Me Padre, la Cucaracha

Henry was naked and sitting cross-legged in front of his IBM electric typewriter, the windows in his Queen’s apartment were wide open and the curtains blowing wildly. It was noon, sometime between 1970 and 1980, springtime in the New York City. City earth was thawing, becoming pulpy as waking seeds that would grow into flowers broke open. 

He remembered reading Hemingway in high school. Hemingway a true grit writer, manly, a guy who would spend hours on a fishing boat reeling in a Blue Marlin, the father of the short sentence. 

Reading in high school and then college Henry became familiar with opening paragraphs like this one in Farewell to Arms.

In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains. In the bed of the river there were pebbles and boulders, dry and white in the sun, and the water was clear and swiftly moving and blue in the channels. Troops went by the house and down the road and the dust they raised powdered the leaves of the trees. The trunks of the trees too were dusty and the leaves fell early that year and we saw the troops marching along the road and the dust rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling and the soldiers marching and afterward the road bare and white except for the leaves.

Henry sips on a Jack and soda as he reads Hemingways opening paragraph, wondering if it was a teaser? 

He picks up a copy of Phillip Exley’s A Fan’s Notes to look at Exley’s opening paragraph. 

On Sunday, the eleventh of November, 196—, while sitting at the bar of the New Parrot Restaurant in my hometown, Watertown, New York, awaiting the telecast of the New York Giants—Dallas Cowboys football game, I had what, at the time, I took to be a heart attack.

Exley’s opening paragraph a stunner, it roused Henry, it was truly marvelous—short and succinct. He tells you where he is, what he is doing and what kind of guy he is. The heart attack which turns out to be a nervous breakdown is an event he builds his story on.  

Hemingway’s opening paragraph speaks of the natural environment he lived in and of the soldiers marching by, not much more. Henry thought the paragraph was vague, giving you just enough to spark your interest. 

He wonders if his opening paragraph was like Exley’s, or like Hemingway’s and Exley’s, or unlike both.

This proving that a writer is dumb-fucked when it came to critiquing his own work.

Reading all three of the opening paragraphs and not knowing who the authors were, you might say they were all on par. You might like Henry’s paragraph more than Hemingways.  

It was 8 PM, Henry still naked, puts on a pair of baggy khaki shorts tied at the middle with a rope instead of a belt because he didn’t own a belt, a Met’s t-shirt with a Hawaiian shirt over it and an old straw hat that was ruffled at the rim. 

After walking a few blocks he reaches Chaim’s Deli. The deli was a single level brick building occupying the corner of a downtown street, the entire corner was windowed. Henry sat at his usual booth which had a good view of the street. Ruby his sometimes woman and regular waitress comes to his table and says,

Henry, not bein cheeky or nothin, but you look like a clown. He says,

yeah, a clown trapped in the body of a male stripper, they both laugh and Ruby says,

whataya have sexy? Henry says,

in honor of clowns everywhere, I’ll have a head of stepped on and dirty old lettuce, some rotten bananas, and a large multicolored sucker on a wooden stick to hammer other clowns with, Ruby says,

Henry, you’re such an ass! And he says,

OK, babe, how bout a pastrami sandwich on toasted rye with mustard, some well done french fries, cole slaw and a Jack and Coke.

After eating he says goodbye, pays his bill and leaves. 

It was a spring night in New York City, pure magic. You could smell a mixture of barbecue, burning incense and spilled beer in the air.      

Henry on his way to Manhattan, thinking to himself—

Everybody in the city is going to get laid tonight except me.

It takes him an hour to walk to Lower Manhattan, he goes to Chinatown. He sees a three-story brown brick building with a bar on the first level. The joint has no name, no sign, he can see dim red light inside. 

He walks in thinking it might be a whore house and sits at the bar next to a few resident barflies. They are drunks full of regret, down on their luck, boozing for whatever reason. He sees a printed sign taped to the mirror that reads—

A BEER AND A SHOT TWO BUCKS, PAY WHEN SERVED, NO SPITTING, NO DRUGS. 

He orders a beer and a shot, thinking—

I feel like one of the three lost souls in Sartre’s No Exit, it is eerie here. 

The bartender a middle-aged Chinese woman with a day-glow purple wig on her head, wearing a pair of black polyester pants, slippers and a white t-shirt serves him and says nothing.

After a few drinks, feeling lonely in the creepy dim red light ambiance of the place, he lays six large lines of cocaine on the bar and asked the bartender, 

mamasan I’m Henry! How bout some blow?   

She lights up like a slot machine that hits jackpot, and says,

May love coke Henry, you handsome boy, May suck your cock Henry, make you hot baby! 

They snort the coke and Henry has another drink, then leaving the joint without saying much, no sucky-sucky, it was midnight. 

The bar with no name or sign was queer, grey and existential. 

Henry was attracted to people and places on the edge which occupied an unmapped and hidden world lost in the cracks and crevices of the city.

Henry walks to Midtown Manhattan and goes to a local bar near the Chelsea Hotel called Billymark’s West. It’s a friendly neighborhood bar, he walks in and sits at the bar, the room is filled with locals. 

Billymark’s had a great jukebox— whole albums, the Stone’s Exile on Mainstream, the Beatles Revolver and Merle Haggard. One of the owners, Mark would occasionally say through a bullhorn,

THIS AINT NO DISCO!

People dancing on the barroom floor, alone and together, men with women, women with women and men with men, it was anything goes New York City. 

A woman that looked to be Henry’s age 43, with a mountainous head of curly hair comes up to him at the bar and wraps an arm around him, saying,

I know you, you’re Henry Lucowski, I have read your short stories in the irrelevant underground rag, Headbanger. I’m Marie Howe, perhaps you’ve heard of me, I’m the poet laureate of New York and I teach at Brooklyn College. Henry says,

the poet laureate of New York huh? Some call me the poet laureate of Chaim’s Deli, regardless, your one hot piece of tail babe— before you start in on me, I’m not sexist, but I do speak with a forked tongue at times, I yearn for the old days when a man could still be a man. Marie says,

OK, Henry, I’m reading this month at the New York City Zen Center, stop by, ok gotta go, bye now!

That was it, Marie gone in a flash! Henry often tested women by making overtly sexist remarks to see if they were cool, well, Marie didn’t pass the test.

It was 1 AM, Henry pays his tab at Billymark’s and decides to go back to Chinatown. As he walked the dark streets and alleyways he has an epiphany—all the booze, drugs and sex in the world can't fill the black hole in your soul. BUT, smoking opium would fill your soul for a few hours anyway.

He reaches Sam’s Laundry and walks to the side door in the alleyway, he knocks hard on the door and an elderly Chinese woman who was always there opens it, saying,

Henry, not see you long time, careful dark in basement!

She leads him to a mat on the cold basement floor, he lays on the mat and she hands him a pipe with a padded mound of tar opium in the bowl. It didn’t take much, he lights it and takes a deep draw.

He dreams he is walking in a field teeming with red flowers as far as the eye can see. He sits down to rest and hears the sound of something thrashing through the flowers, wanting to hide he sits motionless.  

A bug-size man, like a cockroach standing on its hind legs, pushes his way through two flower stems, coming up to Henry. In awe, he sees it is his long-dead father Benny Lucowksi
in miniature. Benny doesn’t waste any time and starts shrieking at Henry, going into a tirade, saying, 

you’re a drunk like your mother Helen, you’re no good, you’re lazy, you sit on your ass all day, get a job!

Benny continues yelling at Henry, his voice stomach-tuning and munchkin-like. Henry stands and looks down on his father, then following an urge he steps on Benny, squishing him into pus. 

Henry wakes up feeling relieved as though a thousand pound gorilla had been lifted off his back. He walks back to Queens, smiling all the way. 

The following week he had an appointment with his shrink at the welfare office, Dr. Hiccup. He recounted his dream in the session, Hiccup electrified, asking Henry question after question about his feelings relating to his parents. 

Henry nodding his head as he looks at his watch, happy that his 45-minute session with Hiccup was ending, thinking,

It was his dream, and neither Freud or Hiccup could piss on it!   

     When I waked, I cried to dream again.  

                                         William Shakespeare