coin, am I missing something here? The doctor says,
OK then, you have the body of a 70 year old, your internal organs are functioning at a low level, your kidneys are particularly bad. You need to start taking care of yourself before it's too late.
Henry nods his head in response—he cared some, but not much. It was surreal to him, he couldn’t focus on it. He had been sweeping bad news under the carpet for years, using a survival technique known as, da-Nile.
And so it goes, Henry’s health was bad and he was staring down a long dark tunnel at nothingness, he didn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel, just more tunnel.
(ASIDE: Figaro Lucowski)
As I write this, I have been sick as a dog for 10 days and feel like shit, consequently, my thoughts are consumed with illness and impending decay— this surely must be tedious reading, but bear with me it gets better.
Henry laying upright on his sofa, looking at the cracked paint on the ceiling in his Queen’s digs. Visualizing—the battle going on inside his body, an alien virus enters from space and attacks his upper respiratory system, the generals in charge of the immune system yell out,
Alein attack, Alien attack, all hands a deck!
And the heroes of the immune system bravely come to order and attack the foreign invaders who live for the Kamikaze attack on Henry’s immune system, the ultimate prize for the invaders is DEATH!
As the battle continues in Henry’s inner galaxy he hears a half-ass flimsy knock at the door and knows it could only be Ruby. She had brought a care package, fresh orange juice and deli food, Jewish stuff for the soul, Hebrew penicillin. Perhaps too little too late, but she looked sweet in a flower print summer dress, open and revealing ample cleavage, her red hair in pig-tails. Ruby then says,
Henry, you look awful, you need to go to the hospital, I'm going to call 911! He says,
Don’t call 911 Ruby, I don’t trust the EMS people, they will take me to Riker’s Island for sure. Ruby says,
Henry, you can go to the Queens Medical Clinic, it’s free, you're on crazy-pay.
He was afraid of hospitals and saw the Grim Reaper behind every door, in every room and hallway of the hospital. He then says to Ruby,
The doctors at Queens Medical Clinic will kill me, they get a bonus for everyone on crazy pay they whack!
Ruby proceeds to clean his apartment and then feed and bathe Henry, it was as if God himself had sent her that day— Henry the atheist would interpret it differently though,
God, are you kidding me? Give me a break will ya? God doesn’t exist, there is nothing, Ruby came here because she needs to mother me and was horny, that’s it.
After bathing and eating Henry and Ruby lay a straw mat on the dark tile floor of his balcony, they sit cross-legged on the mat with their arms on the safety railing and look outwards towards the city. It was one of those sweet summer days that set your mind adrift. Henry lights a joint that he had left over from The Woodstock Festival— they start talking about stuff, not rarified stuff, just anything and Henry says,
You know baby on days like this there are certain smells and sounds that set me off into a dream — the smell of fresh cut grass at Central Park, the sound of the Met’s game on the radio at night, the smell of vinegar fries at Nathans, you know what I mean don't you doll? Ruby laughs and says,
Sure I do Henry you cornball fuck, does the smell of my pee do it for you baby?
Then Ruby stands up, standing over Henry and spreading her legs slightly so his head was directly under her crotch, then she drops her britches, he looks up at her pussy and she pees on him.
Henry loved it, he loved everything about it, he pulls Ruby down to the mat and licks her pussy clean, his cock super hard, then he ramrods her rough style nonstop for twenty minutes or so, Ruby screaming so loud that people 10 floors down on street level could hear.
Ruby and Henry had known each other for years and had never balled, Henry the smart-ass then says,
Ruby if I had known you were such ball buster I would have jumped your bones in the kitchen at Chaim’s Deli years ago, she says,
God, that's just awesome darling!
Ruby looks at her watch and says,
Henry, I’m late for work, gotta go, stop by the deli later, love ya.
Henry then falls asleep on the straw mat enjoying the night air on the balcony. He sleeps deeply until the next day, then waking at noon, feeling like he slept in a cornfield in Nebraska.
In life, there are plenty of ups and downs, sure enough, even when you are—sick as a dog.
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