Henry sucks down a beer as he looks out the window of his study at the rows of manicured lawns in his neighborhood thinking,
my neighbors would slip into comas without their lawnmowers, spreaders, trimmers, rakes, and hand trowels. I'm gonna let my grass go to seed, like a field of Kansas wheat.
Then, death comes to mind,
it's always there, waiting somewhere near, ready to pounce. Grim Reaper, you fucking bloodsucker, go knock on my neighbor's door.
He thumbs through an underground paper, the lead story's on Lenny Bruce. Lenny was funny at times, his comedy bit, I Can’t Cum was a masterpiece. But his later bits in clubs were pure legalese, not funny, dwelling on his court problems, performing junked wearing nothing but a pair of loafers and a London Fog raincoat.
Henry’s Cuban wife Lucia and their lover Summer Wynd walk into his study and hug him, tussling his hair,
don’t mess up my hair, it’ll mat, I don't want dreadlocks. So, what're you girls up to? Summer Wynd answers,
We’re going to Jamaica with Dirk the lifeguard on his boyfriend's cigarette boat, they're leaving from Dog Beach in an hour. We've made reservations at a gay resort, Cum on the Beach.
Cum on the Beach huh? Enticing, gay resorts are a bit over the top don't ya think? I'll take a rain check, sweetie.
OK, love, we gotta pack and get going.
Henry's been writing a story on Larry Flynt, Hustler Magazine publisher, and a founding father of monthly flesh mags— full of hotties with their legs spread, flashing pink.
As the sun sets, he showers, oils, and combs his long hair, dresses, then putting on shorts, and a tank top. He realizes writing the bit on Larry Flynt has unleashed a powerful bodily urge, for sex and an In & Out Burger.
Leaving home, he backs his 73 Chevy Malibu Wagon out of the feeble wooden garage, backing down the driveway to the street.
The structure's standing on a whim and a prayer, ready to collapse any moment, having been eaten by a tribe of fat and happy termites.
Henry's planning a rowdy demolition party— an open house for his neighbors that'll jack em up beyond their formulated existences.
He’ll rent a mini bulldozer, put on a football helmet and a pair of safety glasses— rev the dozer's engine on the street, then let the tractor rip full-tilt boogie down the driveway, plowing into the frail wooden garage. Repeating the process until the structure's pulverized.
Summer Wynd will videotape the demolition-extravaganza for posterity, those poor souls who come after us.
Driving his Malibu wagon, he skims the perimeter of Key West on A1A, then, then spanning Highway 1 bridge on his way to the next island, Cow Key— home of a small Air Force base with an unknown number of B-1 Strategic Bombers deep in a concrete bunker revved to embark on sallies to Cuba at the behest of any old wild-eyed SAC commander and blow the Lilliputian island sky-high.
The GIs stationed on Cow Key spend every minute of their 24-hour furloughs at the island's strip clubs.
After cruising the back roads, Henry wheels into the crushed stone parking lot of a joint called Booty Call.
Parking, he gets out of his car and looks at his watch, it’s 8 PM.
There's a biker at the entrance wearing his colors— an Outlaw's patch comprised of a skull centered on two crossed pistons.
The Outlaw's colors resemble a Nazi SS's Death Head insignia— much of their paraphernalia is Nazi-style because it rattles mainstream Americans.
Bonafide bikers aren't anti-semitic per se, but the gangs are segregated — the Hell's Angels only accept Whites, the Bandidos only recruit Hispanics, and none of the gangs want Blacks, so Blacks put together their own clubs such as the Hells Egos, Outcasts, and Magic Wheels.
The cover in Booty Call is 20 bucks, including two drinks.
Inside, there're four poles where stripers are in various stages of getting naked. The sounds of Motorhead's Thunder and Lighting are blaring through large black speakers suspended on chains from the ceiling. The vibe's
barking mad, and sinister to boot.
The strip joint’s plush, the booth seating, table chairs, and bar stools are upholstered with purple velvet
There’s a surprisingly good light show bright enough to get a view of the tits and ass on parade.
Henry sits at the bar, the bartender’s a light-skinned Black gal wearing a bikini, her hair's TWA style, a blond teeny weenie afro. She asks,
What-ta-ya have handsum?
how bout a boilermaker?
We don't get many long hairs here, just GIs from the base.
I haven’t cut my hair in twenty years, I’m Tonsure-phobic.
Hope u ain't sex-phobic baby,
why, do you trick?
Sure, gotta pay for Pampers you know.
What time you get off beautiful?
Midnight,
where you staying?
Bahamian Village with my Aunty,
you gotta name?
Sure do, Amy Williams, and yours?
Henry, Henry Lucowski.
Whataya do,
I’m a freelance writer.
What about your old lady?
I got two of em, but they’re away, gone to Jamaica with two gay friends.
I’ll take real good care of you for 250 baby,
no problem, you take credit cards?
You'll funny, Henry.
Amy's enchanting, so much that Henry's tuned out the sounds of the booty-crazed GIs egging the dancers on—
come on, come on, shake that thang, take it off, take it off.
At midnight a dancer, Brandy, shows to relieve Amy, who counts her bank then lifts the cash tray from the register, looking at Henry saying,
Baby, what kinda car you got?
A 73 Chevy Malibu Wagon, I’ll be sitting on the hood,
OK.
She walks with her cash tray in hand to the boss's office.
40 minutes later Amy comes out of Booty Call in jeans, and a hoody. She and Henry get in the station wagon, sitting in the front seat she begins bum rapping the owner, a guy named Stan.
Stan, my boss, counted my bank over and over, comin on to me, I get tired of his shit. Henry changes the subject,
what about your kids?
They stay with my Aunty.
As he drives out of the parking lot towards Highway 1 he lights a joint, they pass it back and forth, Amy puts her hand between his legs and he says,
You're making me horny,
your ladies don’t take care of you, doll?
Yeah sure, but there's nothin like fresh trim.
In no time Henry's wheeling his station wagon into the bungalow driveway, parking there, afraid the garage is going to collapse.
In the house, the quick lovers go to the living room and Amy sits on the sofa.
Whataya have to drink sweetie?
Crown and Seven,
OK, babe, you got it.
He walks to the kitchen and mixes a couple Crown and Sevens, bringing them back to the living room.
Amy's turned the TV on, watching Woodstock, the bit where Sly and the Family Stone are playing, I Want to Take you Higher. She's in her underwear dancing. Henry's turned on saying,
Your body's perfect, I love it,
I’m wet honey, let’s go to the bedroom.
In the bedroom the quick lovers flop on the unmade bed, doing 69, balling hot and heavy.
At noon the following morning, they wake, shower, then Amy wraps up in Lucia’s silk kimono. Henry pulls his hair back, wrapping it with a thick rubber band. They go to the kitchen and he makes brunch—an omelet, bagels and lox, bloody marys, and plenty of brewed coffee with hot milk.
After brunch they walk to the back yard, stepping over the thick crawling vines and through the piles of fallen palm stalks, then getting naked and getting in the warm and bubbly wooden hot tub, making out, playing touchy-feely.
Twenty minutes later, Lucia and Summer Wynd walk in the front door of the bungalow, hearing splashing and giggling in the back yard, they walk to the hot tub. Summer Wynd says,
we didn't make it to Jamaica, the cigarette boat's engine died, Dirk sent out an SOS and the Coast Guard eventually showed. Lucia says,
who’s your friend Henry? You don’t waste any time puta de mierda.
Oh, Amy Williams, I'm glad you guys made it home safe.
Resigned to it all, the girls strip and get in the hot tub, in not time the scene morphs into an orgy. Amy says to Henry,
that’ll be 450, extra for the girls, you cool with that?
Amy was truly a pro.