Five more minutes, I thought. If I can lay here five more minutes and allow my food to digest that’s all I need.
Then I’ll lay two pillows against the baseboard of the bed and write about New York City.
Performance Art is scheduled at MoMa this month and at the Rico Shoe Cafe.
My flight leaves from Key West International Airport in the afternoon.
It’s early winter in the city I pack sweat socks, long khakis, jungle boots, sweatshirts, and a field jacket.
I dress like I’m going to war, riding the Vespa, parking it at the airport.
At the TWA counter, they weigh my bag, I beg the agent,
give me a seat next to a beautiful woman, in her 50s, with a good shape,
no problem sir, enjoy your flight.
I have a drink at the Conch Lounge, a shot of Gold Tequila, then another, I’m a paranoid flyer, sure this plane, Flight 366, is going to crash. I freak out when the plane vibrates, shit can happen, rivets can fall out, wings can fracture.
One passenger, an old Japanese lady, sprang up, hitting her head on the coach compartment— knocked out with a concussion.
I read about Madame Nogasu in Modern Mechanics or Popular Aviation.
Madame Nogasu, never flew again. She was awarded a lifetime air pass on TWA and a settlement of 200,000 dollars.
TWA was Howard Hughe’s airline, he wore long hair and a beard before the Beatles and was an obsessive-compulsive junky.
Flight 366 takes off at 2:34 PM.
I sit in seat 27C, an aisle seat.
A drag queen puts her large handbag in the coach compartment, steps over my legs sitting in the B seat next to me.
She’s hot in a Cleopatra wig with purple lipstick, braless in a low-cut dress showing off her tit job.
We hit it off right away, they turn the seat belt light off at 20,000 feet, and the ladyboy, Thelma Lou, undoes my seatbelt, it tickles, I feel torrid, Thelma Lou says,
don’t cum in your pants cowboy.
Queers have talent, William Burroughs, and Tennessee Williams, were queer Gods.
The Night of the Iguana by Williams, I know the plot from start to finish.
The Reverend T. Lawrence Shannon in The Night of the Iguana was bipolar and so was Tennessee Williams, who wrote the play and the screenplay. Writers write about themselves.
I’m a manic depressive on medication, I don’t like to write about it, people don’t need to be educated on depression.
Anyone who’s been depressed knows it feels like shit. Thelma Lou tells me,
I’m Cher in the drag show at the Tarzan Club.
You’ve got one hellova shape, Thelma Lou.
You’re a naughty boy, you like gay sex?
No, I can’t get it up, gay or straight, I don’t like sex.
Good for you, We are what we are, dumb, evil, brilliant, handsome, crippled, bent, or gifted. You're bent and pretty Henry.
TWA flight blah, blah, blah lands and the passengers are in a frenzy to get off the fucking plane.
Henry and Thelma Lou take a taxi to the Chelsea Hotel, she has an apartment on the top floor decorated like a Tiki Bar.
Later they go out, dressing warm. Hannah Wilkes’ show is at the Tarzan Club, it’s a go-go bar where tranny and straight women poll dance— a non-smoking place where you can drink, but bring plenty of money.
We sit at a small metal table.
It’s a spartan club, unlike the techno clubs in the city.
There’s no doorman, no lines of people, anybody can get in, it's a club for anonymous people with mostly 80s music.
Henry and Thelma Lou walk to Hanna Wilkes who’s standing at the bar, her hair's in rollers and wrapped in a Gucci scarf, she's wearing jeans, boots, a mohair sweater, and a man's sport coat.
Can I buy you a drink, Miss Wilkes?
yeah, a martini,
he introduces himself and his friend,
I'm Henry and she's Thelma Lou. Wilkes wonders,
are you artists?
She’s a dancer and I write, are you going to perform tonight?
no, the owner doesn’t pay, the dancers live on tips, this is a dump, I’m not a stripper, I hate it, let's go to the Whitehorse.
Hanna, Henry, and Thelma Lou walk 10 blocks to the Whitehorse, eating in a booth— steak, lobster, with caviar sauce pasta, and pitchers of 0.0 Heineken. They share a hash cookie for dessert.
Henry pays the bill it's over 200 dollars.
They take a cab to Hannah's loft in the Hassidic neighborhood.
Hannah unlocks a rusted metal door and they take a freight elevator to the 5th floor, entering a large brick and wood-beamed space with furniture and a bar. Her abstract paintings are on the walls. Hannah's work is soft and reflects nature. We drink rum and coke and the artist says desperately,
I want to write plays, it’s cheaper and not messy like painting.
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