Girly Bouquet and Tickle

Henry, doin time, gettin down, gettin on n goin roun, cursin n squirmin, excludin n usurp-in— nothin.

Oh, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play, where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day.

Where the air is so pure, and the zephyrs so free and the breezes so balmy and light, that I would not exchange my home on the range, for all of the cities so bright.

It was noon in Queens, Henry was working on an assignment for the irrelevant underground rag, Headbanger. His editor, Dave Spleen had asked him to write a short piece on Ezra Pound. 

Ezra Pound, up on high with a few other celebrated contributors of 20th Century English language poetry. 

  

The only poetry that should be allowed in a state is hymns to the gods and paeans in praise of good men—so saith the long-headed salt of the Plaka, Socrates!

A poet’s political rants can be on the odd occasion threatening to western political governments. But, Ezra Pound rattled the green twig of the US authorities during the second world war when he delivered a series of Fascist broadcasts on Roman radio hailing Herr Hitler for,

having seen the Jew puke in the German democracy.

In May of 1945 Pound was arrested in Italy and locked up in a 6ft by 6ft cell that he called the guerrilla cage, consequently having a nervous breakdown. The US Army then transferred him to Washington DC, where he would go on trial for treason. 

A plea of insanity was accepted by the court which had no intentions of sending the lionized American poet to jail. He was moved to Saint Elizabeths Hospital outside of DC, where he would stay for the next 12 years. The hospital a place he coldly referred to as the bughouse. When he was released from the bughouse he moved back to Italy where he would stay the rest of his life. 

Unlike many noted poets of the 20th Century, Ezra Pound wasn’t alcoholic, but he was hounded throughout his poetic life by Fascist convictions and mental fragility— fortuitously delivered from it all when in his inner sanctum, writing. 

Pound’s magnum opus, Cantos, is an incomplete work that is over 800 pages, with 116 sections. In the 1920s and later he wrote haiku or hokku asian style poetry, much of which was only one sentence. For example,

In a Station of the Metro

 The apparition of these faces in the crowd:

Petals on a wet, black bough.

By 9 PM Henry had finished his piece for Headbanger. Upon finishing his research on Ezra Pound he was left with the feeling that Pound was a woeful brain box who didn’t have sense enough to get out of the rain. 

Anyway, he hadn’t been to Chaim’s deli for a coon’s age so he gussies up some and hops, skips and jumps a few blocks to the deli in downtown Queens. 

Chaim’s Deli was built in the early 60s, it 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, where the flying fuck have you been? I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age! 

Wondering what particular parlance— in a coon’s age was? He says,

a coon’s age?  I was here a month ago, you could be right in that the average raccoon’s lifespan is a year due to disease and human interference, you know when the coons burrow into wooden awnings or get caught eating out of a garbage can, life is tough for raccoons everywhere these days.

Ruby looks at Henry in an odd way and says,

What are you on Henry, have you completely lost it? 

He orders a pastrami sandwich and a double Jack Daniels and soda, his head cast down, feeling like he had stepped in raccoon shit.

Ruby laughs and walks to the kitchen. 

He drinks 9 or so double Jack Daniels and sodas feeling contrite, knowing Ruby was keen on getting his goat.

Henry leaves Chaim’s Deli at 1030 PM, loaded to boot and ignoring Ruby—a childish attempt to get even with her. 

Leaving Queen’s, walking, and eventually reaching the Bowery. A bum they call Shit Can comes up to him and gets in his face, breathing on him. Shit Can’s breath smelled like rocket fuel and puke hybrid, He then screams at Henry as though Henry was deaf,

Hey Bud, howza bout yus and me get us a can of Sterno and make us some smoke to drink? There aint nothin like it, it’ll knock yus out!

Henry pulls himself away from Shit Can, saying,

That shit will kill you, you know! Do you like Jack Daniels Shit Can? 

Shit Can’s face had scar tissue on top of scar tissue from being punched by the other bums. He looks up at Henry, grimacing weakly and says,

I don’t reckon I ever had any of it. 

Henry walks to the closest bar, a place called 

King Eddy’s Saloon and buys 2 pints of Jack Daniels wrapped tightly in a paper bag and gives the bum a pint.  

Shit Can lights up and looks at Henry like he's Jesus feeding the multitude. 

As he is leaving the Bowery he looks up into the sky, seeing a shooting star, feeling good inside, as though the Gods were looking down on the city and something big was going to happen. 

By midnight he was in Times Square longing for a taste of girly bouquet and tickle. As he is walking Times Square he sees a red neon sign that reads,

ROSELAND BALLROOM 

Taxi Dance Hall  

He goes to the ticket booth in the front of the hall and the lady vendor says,

one dance 3.50, ten dances for 30 bucks,

Henry buys a whopping 30 bucks worth of tickets, he couldn’t dance and cared little for it, but he wanted to get close and grind with a gal in a dress, wearing makeup who smelled like a rose. 

Roseland Ballroom was a large open hall that doubled as a roller rink. The dance floor was made of wood, scuffed up plenty, Henry reckoned the ballroom was built in the 20s. 

There was a mess of card-tables and chairs surrounding the dance floor, which was divided in half by a tall hanging red velvet curtain that had a pronounced musty smell. Burning some incense would have been a nice touch, but you could hardly call the joint, hip. 

Henry shocked, it was boys on one side and girls on the other. The girls attractive in their rented silk dresses and made up real nice, but the guys? Well, you could say they were an odd lot—old guys, younger guys with pot-marked faces, guys that limped and butt-ugly guys. 

It was obvious the common denominator was— buying a ticket for a dance at a taxi dance hall was the only way they were going to get close to a woman.  

The music came from a couple mobile speakers that were in front of the moldy red velvet curtain. It was slow tempo, old dance riffs, Guy Lombardo and Lawrence Welk stuff, no up-tempo cha-chas or boogie— the misfits who came to Roseland Ballroom were there for one reason, to get up close with a woman and grind it out, and if they were lucky, a dry hump.  

Henry like the others, a misfit, wanting to get close to a woman without jumping through a lot of hoops. Well, he walks over to the girl's side, the gals sitting with blank looks on their faces. He notices the only black girl in the group and hands her all his tickets, she smiles as she places the tickets in her dress pocket, saying, 

Hi sweety, I’m Butterfly, what’s your name? Do you like slow dancin? 

Henry smiles and says,

Why, I’m Henry doll, but I gotta tell ya, I’m not much of a dancer, then Butterfly says,

You just follow me Henry and hold on tight baby!

He was hot for Butterfly already, she was cocoa-skinned with dyed blond hair in double braids, a body build from the dance floor up and a huge chest and bum to boot. 

She was discreet but she was a pro and she wanted to give Henry a go for his money. He had picked her knowing that black women were golden. 

As they get to the dance floor, Penny Serenade by the Guy Lombardo Orchestra was playing. They start dancing in classic ballroom position, minutes later Henry pulls her close to him, rubbing against her, Butterfly didn’t resist.  

By the 10th dance, he wanted more tickets, it was 130 AM. Butterfly says she could sell him tickets so he buys 10 more. He was turgid from grinding on her, he wanted to fuck Butterfly and he says,

What time does this place close? I don’t know if I can grind much longer, I’m getting horny, then she says,

2 AM, we can go get a cheap room in Harlem, but it’s gonna cost you! Henry says,

How much? And Butterfly says, 

150 per hour, 

he agrees, at the same time the ballroom closes Henry runs out of tickets. 

The two get a taxi to Harlem and go to a cheap hotel called the Fifth Avenue Deluxe, Butterfly gets a short time rate. 

The room was simple, just a bed, a toilet and a desk with a chair and a mirror. They strip off their clothes quickly, once in bed Butterfly lights a joint, Henry has the pint of Jack Daniels he bought in the Bowery. She goes down oh him, he shoots a load in her mouth in a few minutes and then turns her over doggy style and they ball like crazy for another 20 minutes or so. 

After awhile, Henry dresses and heads for the door, saying,

That was great babe, I suppose we could have talked some, but I got so turned on dancing with you at the ballroom, you know what I mean!

Butterfly a cool lady laughs, Henry hits the bricks, walking back to Queens. 

As he walks, he looks into the night sky which is lit up by the light bouncing off the skyscrapers. It was New York City, a fall night sometime between 1970, there was just nothing like it anywhere!