Henry waking slowly, itching from dope snorted the night before. It was 10 AM, he turns his radio on and dials in WBAI, 99.5 blues, then, walking naked to his small balcony he lights a joint and sits on a wooden fruit-box. He could smell leaves burning, he loved the smell, looking into the sky he sees an orange glow radiating through the roundish fat clouds, the gods busy carving pumpkins for Halloween.
It was Indian summer in Queens, sometime between 1970 and 1080.
Henry hadn’t been working for weeks, he didn’t have writer’s block, the thought of writing just didn’t move him, he knew he could write if wanted.
When he wanted to write he would sit in front of his IBM Electric Typewriter and start typing any fucking thing in the world to get the ball rolling. The thrill of knowing he could go anywhere with it jump-started the process, turning a light on that put him in a poetic region that only artists know.
He had been reading poems by Dylan Thomas on his balcony, his butt smarting from sitting on the wooden fruit-box.
His favorite Dylan Thomas poem was—
Clown in the Moon
My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.
I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.
Henry loved the ease of the poem and the bitter-sweetness of it—
I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
It was the moon holding forth, a melancholy clown pouring his heart out, the moon volatile and fluid, his voice quivering.
So tremulously like a dream.
Henry reading the verse over and over on his 14th-floor balcony, screaming, chanting it as mantra, knowing the gods and the moon were listening.
Anyway, Dave Spleen the editor of the irrelevant rag, Headbanger calls and says,
Henry baby, can you do a bit on Neal Cassidy? I need it in 24 hours, fax it to me.
And that was it, Spleen not much for bullshit.
Some say Neal Cassidy was the spark that lit the Beat movement, Cassidy was the inspiration for the books—Go, by John Clellon Homes, On the Road by Jack Kerouac and The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Ken Kesey. His flow of consciousness letters to Jack Kerouac written on Benzedrine influenced Kerouac’s writing style.
Blame it on the bennies, but Neal had a hell of a time sitting and writing. Regardless, he managed to write a book, The First Third and a collection of his letters, both were published after his death.
Cassidy was known publicly as a crazed, balls to the walls, speed, booze and LSD freak who could drive at break-neck speed from New York to California in a day and a half none stop.
His wife Carolyn Cassidy told it differently though, they maintained a traditional home and had kids. For a good portion of his life, Neal held down a job on the railroad as a brakeman and most likely the way he drove a car, the bosses knew better than to to let him operate a train.
Of all the Cassidy stuff out there, Henry liked the story of him meeting Charles Bukowski. At the time Buk was penning his column, Notes of a Dirty Old Man for the LA rag Open City, busy putting down the other staffers who he considered to be hippies. Allen Ginsberg contacts Buk, asking him if he and Neal could visit him at the office of Open City, Buk says fine.
The threesome, kings of 20th century literati, sit down at Buk’s desk and have a beer. They talk awhile and only the gods know what they said? Then Cassidy who couldn’t sit in one place for long suggests they go out for a drive. At the car, a supped up Pontiac, Buk, who was nervous about driving with Cassidy sits in the back seat with 2 sixes of beer in tow.
Neal drives like a madman, Allen Ginsberg who is sitting shotgun is unfazed and laughing, Buk is frozen with fear and dumb-founded. Actually, Neal Cassidy was a skillful driving who could park a car on a dime.
It was a round trip and when they got back to the Open City office it was clear Buk had pissed his pants. He never wrote about the crazy ride or pissing his pants, but he often told the story of the experience to friends.
Henry, not a big fan of Neal Cassidy who was a Scorpio, Scorpios, bewildered souls adrift at sea. From what he read about Cassidy, he reckoned Neal was a kind of a sideshow freak performing for the beatniks and hippies that surrounded him. His wife Carol Cassidy made reference to this saying,
They treated him like a trained bear. Neal took any drug, any pill, anyone handed him. He didn't care. He was doing his damnedest to get killed.
Henry finishes the story in a few hours and faxes it to Dave Spleen at Headbanger. After a little editing, it was ready for print.
Spleen liked things expedient and hygienic. The two worked well together, Headbanger, not pretentious like Rolling Stone, it was freak-show journalism at its finest.
It was 9 PM and Henry was hungry. He showers and washes his hair which was uncut and turning grey. Then dressing for the fall night—faded jeans, a knee-length black leather coat, and a pair of scuffed-up engineer boots.
It was a 10-minute walk to Chaim’s Deli from his apartment in Queens. The 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, he didn't look out the window much because his regular waitress Ruby kept him busy pulling his chain. She says, happy to see him,
Jesus Henry, we sure have missed you, Chaim was wondering where you’ve been, you know we love you here doll! Henry red-faced and wanting to change the subject says,
Ruby such sweet-talk, thanks babe, does the noodle kugel have a lot of raisins in it? Raisins give me heartburn you know, Ruby says,
raisins in the kugel? Would it give you heartburn if I told you the kugel was made with love? He says,
Made with love by the junk, Fat Frank in the kitchen? He probably spit in the kugel and only the gods know what else he put in it! Ruby says,
You're disgusting Henry, I’ve heard quite enough, so whataya want anyway? He says,
A corned beef sandwich on pumpernickel, a large bowl of coleslaw, some potato tots well done, a pint of Jack Daniels with a bucket of ice, a couple of bottles of spring water and some noodle kugel for dessert.
Ruby looking pissed does a brisk about face and walks back to the kitchen, he could see she was talking to Fat Frank, likely telling him to spit in his kugel.
Henry thought she was immature, Ruby behaved like she was in high school. That said, she was fun to get drunk with and she gave off the chart head.
Anyway, Henry finishes eating and pays the bill, then walking to the Rawson Street Station to catch a subway to Greenwich Village.
He boards the train and the only available seat was next to a fat man, he asked the fat man if he could move some and let him through to the window seat, the fat man who smelled like Roquefort cheese looks at Henry and says,
why aren’t you a sweet thang now, sit on my lap, why I’ll rock you like you've never been rocked before.
Henry walks to the next car which was full and stands until the subway gets to the village. Gay sex with a fat man that smelled like cheese on a subway wasn’t in the cards for him, at least not today.
As he leaves the underground station and reaches street level he is wonderstruck by the red, orange and yellow colors of the fall leaves and the agreeable feeling the brown, orange and pink low rise brick buildings gave off.
When he reaches 90 Greenwich Ave., he notices a dive called Johnny’s Bar and feels a definite pull. He goes in and sits at the bar, which was painted blue once but didn’t have much color left on it. The walls were covered with what looked like old cheat sheets from Aqueduct Racetrack, odd lists, and moldy stuffed animals. People were there for one reason only, to drink allot and drink cheap.
Henry goes to the men’s room to take a pee and then snorts a few lines of cocaine. Back at the bar, he orders a boilermaker.
There wasn't a jukebox or any music in Johnny’s Bar, he sees a handwritten sign that reads,
Rolling Rock $1.25 Pints $3.00
Henry bored out of his cord is making more and more trips to the men’s room. The bar full of barflies with their head down, staring at their drinks or at the walls.
Then Johnny who was behind the bar asked Henry,
you got the shits or somethin? You sure are makin allot of trips to the head
Henry looks at Johnny smiling and says,
sorry about that, I forgot to put my catheter in, if you’re worried about your water bill I can leave a few extra bucks. Then Johnny says,
cut the shit, you're snorting coke in the head, you can snort at da bar if you want.
Henry pours some coke on the bar and lines it off. Johnny goes down on it and snorts the stuff like a madman. Then, looking up at Henry, his nose covered in white powder, he says,
try soma dis, it’s top-shelf, imported from Mehico!
Johnny puts 8 shot glasses on the bar and fills them with mescal, the two suck em down.
Things go blank, Henry passes out and falls off his bar stool to the floor.
When he comes too he is on his back, naked, laying on a tile floor near a large wooden tub filled with cold water. He stands up, goes to the tub, climbs a few steps to a deck and slowly goes in.
After the freezing plunge, he goes and sits in the steam room. The extended sweat relieves his body of unwanted booze and dope toxins. He raps up in a towel and walks to the front counter asking the attendant, where his clothes were, how he got there and where he was? The guy at the counter says,
You're at da 10th Street Spa buddy, you staggered in a few hours ago, here’s your locker key, where closing in 15 minutes so get the hell outta here so I can go home.
Henry dresses and catches a taxi home to Queens thinking,
I just don't know sometimes, booze, and dope leads me wherever it wants, I feel like a monkey on a leash.
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