I'm Babawahwah & You're Not

 

Henry's stuck on the opening paragraph feeling like his words are beached in his craw.

Lucia, his Cuban wife walks into his study asking after taking a sip from her drink,  

bebe am I good at sex?

Sweetie, no matter how well it’s going sexually or love-wise, the day arrives when you lose interest, and you're two people living together without feeling anything. 

Ay Dios mío, how sad, will it be like that for us? 

I dunno, maybe we’re different, but neverending love is rare.

Henry, I’m going to take a bath.

She walks into the bedroom where she slips out of her dress, naked in the bathroom she opens the hot spigot and pours a few capfuls of lavender oil in rising water. 

Laying with her legs up and outstretched on the edges of the tub she lights a joint, then looks at her skin thinking, 

my skin glistens when it’s wet, it looks absolutely perfect if only I could always be covered in water.

Then, 

my skin looks good now, but if I stay in the tub much longer it will get wrinkly and I’ll look a hundred years old. 

The cold chases her out of the tub and dashes her urge to masturbate. 

Bracing herself with both arms on the edge of the tub she rises, stepping out carefully. Standing she grabs a large white towel, wrapping herself in it. Still feeling cold she thinks, 

bathing feels good at first but when the water cools you can’t wait to get out of the tub. It goes from good to bad quickly unlike a hot tub which self-heats.

She stands in front of a full-length mirror in the bedroom, letting her towel slip to the floor, looking at herself, and admiring her body.  

She has natural round breasts that flop up and down when she runs. Her nipples are large, the size of thimbles. 

Her legs are shapely, not muscular. Her feet are rectangular, well arched, and her toes are straight.

She shakes her head from side to side— droplets of water spritz off her long curly dark hair. Then, she pouts her lips which are a rounded version of Cupid’s bow. 

Finally having seen enough, she picks her cotton towel off the floor and raps up in it, walking to Henry’s study, feeling bored and deciding to take the piss out of him saying,  

Bebe, isn’t it true that you want to be alone except when you want to fuck me? Oh, writers are so precious, precious, they can’t stand people, humanity stinks, right?

It’s not about people darling, I don’t think you understand, I can’t write anymore, I turned left when I shoulda turned right, I’m finished, baby.

A few minutes later, he lights a joint, puts a sheet of paper in his typewriter, and types madly. Back at work as if nothing happened he says to Lucia, 

I’m a bleeding supernatural phenom. 

You’re schizoid Henry, you need help. Should I call Doctor Heckler? 

No, just leave, I need to be alone.

Fuck off, burro. 

Henry goes to work on a story about the fabled Hunter S. Thompson slash Keith Richard’s interview.

If there was one man equipped, mentally, physically, and chemically to hang with the Stones guitarist Keith Richards it was Gonzo journalist and writer extraordinaire Hunter S. Thompson.

The interview took place in March 1993 at the Ritz Carleton in Aspen but was originally scheduled to take place in MTV’s studio in New York. The plan was scuttled when the good doctor came down with the flu, so the people behind the interview lured Keef out to Colorado. 

When Hunter shows at the Ritz Carlton he’s mobbed by a group of college students on ski vacations demanding autographs— holding out soiled napkins with pens to record their momentary brush with fame. 

Instead of being flattered by the autograph seekers, Hunter becomes agitated, maybe because he's nervous about the soon-to-happen interview with Keef. 

After shaking off the sophomoric star-fuckers, he takes the elevator to Richard's suite on the top floor of the hotel overlooking the Buttermilk Mountains. 

Hunter knocks on the rock legends door firmly and when Keith opens it Thompson greets him with a megaphone. Keith reacts with his own equally weird device, a cattle prod.   

Off to a raucous start, what else would you expect from the elgenios locos It’s apparent that Hunter, who’s a rock n roll fanatic, is clearly interested in the man who is finally sitting in front of him.

The doctor kicks off the interview with the idea of reincarnation, discussing the possibility of J. Edgar Hoover coming back in the next life— to which Keith suggest, 

as a slug, 

then Hunter replies, 

no that’s too good for him, an unremarkable fart would be more like it. 

Then the conversation slash interview moves to the Beatles and Richards admits,

honestly, back then, there was little difference between the Beatles and ourselves. Without them there would be no Stones, if they hadn’t kicked down the door for us there wouldn’t have been a way through the door. John was the strong one though, I have to take my hat off to him. 

What follows in this bizarre interview is a series of — where were you on Christmas Eve starting with 1962? Keith answers, 

how bout Christmas Eve 66? I remember it snowing cocaine at Bryan’s mansion, Cotchford Farm. 

Hunter then moves on to the summer of 1969— Altamont, the infamous concert at a speedway where the Hells Angels, dosed on meth, and LSD, went berserk, beating the life out of a concertgoer. 

Richards acknowledged the gravity of the fatal event, adding some humor though and saying, 

Yeah, one person died at the hands of the Angels who were running security, one baby was born too, the same amount of people left as came.

So ends an interview that was candid because both men were clearly in awe of each other, striking a humorous friendship the way that only two twisted artists can do. 

The crowing heard through the haze of cigarette smoke was a tempered nudge towards the razor edge with the prevailing fear that at any point they could decide to blow the thing off.

Thompson ends the interview commenting,

It’s nice to have you in my confidence. I am Babawahwah and you are not. You’re just a little rock and roll punk.

Ending the interview with the Babawahwah bit proves that— 

even the most inane words that flowed from the great Gonzo’s mouth are adulated rain or shine by the cretins who worship him, and Johnny Depp comes to mind.

Are We Going to Play Bingo?

 

Bingo, are we going to play bingo tonight? We’re going to be late, Henry.

Yeah, OK baby, 

if we’re going let’s go pendejo.

I need to take a dump first, 

how long will that take? 

I'll tell you when I'm on the pot,

hurry up then.

Lucia, Henry’s Cuban wife wanted to get to Key West Christian Church with time to spare to joke and drink coffee with her Latino friends.

Henry, who's compulsive at times, liked to sit at the same table every week, the same table he and Lucia had sat at for months now.

Last Friday night, he’d won a hundred dollar jackpot and had told Lucia afterward, 

I’ve been looking for another vice and now I’m hooked forever.

After he finishes the essentials on the throne, the couple locks the house and lets the Chi's, Che, and Mia, outside to run free in the fenced-in yard. 

In ten minutes they reach the church, parking their Vespa in the lot. And as you might guess, they're late.

Inside the recreation hall, they walk to a long table where hundreds of bingo cards are piled, choosing the cards they wanted, hopefully, the winning cards.

Then they sit at their lucky table and scoop a handful of white beans from a bowl, waiting for the game to get underway. 

Helena Humper, a stately, white-haired Latino church lady, commences turning her basket of numbered poker chips and begins calling numbers. Henry says to Lucia, 

I feel like something’s going to happen tonight, you wait and see, we’re going to hit jackpots all night long, we’re going to break the bank. She says, 

I don’t feel lucky, querido, your overtime caga is going to jinx me.

I’ll split my winnings with you baby, don't worry.

By the end of the night, neither of them had won a hand.

It's 11 PM, they’re riding the Vespa through Bahama Village, Henry’s driving in circles because he can’t get the bingo numbers out of his head— B 1, G 29, N 33.

A pit bull, running on the street dragging a chain leaps at the couple and rips a chunk out of the scooter seat, then falling to the asphalt. 

Undeterred, the pit pull gets up and runs at them again, this time Lucia pokes him in the ribs with the stiletto heel of her shoe, yelping the interloper runs home. 

The following morning the love couple's luxuriating in the hot tub and drinking Mexican coffee as Lucia says, 

bebe, we shouldn’t have left the house last night, your protracted caga made us late for bingo, we lost every hand, then on the way home, we were attacked by ese perro loco. 

Lucia, no one can foretell the future, life’s a crapshoot. She fires back,

Nostradamus predicted the death of Princess Diana and 911. 

Nostradamus? He’s abnormal. I’m talking about ordinary people. If people could predict the future Las Vegas casinos would go bust.

OK, you win, burro. 

Hey, we’re bullshiting in the hot tub, there's no winner or loser— it’s not the fucking National Forensic League. 

What were we talking about, Henry? 

I can’t remember.

Lucia's eyes are full of sweat so she lifts one fleshy butt cheek and then the other out of the hot tub, grabbing the closest towel and wiping her eyes. Henry who’s manning it out in the tub says,  

watching you get out of the hot tub, cheeks spread, was a moment that lasted an infinity.

love the honey mouth, bebe.

 

He remembers one morning, she had on a dressing gown and bent over to get some coffee out of a low cupboard and her breasts fell out and she continues to go about her business like nothing happened. She was drop-dead gorgeous and she knew it. 

Henry didn't have a great ass, but he could write like a motha-fucker. 

After a cold shower and a quick breakfast, he goes to his study to write. He’s going to do a bit on what Charles Bukowski called, The Frozen Man Stance. In Buk’s own words,  

it's an immobility, a weakness of movement, an increasing lack of care and wonder.

All men are afflicted with The Frozen Man Stance at times as indicated by flat phrases such as, 

I can’t go on, 

To hell with it, 

or, 

I’ve had enough. 

Usually, they quickly recover and are punching the time clock the next day.

Bukowski spoke of a European friend for whom The Frozen Man Stance lingered for months. So, he consulted, doctors, shrinks, and medicine men throughout Europe and none of them helped.  

One of the doctors treated him with worms, another stuck tiny needles in his neck and back, dozens of them. Then another prescribed a series of alternating hot and cold baths.

Finally, the poor chap, Buk’s pal, was staying in bed for days in a small dirty London room, living on the kindness of others, staring at the ceiling, unable to write or utter a word, not caring. 

In further explaining The Frozen Man Stance, Bukowski refers to his childhood. In his own words, 

I could and can well understand my friend the poet’s flop in a barrel of shit, for strangely, as long as I can remember, I was born into The Frozen Man Stance. One of the instances that I can recall is once when my father, a cowardly vicious brute of a man, was beating me in the bathroom with his long leather strap. He beat me quite regularly. 

I could not understand why he beat me. He would search very hard for a reason. I had cut his grass once a week, once lengthwise, then crosswise, then trimming the edges with shears, and if I missed one blade of grass anywhere on the front or back lawns he beat the living shit-hell out of me. 

It was just the first appearance of The Frozen boy. I knew there was something wrong with me but I did not consider myself insane. 

Henry concludes his story on The Frozen Man Stance noting that the condition is either temporary, permanent, genetic or learned.

Bukowski’s The Frozen Man Stance is more commonly known as depression, a disease that brushes aside sex, geography, and economic status. 

Lucia walks into Henry’s study and asks, 

what ya doin, burro? 

Finishing a story,

she places her hand on his head and says, 

you feel cold bebe,  

then she wraps a blanket around him and hugs him tight saying, 

tu mama will warm you up. 

As she hugs him Henry realizes the best things in life have little to do with the brain box and everything to do with heart and soul.

The Evaporating Gypsie Cafe

 

                                                      

Henry’s in the study of his Key West bungalow. The phone rings, so he lifts the headset to his ear and says,

yes, hello,

this is Vivian Spot from Dwarf Press in Denver, we've yet to receive your story, It Never Happened Here.

Jesus, I sent it a month ago, maybe it evaporated in the mailbox. Come to think of it, a band of Gypsies was seen in the neighborhood a few days ago. 

Evaporated? Gypsies? Oh my goodness, do you have a copy? 

No, carbon paper’s messy. 

Write another Henry, one about Gypsies. Fax it to me at Dwarf Press, Denver, 312 251 7867. Thank you, love. 

Vivian hangs up, in a hurry like most editors.

Lucia, Henry’s piquant Cuban wife walks in his study saying,

Tienes hambre? There’s a Gypsy restaurante at Sugarloaf Key, let’s go for supper.

I’m writing a story for Vivian Spot at Dwarf Press. 

Querido, the penny-pinching-puta doesn’t pay,

Lucia, the rag has nationwide circulation, it gets my work out there, let’s go eat. 

They leave the Chihuahuas, Che, and Mia in the yard, lock the house and jump on their Vespa, driving north on the Overseas Highway, reaching Sugarloaf Key in twenty minutes. 

Suddenly the sky turns pitch black and Henry says, 

we should have driven the car, it’s an omen, I can feel it.

He steers the motorbike on the inkish stone road, the island’s small, desolate, so the restaurant should be easy to find. 

The couple sees a thicket of twisting honey locust trees arching over the road and Lucia points through it saying,

there. 

There’s a ramshackle building made from the wood of a scuttled boat with a small blue light neon sign on top that reads,     

                                                           LUNA

Henry parks the scooter and they walk through an open doorway framed with wild boar bones, sitting at the bar. 

The couple eyeballs the Gypsy cafe, the patrons are vacant but anodyne. The barkeep limps back and forth making drinks, looking like a loaded monkey with a hair lip. Approaching Henry and Lucia he introduces himself,

I’m Vlad, are you drinkin it or stinkin it, he ha he.

Vlad coughs without covering his mouth and they duck for cover. Sitting upright when the coast is clear Henry says,  

whatever Gypsies drink, Vlad. 

Vampire blood and Stoli, drink for gorgers, he, hoo, hoo. 

The cleft lipped simian brings the couple a pitcher of cherry juice and vodka, pouring the goo into two Viking horn mugs that they lift to the sky saying,

Skål.

When they finish the pitcher they move to a table made from pieces of driftwood. A tiny girl, a dwarf maybe, with grey eyes, wearing a headscarf embellished with coins comes to the table and says, 

Lachhi vat, I’m Banka, Vlad’s girl. I serve you Romani food today, wait gorgers,

Okay, Banka, 

the little thing disappears, evaporating. The couple is unnerved and Henry does his best to put the mystic event in perspective. 

I don’t want to overthink that, better to let it pass. Then, Lucia says,

el baro is queer querido, let’s get out of here.

Give it a chance dear, the cafe’s surreal, I like it. 

Henry, you’re a freak.

Then the busboy shows carrying a tray over his head that brushes the ceiling. He’s a Gypsy giant over seven feet tall wearing trousers that are knee-length and blue leather sandals laying bare his fat dirty toes.

Lachhi vat, I’m Drago, Banka’s father, I bring Romni food, plenty.

The leviathan reaches towards the clouds, grabbing plates of food with his thumping great meathooks, positioning dishes of—rabbit stew, cabbage rolls, polenta, and beet soup on the couple's table, then bowing and walking away. Henry whispers to Lucia, 

How could such a big man father a dwarf, inverse genetics?  

I don't know bebe, but, this place is a circus.

As they eat, Henry says, 

I was apprehensive about eating rabbit, but it’s tasty, better than chicken. 

Sí, querido, when I was a girl in Cuba, my family was so poor that we ate hedgehogs and Zebra snakes.

Then, things begin to look up at Luna, the food is great and there’s a roving violin player with a Bolo hat on, no shirt, wearing a black vest, showing off his armpit hair as he fiddles.

Once again, shit gets weird, the cafe creatures dance a zombie two-step, swaying from side to side. Henry says as he sucks the last rabbit bone dry, 

great chow, wacko joint, let’s pay and get outta here. 

The couple gets up from the table, walking to the bar where Vlad’s gnawing on moldy cheese. With mouth open showing cheese he says, 

LUNA and Gypsy food, big fun, hey? 

Yeah Vlad, what-a we owe ya? 

You got Romani leu? Vlad just kidding, ho ho, twenty-five Gringo dolla. 

Henry hands over the gravy, says thanks, and they walk out the door to the parking lot.

Back on the Vespa, the couple begins the drive home, pausing for a minute at the honey locust trees and looking back at LUNA. Lucia's hit like a ton of bricks saying, 

dios mío, darling, the cafe's dematerialized! And, Henry says, 

look hear, 

he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a handful of rabbit bones, and as he shows them to Lucia they go up in smoke.