The Teahead Bishop of Queens

Henry working as usual through the day, sipping Budweiser in a mug filled with ice, soul-searching as he typed on his IBM Electric typewriter— wondering if he could write? 

It was summer, sometime between 1970 and 1980.

More than a few, but not a swarm of so-called friends had told him he was good, but was he good? 

As an unknown writer—  you wrote because you had to, or wrote because you loved it, or wrote as an addiction, which after the math was a cop-out because everybody who writes wants to be publicly known and lionized by world literati. 

The story of the hungry artist, as often told on the written page and in film, how the artist struggles, broke and hungry, sending manuscripts everywhere, auditioning and such, going through the motions day after day until the exercise backslides into sleepwalking. 

And finally, the day comes for the chosen few— the day they make it. Making it always followed by romps in the hay with hordes of hot-bodied groupies, endless phones calls and offers, walking down the street and being mobbed by people who forcibly put felt-tipped pens in your hand, asking you to autograph body-parts or clothing. 

Buying a house in the suburbs, a new Cadillac and joining a country club.  

You know the scene? Most have seen or read about it many times in film and on written page, and we just can’t get enough of it.

Henry pads down a mound of hashish into a Moroccan hash pipe, lights it and takes a deep draw of smoke and holds it in, exhaling slowly.  

Standing on the small balcony of his Queen’s apartment, looking at the ant-sized people walking the street below. He waves his hands in the air as he recites passages of Allen Ginsberg’s epic poem Howl, screaming the lines—

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

Who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

Henry blessing everybody in the world from high—for the moment he was the teahead bishop of Queens. 

The day gone in a heartbeat as the sun falls into the night. 

A summer night in New York City— people letting go, seized by a collective buzz that could be felt all over town.     

Henry walking to Chaim’s Deli, smiling as he looked up at the night sky, happy to be part of it all.  

At the deli, he sits in his favorite booth. Ruby makes her way to his table real sexy-like and says,

Hi doll, I was reading your short stories in the irrelevant underground rag, Headbanger, you know the two, Asian Swamp Rats and The Monkey Gods, Henry you are really good, I love your work! Henry says,

what did you like about the stories? Ruby says,

when I read your stuff I feel like I’m hovering on the ceiling looking down at you, close to you and all, you’re dreamy baby and you have literary insight. Then Henry says,

does reading my work make you feel horny?  Horny enough to bring Sheila your hooker friend to my apartment for a threesome?  Ruby says,

oh yes darling, yes!

Ruby and Shiela Henry's groupies— 

It was a sign that being publicly known was in the cards for him, just a crap-shoot away.  

Ruby says,

whataya have doll?  Henry says,

just liquid today Ruby, a bottle of Jack Daniels, some ice and bring the soda siphon too. 

Later, Ruby brings him a bowl of pistachio nuts to munch on, he drinks for an hour or so, half a bottle of whiskey, leaving the rest of the bottle for next time. 

Henry decides to walk to Lower Manhattan and places some lines of cocaine on a police box outside of the Chaim's Deli, snorting the lines.  

Once in Manhattan, he goes to The Black Cat Coffee Shop, a place with old-time atmosphere— brick walls framed with wood-beams, full of antique lounge chairs, sofas, and wood tables. 

Henry orders a poor-boy sandwich that is bigger than the plate it is served on and some black coffee, he nods off, going into a dream. 

Waking in a few minutes, he sees a women sitting at his table, staring at him and smiling. An attractive blonde, her hair is in a milkmaid’s braid, Nordic and Germanic looking. She says to Henry,

are you Henry Lucowski the writer? I have read your stories in the irrelevant underground rag, Headbanger, I love your work, he then says to her,

yes, I’m Henry, who are you and why are you sitting at my table staring at me?  She smiles and says,

Oh, I’m Uma Kline, I’m an actress, I’m in an Off-Off-Broadway play at Here Theater called Skin Tight. I sat here because I had seen your picture in Headbanger and I like your face. Henry thanks her and she says,

Henry shall we go to my place and have a drink?  It's not far, we can walk there. He says,

OK, coffee shops bore the hell outta me.

As they walk Uma grabs his hand, her hand is warm, her warmth is appealing. 

They reach the Chelsea Hotel, Uma lives there, Henry hip to an A-list of literati who have lived there over the years—   Mark Twain, Herbert Huncke, and Quentin Christ to name a few. 

They ride a cage-elevator up to the 11th floor and get off, he follows Uma to her room and they go inside. 

It is a rectangular room with a black and white tiled floor, purple patterned wallpaper, lush red velvet curtains and an antique desk against the wall. 

Henry sits on her bed, Uma pours Jack Daniels out of the bottle straight up into high-ball glasses. She hands Henry a drink, then she strips down and places a mat on the floor and starts doing naked yoga. 

She goes into the Happy Baby pose, lying on her back opening her legs into a y-shape and holds the position, deep breathing dramatically. 

Without hanging-back Henry goes down on Uma's well-plummed muff and tongues it in bonafide fashion.

Uma the sex-meister knew every position in the book, she twisted Henry's body about as he banged her rhythmically, then losing control and blowing his nut. 

The sex hounds done-in, fall asleep arm in arm. 

Henry wakes up at noon and sees a note Uma has written in lipstick on her full-length mirror saying— 

See you tonight at Here Theater madman, tickets on my desk, kisses Uma.

Monkey Gods

Henry sitting cross-legged on a straw mat in front of his IBM electric typewriter, at home in his Queen’s apartment. 

His mind ripped apart and addled, feeling like someone was watching. It was the incorrigible Hindu Monkey Gods at play, spying from their veranda on high, busting a gut, drinking mead, rolling Jackal bones, enumerating earthling fate— everyday stuff for them.

The Monkey Gods jacked-up on spirits, talking shit about Henry, 

should we ax him, how about Leukemia or suicide? Set his apartment on fire. 

Have him win the lottery and take a trip to Vegas and lose it all.

We can start a civil war in America, he can be the first to die in the Battle of Central Park, he will be a hero, a Much Ado About Nothing hero, full of bravado for the cause and dying for nothing. 

Give him gout, draw out his suffering— 

The Monkey Gods laughing like oafs, neophyte half-Gods who were pitiless. With luck, the Martians would step in and clean up the mess they were making before it was too late. 

Henry would mess up the Monkey Gods plans for him, which he knew odds-on wouldn’t be charitable. He wouldn’t let them into his dreams, he would do everything in reverse, turn left instead of right, go to Harlem when he was thinking of Times Square, eat Halal instead of Kosher, so on and so forth— sabotaging the Monkey God’s voodoo with hoodoo.

He leaves his Queens digs at 830 PM, obsessed, hounded by the Monkey Gods— he had sat in front of his typewriter all day, unable to put a sentence together.

Henry goes to eat where he eats every night, Chaim’s Deli. He sits at his usual booth near the door so he can get out fast if he has too. He regular waitress Ruby comes to his table, looking worried and says,

Jesus Christ Henry, you look like a ghost, what is going on with you?

Henry pinches himself wondering if the Monkey Gods were breathing on him.

He then says to Ruby, not daring to tell her about the days musings, knowing she would call the shrinks at the Queens Welfare Office.

Oh, I’m great Ruby, you know me, solid as a rock, a pillar of sanity, then Ruby says,

OK Henry, you know we care about you here and you have my number.

Henry thanks her and orders saying,

How about some Halal today, something different, nonkosher too boot, Arab food, falafel, humous, koubah and the lot? And some Arak to wash it down, make it a double, liquid fire as they say.

Henry, drunk, still at the deli, he had drank a bottle of Arak and was slumped over his table mumbling about Monkey Gods. Ruby comes to his table and puts her arms around him, saying—

Henry baby, Chaim wants you outta here—NOW, please leave!

Henry pays his check and leaves, but he goes to the bathroom first to snort some cocaine, which wakes him up. 

Walking through the Bowery he sees a dive called Suicide Hall. He walks in and goes to the bar, the smell in the place is awful—a milky-wine soaked-vomit-piss smell. Henry rips a napkin into two pieces and puts them in his nostrils  

He orders a Jack, the bartender a no-neck guy with a blockhead that sits between his shoulders says,

A Jack? Youse aint in Soho Bud, youse in da Bowery, we got Ten High, if you don’t like it hit the bricks ass hat.

The bartender a dolt, thick-skinned, stupid and pugnacious, Henry then says,

OK a Ten High straight up—and

be a hero Mack, do the world a favor—get a vasectomy and take massive doses of Thorazine, the bartender says,

Whad you say Bud? You bein smart or somethin?

Henry smiles and says,

no nothin, I didn’t say nothin.

Henry sits in Suicide Hall and drinks for another hour, watching the show, doing his best to look invisible.

The bums, their brains putrefying by the second, sucking up cheap wine, yelling as they conversed blankly, gasping for air as they coughed up bloody death. 

The Bowery was a raw scene, lacking pretense—once a bum descended into the bowels of the Bowery, his days were numbered.

11 PM, Henry happy to leave the Bowery, very few people except for cops and missionaries ventured into the hell-hole.

He walks uptown towards Chinatown, the day had been an ominous day, a threatening and baleful day. The Hindu Monkey Gods like hell-hounds on his back. 

In Chinatown Henry goes to a noodle house called Flower Drum and orders lemon rice soup and jasmine tea. The owner John Chow sits with him and says,

Good to see you Henry, you always welcome at Flower Drum. Maybe you are going to Lee’s laundry for the usual tonight, you’re a bad boy Henry, Lees very bad, hahaha, Henry says,

John, sometimes I need to shake off my demons, you understand don’t you? John says,

OK, sure Henry you enjoy Chinatown, save face, go into dream and have fun, hahaha!

After eating he walks a few blocks to Lee’s Laundry, going into an alleyway that led to the basement door of the laundry. He knocks on the door, an elderly Chinese lady opens it and says,

Knee-how Henry, be careful, very dark in basement, many sleep and dream on the floor, come in.

Henry follows her to a straw mat on the cold basement floor. There is a small wooden stool on the mat to lay his head on when he nods out. 

She sets him up with an opium pipe, the bowl filled with black tar, he takes the long pipe and puts it in his mouth and lights it, taking a deep draw, then nodding out and falling into a dream.

In the dream, he is walking through a lush jade jungle which leads to a fluorescent crimson poppy field. He lays down to rest in the field and looks into the sky. He sees a white colored blimp that is expanding, it ruptures into a thousand pieces, the poppy field is covered in a white dust. When the dust settles he looks around and sees he is surrounded by the Monkey Gods wearing flowing rainbow-colored pajamas. The Monkey Gods are standing in a circle, their eyes beaming like lasers at him. One of them says,

Henry, we are finished with you, you’re big trouble, you evade our voodoo with your hoodoo. 

He wakes up in the basement of Lee’s Laundry, still feeling addled and confused—he began the day at ground zero and the day ends at ground zero. 

Henry non compos mentis, his brain took him places that normal people didn't dare go.