The Last Act

A cold and rainy night in Queens, Henry could feel it in his bones. 

He wanted to get out of Queens to dry his bones and get in touch with his anima. Onwards and outwards to the desert, any desert. 

Henry would take the bus—Queens to Taos, New Mexico. 

He would put together the usual traveling goodies—Mexican heroin, vodka, ganja,  cocaine and valium, then putting a few pairs of chinos, a few sweat shirts and pair of low-top Converse in a gym bag. He would ware his LL Bean hiking boots with two pairs of socks on the bus, he never wore underwear.   

It rained all the way to the bus station, Henry wrapped in a Native Indian blanket, hunched over, he couldn’t get warm. He was Ratso Rizzo and Joe Buck in the film Midnight Cowboy, wanting to get out of the New York winter and get to Florida, ASAP.  

On the bus and out of New York State, already in West Virginia, making a stop in Bluefield. A punk rocker with a guitar on his back, wearing a dirty leather jacket with SS Death Heads on the lapel and a broken mustache on his face, like the Mexican actor Cantanflas's mustache, sits down next to Henry. 

His name was GG Allin and he was on his way to Topeka to meet his brother for a club date. He then goes on to say he was junk sick, Henry handed him a small packet of heroin, Allin off to the head for a poke. 

GG Allin was shy and talked very little to Henry, nodding out mostly. Henry had read about the band The Murder Junkies, Allin’s band, the band infamous, shows busted up and raided by the cops. Allin would get naked on stage, throw up, take dumps in his silver Nazi Helmet, attack the audience, do the unimaginable with sweet potatoes and carrots—beyond idiosyncratic. 

The bus passing at a high rate of speed through cornfields on the left and right, parting the ocean of swirling green stalk and leaf.  Allin wakes up and ask Henry if they are in Kansas yet?  He invites Henry to the show in Topeka, Henry didn’t want to offend GG— whose show wasn’t his cup of tea, Henry was no punk as well and could live without penis theatrics and poo-flinging.

Wishing GG Allin all the best Henry declined the offer saying the desert was calling him as he handed GG a few small bags of heroin, for the good of the cause. 

Pulling into Santa Fe, New Mexico at 2AM, Henry gets off the bus and goes to the men’s room. He downs a half a pint of vodka, then does a speed-ball, a snort of cocaine mixed with heroin. 

At 5PM the bus pulls into Taos, Henry grabbing his gym bag off the luggage rack and making a b-line to the Taos Motel & RV Camp, passing out in bed fully dressed with boots on, sleeping 12 hours. 

That evening he cleans up, does a speed ball and heads to Roses’s, a cantina in Old Taos. He orders a Mexican breakfast and a Margarita. Out of no-where he hears gunshots, from a pistol he thinks.  Henry and the rest of the folks in Roses running out in panic-mode to she what was happening? 

Dennis Hopper was in the middle of Old Taos Square—AWOL from a cowboy movie set, still in outlaw costume. His six guns pointed in the air still smoking, falling to his knees, ranting incoherently, then passing out, collapsing.

Dennis Hopper’s now famous nervous breakdown in Taos, in front of the whole world or at least the whole town of Taos.  

The paramedics on the scene in minutes, Henry figured the show was over and that Hopper’s breakdown would be the last act.  

Henry making his way to the Pecos Valley,  hiking by day and taking the bus back to Taos in the night. Hiking more and more—way out there, meeting some Navajos and doing a sweat lodge with them. Cleansed, feeling at one, taking the bus back to Queens, feeling whole again. 

Henry found what he was looking for, for once —and it felt good!

The Wasted Night-watchman

Henry in bed all day with a sore throat, needing a hot drink, finally getting out of bed and dressing, on his way to Chaim’s Deli.

Sitting in a booth at Chaim's, Ruby his regular waitress approaches looking concerned and saying “You look ill Henry,” he says to Ruby “ I need some of that Jewish cure-all Ruby baby, a bowl of chicken soup with matzot.” Henry drinking Robetussin mixed with hot tea as well. 

Still in Chaim's, high from the cough syrup, he begins to day dream,  recollecting the time he spent working in the Sinai.

Henry lived the Sinai in the mid seventies.  It was geographically like Mars, treeless, surrounded by red mud and rusty iron ore colored hills. Most people living near or on the beach in straw huts, module housing units and caves. Henry sleeping on the beach, working as the night watchman for the Nama Bay Inn. 

Nama Bay was on the Red Sea side of the Sinai Peninsula, the Red Sea famous for beautiful coral.  The Bay attracted a mix of cultures, IDF Soldiers, UN soldiers, Bedouins, hippy travelers and divers from Europe. It was a big party, the UN people would arrive in their white deuce and a half trucks loaded up with Heineken beer in coolers and cases of Irish Bristol Creme. Everyone had hashish, the only people who had nothing to share were the hippies. They would perform for dope and booze, put on poetry readings and play music as the hippy girls did spirit-dancing shaking and showing their tits.

There were huts on the beach that served as bars and restaurants, The Last Oasis and The Parrot Fish to name a few.  

Henry’s job as night watchman was to make the rounds and keep an eye on the beach area, the bars, restaurants, the diving center, and the module motel.

One night Henry was in the lobby of the Nama Bay Inn talking to the night clerk, a Druze named Boaz came running in, looking whitish with a paper cup in hand, saying he was bit by a scorpion. Henry looks in the cup and sees the scorpion is dead, He looks at Boaz and says “You got it backwards Boaz, the scorpion is supposed to live and you're supposed to die!”

On free days Henry would go to the beach and smoke hashish. He had stepped on a broken bottle of Heineken while on his night time rounds. The coral in the Red Sea gave off a large amount of bacteria, so he had to stay out of the water or risk infection. 

High, lounging in a hammock at the beach he noticed a Israeli soldier girl walking on the beach, she was all tits and ass in her thong bikini. They began to talk, her father was a famous Israeli artist in Tel Aviv, Henry invited her to an abandoned module housing unit a couple hundred meters from the sea. The two sitting on the floor in a blanket, he rolls a joint mixing hashish with tobacco. Her name was Freida, she was a a real free-spirit, a beatnik. They began making out with out much formality, and then got it on, sweating in the desert heat. Freida later invited Henry to stay with her and her family in Tel Aviv. 

Henry was only in Nama Bay a few months but it seemed like years. He got into the habit of sleeping outside while there. For a long time after he left Nama Bay he slept on the floor or outside when he could. 

Henry’s time in Israel was a test of limits he thought, partying as much as he could. After a few years there he left for Greece via Haifa on a ship. 

Henry gazing outward at the Mediterranean Sea on a ship headed to Greece, in reflexion, wondering if his stay in Israel was enlightening?  Some modern day hedonist wisdom came to mind—

He who can party and screw the longest and hardest before he drops, WINS! 

Epigrams

Henry empty-headed, how about? —The longest journey begins with the first step, or — It’s time to start something new and trust the magic of the beginnings. 

Henry hated epigrams. 

Queens on a fall night, cool cobalt air pulling and blowing on you, inviting you to step into it. 

Leaving his apartment at 1030 PM, stoping at Chaim’s Deli for a late snack—matzo ball soup, chopped chicken liver spread on rye and Robatusin mixed with soda.  Ruby, Henry’s regular waitress, a good women working to put her son through college. 

Leaving Chiams at 1100 PM with no plans. 

Near Times Square a young asian gal wearing a white Ao Dai (an asian dress) and pumps open at the heal, says hello. Henry taken back, mesmerized by her winsome beauty. 

She asked him if they can go have a drink, Henry paralyzed and finding it hard to speak finally saying, “Sure doll.”

The two duck into a corner bar, Jimmy’s Place, they sit in a booth and order two gin martinis, exchanging names. Her name is Mai and she is right off the boat from Viet Nam, on the run from something. Mai asked him if he can help her get a green card.  

Henry living off of crazy-pay from month to month, romance for him a long chain of one-night-stands, feeling powerless, laid-low by Mais allure, he orders two more drinks, then says “What kind of work do you do Mai?” She tells him she is an exotic dancer, he says “Oh, no problem doll, the city is full of strip joints.”

After more than a few gin martinis Henry picks up the tab and says to Mai, “Lets get a rub down baby.”

They take a taxi to Siam Massage, Henry at the counter asking for Nam, then saying “We want a threesome.” 

Nam, Henry and Mai walking down a long hall glowing purple. They settle in a room draped in East Indian prints made radiant by candle light, smelling of jasmine and coconut, getting naked. Mai with natural tits, her body like white silk. 

The girls massage Henry, he is turgid, very turned on. They start making out, he lays lines of cocaine on a small mirror, the three snort it up, having a ball.  

Mai tells her story to Nam, it turns out Siam Massage is looking for a masseuse. No green card required, a couple hundred a day in tips, room and board. 

Henry as luck would have it was off the hook. He would have access to Mai at Siam Massage  without having to be responsible for her. 

Flowing water always finds its own level in the sand and the Lord works in strange ways—

More epigrams Henry thought. 

     

Donna Brown & Henry the Farmer

Henry musing—what’s it gonna be? A film, poetry reading, Thai massage, a trip out west? 

It was fall, a good time to take a trip. Henry savored the fall— brazen colored leaves losing chlorophyll, dying and falling off the tree, cremated in large piles, polluting the air, smelling sweet and woody.    

Henry knew of a commune near Summertown, Tennessee called “The Farm,” founded by Stephen Gaskin. 

Stephen a beatnik who was disenchanted with the Haight-Asbury scene in San Francisco enlists a group of like minded hippies to go on a pilgrimage out east, searching for a place to lay their straw-hats, a commune/home. 

In the early seventies Stephan leads the pilgrims to the promise land— a caravan of VW Bugs, vans and trucks on a road trip, driving east from San Francisco, settling on a couple thousand acres outside of Summertown, Tennessee. 

They are “Farmies,” eco-minded, anti-war, pot smoking, agro-midwives and high-tech lumber-jacks—ain’t that the shit Henry thought?    

Henry would take a trip to "The Farm." He packs a small gym bag with clean t-shirts and underwear then gets dope—Mexican heroin and bottles of Robitussin. 

The long bus ride from Queens to Summertown would be a dream sequence he figured, burnt leaves, worm, squirrel and rat eaten apples falling off of trees — Indian corn and skeletal scare-crows.

Henry sitting in the back of the bus, snorting heroin, drinking Robitussin mixed with Seven Up, sleepy and wasted.  

Then a thirty-something Black women with a nice shape sits next to him, eye-balling him and saying, “Are you OK sugar?”  He says, “I’m fine, lets party,” he hands her a plastic cup, Robitussen and Seven Up mix. 

She says “My name is Donna Brown you sure are cute," he says, “I’m Henry, I’m on crazy-pay.” Saying the first thing that came to mind.      

The two on a roll straight away, Donna Brown was on the run from the law and broke, Henry her golden goose.  

Henry was passed out as the bus drove through Summerville, Tennessee. He would never make it to the “The Farm.”  

They got off in Nashville, renting a small room, a dump in an area of Nashville called Black Bottom. The newly ordained couple mildly addicted to Heroin. 

It was fall in Nashville, cool some, the two drinking all the time, eating pinto beans out of cans and half frozen hot-dogs, getting off junk, Henry knew better than to go there.

After a few weeks of daily and nightly drinking, the couple decided to go out—a night on the town in Black Bottom. They stumbled into the first bar they saw, a real dive, Santa’s Pub, elves spray painted on the cinder block facade.

Henry was the only White guy in the bar. Blues and country music on the juke-box, Donna Brown orders Tequila, drinks a few shots then walks sexy-like around the joint, flirting, Henry still sitting, anxious. 

Donna Brown sits at a table with some Black men, huge men, offensive lineman huge, she talks and points at Henry. He knew what was coming, Henry slips out of Santa’s Pub through the bathroom window, leaving the bill for Donna Brown.  

Back at the room he packs quickly, hits the streets and hitch-hikes out of town, thinking the bar owner and the cops might look for him at the bus station. 

Once in Knoxville he catches a bus home to Queens. 

Maybe the heroin and Robitusin was the wrong mix for the trip? It was the Devil's mix, a curse he thought. 

Happy to be back in the city, Henry was no farmer.   

Chelsea Girls

Henry siting in a lawn chair on the balcony of his Queens apartment. 

The summer night cobalt blue, the air cool. Needing fuel he leaves the building and walks a few blocks to Chaim’s Deli. 

Sitting in his booth, Ruby his regular waitress greets him saying “Henry how the fuck are you doll?” Henry forks two fingers, opens his mouth and puts his tongue between the fingers, wagging the tongue,  giving the appearance of fellatio. Ruby does an about face and walks away, unreceptive.

After a meal of corn beef and cabbage, fries and a milkshake mixed with Kailua, Henry checks out of the deli and hits the pavement.  

Once again by-passing  the Bowery, walking fast, careful not to trip over bums passed out on the sidewalk, avoiding odorous puddles, wanting to get through quickly. 

Henry making his way to Times Square, to the New Amsterdam Theater, the Andy Warhol film “Chelsea Girls” was playing.   

Under the marquee a junky cowboy closes in on Henry and says “ Man the film is boring, it’s pathetic baby, how about a  8 ball of coke to get you through the thing dad?” Henry bought the cocaine from the cowboy taking a lick, then going across the street to Lenny’s Liquorland for a pint. 

He sat in the back row, so no-one could see him snorting coke and drinking. 

“Chelsea Girls” begins screening, Henry notices there are no credits, and that it was two reels shown side by side simultaneously, he recognized the Chelsea Hotel.  

The screen filled with Warhol’s factory denizens, Ondine, International Velvet, Gerald Malanga, Ingrid Superstar— it was a  gay film with allot of syringes full of speed being poked randomly in the players asses. Nobody was acting in the film, the “actors” were themselves. One girl on acid was walking in and out of scenes crying real tears, half aware she was being filmed,  then a priest slaps her—a real slap, to shut her up.  

The cocaine got Henry through twenty minutes of the art yarn, feeling lucky he could make a quick exit.

Henry comforted, walking, breathing yogic gulps of night air, looking up at the sky full of happy stars.

Henry bought a Village Voice from a blind man near Chaim’s Deli, close to home. He asked the blind man how he was doing and the blind man says, “ Life couldn’t be better baby!”

Henry  thinking—

Man this is it, the real stuff, far removed from the desperate life of the “Chelsea Girls”

The Guru

Henry reading feedback on his last story ”No Rainbow.”  A history professor from Columbia wrote that the story left him hanging and he wanted to know why Henry didn’t go to Yagur’s Farm?  And why did the Greek bartender get so angry? 

Henry is no hero, he’s weak, he didn’t go to the farm because the bad vibes shook him up, and the Greek bartender had issues, he was psychotic, an alpha-male on steroids.  

A few years ago Henry took a bus trip to New Mexico, he had an aunt in Taos who painted pet portraits.

The bus pulled into Taos at 10PM, Henry checked into the El Camino Motel, a dump with a neon sign in front, a few miles out of town.   

He got settled in his room, and downed a pint of Mescal, watching rodeo on TV. In the morning he would hitch-hike to the Lama Foundation, Baba Ramdass’s commune. 

Henry up early, he ate some tacos for breakfast at the local diner, then walked across the street to the liquor store and bought two fifths of mescal.

He walked out of town a mile or so and began hitch-hiking, waiting an hour until a Dodge Polara Wagon pulled over and stopped on the shoulder of the road. Henry walked to the car, opened the door and got in, eye-balling the driver, a young long haired Native Indian guy, drunk. 

The skin put the peddle to the metal and made tracks down the highway. Henry asked him his name, he said it was Ugh, short for Ugly.  

Henry pulls a bottle of Mescal out of his pack and passes it to Ugh, saying that he is going to the Lama Foundation, Ugh says, “Let’s go!”  He didn’t talk much. 

They pulled off of Route 66 turning onto a dirt road, the Dodge spreading dust clouds in the air. Henry could see a couple of long haired guys wearing jeans and collarless Nehru shirts up ahead, it was the front gate of the Lama foundation. Ugh stopped the car and rolled his window down, the guards saying "Today Baba Ramdass will speak, no alcohol or drugs allowed," Henry surrenders one of the bottles of Mescal, he had another bottle under the car seat, Ugh driving slowly to the parking area. 

Ugh parked the Polara and the two walked to a large Geodesic Dome, the floor inside lined with Native Indian blankets. There were hippies everywhere, bra-less long haired women spirit dancing, guys playing wood-flutes and bongo drums, Henry and Ugh getting drunk, passing the bottle between them.  

Baba Ramdass enters stage left chanting Vedic prayer,  hippie girls run to him and hang Lotus garlands on the guru. It was quite the scene Henry thought. 

Ramdass now lecturing the crowd on vegetarianism, renouncing drugs, alcohol and sex. 

Ugh jumps up on impulse and runs to Ramdass, leaping on him, kissing him wildly, then puking on the guru. In seconds security is pulling on and beating Ugh, Ramdass quickly exits, soaked in vomit, shaking. 

One of the security guys confronts Henry and says, “You and you friend have to get out of here now,” he gave Henry the keys to the Polara.

Henry goes to the parking area,  security dragging Ugh through the gravel, his hands tied behind his back with twine.  The security guys open the rear car door putting Ugh in the Polara.  Henry wanting to get away quick, before security called the sheriff.  

Back at the El Camino Motel, Henry lets Ugh sleep it off, later that evening bringing his sick friend some tacos. Ugh eating the tacos, feeling better, Henry asking him what happened? Ugh saying  “It’s the Native Indian curse, devil alcohol.”

Ugh tells Henry that he is on his way to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. He says he is the son of the medicine-man Crow Dog, and that Native Indians believe getting drunk cleanses the soul. 

At 11 PM, Ugh thanked Henry for helping him, walked out of the room, got in his car and drove away, Henry never saw him again. 

After a week in Taos smoking dope and hiking daily in the Sangre Del Christo Mountains, Henry bought a bus ticket back to New York City. He never contacted his aunt, the pet portrait painter. 

Burroughs Snubbed Me

Henry in a different room, using different type-set, superstitious and wondering if he could write? He was on a roll— his last 4 stories with over 100 hits a piece. 

He had written 10 stories dealing with night-time walks in Queens.  Henry afraid to break out of the pattern, opting for the tried and true. 

Saturday night in Queens, Henry bolted out of his apartment at 10pm. As usual going to Chaim's Deli for a snack, needing fuel—Espresso mixed with Arak, mustard sardines and raw onion slices on pumpernickel . 

Eating quick, in and out of  Chaims in 10 minutes, lighting a beedi, inhaling the night-air, eyeing a group of hookers up the street, card carrying cock-suckers, doped-up to the max, jazzed. As he approached the group one of the girls says “Hi Henry,” he says “How’s tricks baby?” she saying, “Oh Henry you're a doll,” heart-felt chatter and yak.

Henry moving down the street past the hookers walking through the Bowery,  bypassing the bums, green at the smell of puke and piss. The bums barely hanging on to the last rung of life, uncaring, good for nothing, he hated them. 

Heading uptown to The Museum of Modern Art.  Ruby (Henry’s regular waitress at Chaims) had mentioned that William Burroughs was going to read at the museum tonight. He could see a herd of punks with fluorescent hair in motion, shaking, snorting something at the museum entrance. This must be it he thought.

Walking in like he owned the place, the reading was in the basement, a bunker far from the modern art.  There was a roped off area at the rear of the cement hall, Henry walked in telling security he was a reporter for The Columbia Times. There was a buffet of sorts, rye-bread, cold-cuts, some cakes and fruit on a long table. Henry could see William Burroughs standing and holding court, a paper plate in hand, talking to some literati. He approached William Burroughs and said “ Bill Burroughs nice to meet you,” the colonel took a look at Henry, sized him up and did an about face and walked away. 

Henry didn’t hit it off with Burroughs, He (Henry) sitting cross-legged on the cement floor, in the audience as William Burroughs was introduced by a local poet, a guy they called Antler. The colonel getting down to business reading a poem—

I was standing by the wax before dead whistle stop already

cross the red moon terminal time scarred end.

he strode towards the actors in the city "Here he is now"

obsidian morning sniffing quivering need masturbating afternoons

spitting blood dead rainbow flesh he moved as sharp as

on the iron streets fish smell and dead eyes water reeds

scarred metal faces running into the mines liquid typewriter

So on and so forth, Henry thought Burrough's poetry was odious, then one of the punks hands him a baggy with clear liquid in the bottom, Henry says, “ No thanks mate I’m in NA, off the stuff.” 

Henry nodding out some during the reading, then waking as Burroughs rants  “ His sphincter shuddering, in Tangiers junked—”

Nothing was working here tonight from start to finish, Henry out the door, not staying for the big finish, thinking it would be better next time.  

Pull my Daisy

Henry in a different room, using different type-set, superstitious and wondering if he could write? He was on a roll— his last 4 stories with over 100 hits apiece. 

He had written 10 stories dealing with night-time walks in Queens.  Henry afraid to break out of the pattern, opting for the tried and true. 

Saturday night in Queens, Henry bolted out of his apartment at 10pm. As usual going to Chaim's Deli for a snack, needing fuel—Espresso mixed with Arak, mustard sardines and raw onion slices on pumpernickel . 

Eating quick, in and out of  Chaims in 10 minutes, lighting a beedi, inhaling the night-air, eyeing a group of hookers up the street, card carrying cock-suckers, doped-up to the max, jazzed. As he approached the group one of the girls says “Hi Henry,” he says “How’s tricks baby?” she saying, “Oh Henry you're a doll,” heart-felt chatter and yak.

Henry moving down the street past the hookers walking through the Bowery,  bypassing the bums, green at the smell of puke and piss. The bums barely hanging on to the last rung of life, uncaring, good for nothing, he hated them. 

Heading uptown to The Museum of Modern Art.  Ruby (Henry’s regular waitress at Chaims) had mentioned that William Burroughs was going to read at the museum tonight. He could see a herd of punks with fluorescent hair in motion, shaking, snorting something at the museum entrance. This must be it he thought.

Walking in like he owned the place, the reading was in the basement, a bunker far from the modern art.  There was a roped off area at the rear of the cement hall, Henry walked in telling security he was a reporter for The Columbia Times. There was a buffet of sorts, rye-bread, cold-cuts, some cakes and fruit on a long table. Henry could see William Burroughs standing and holding court, a paper plate in hand, talking to some literati. He approached William Burroughs and said “ Bill Burroughs nice to meet you,” the colonel took a look at Henry, sized him up and did an about face and walked away. 

Henry didn’t hit it off with Burroughs, He (Henry) sitting cross-legged on the cement floor, in the audience as William Burroughs was introduced by a local poet, a guy they called Antler. The colonel getting down to business reading a poem—

I was standing by the wax before dead whistle stop already
cross the red moon terminal time scarred end.
he strode towards the actors in the city "Here he is now"
obsidian morning sniffing quivering need masturbating afternoons
spitting blood dead rainbow flesh he moved as sharp as
on the iron streets fish smell and dead eyes water reeds

scarred metal faces running into the mines liquid typewriter

So on and so forth, Henry thought Burrough's poetry was odious, then one of the punks hands him a baggy with clear liquid in the bottom, Henry says, “ No thanks mate I’m in NA, off the stuff.” 

Henry nodding out some during the reading, then waking as Burroughs rants  “ His sphincter shuddering, in Tangiers junked—”

Nothing was working here tonight from start to finish, Henry out the door, not staying for the big finish, thinking it would be better next time.  

Shrink

Henry lounging on the balcony of his 10th floor apartment in Queens, watching the parade of stiffs going to work below on the street, happy he didn’t work. 

He had a mix of stale popcorn, ashes and peanut shells in a paper bag on his patio table. He started tossing handfuls of the mix into the air towards the stiffs on street level, chanting Vedic verse, blessing everything, feeling holy. 

Henry out the door at 10 AM headed to the welfare office. He never went out in the day, but this was official business, things bureaucratic took the piss out of him.

The office was in downtown Queens, he had been there many times. Henry queued and sat down in a hard plastic chair, row 14. 

He wore Ray-Bans because the florescent light irritated his eyes.  Henry felt the gray unremarkable environment was doleful. Jails, schools, welfare offices— desolate and glum.

Number 103, his number flashing green in an electrified box on the wall. Henry smiles at and nods hello to a attractive black women at a small metal desk. She looks at him and verifies his name and case number, Henry Lucowski, #3459875. Then saying “Mr. Lucowski we have reason to believe that you have lied to the board about your mental health for financial gain. You know we have eyes everywhere and we have been watching you. Please go to the psychologist’s office, room 534.” 

Henry nods and makes his way to the 5TH floor queuing again. 2 hours later Henry enters the psychologist’s office and sits down. The shrink a witchy women, middle aged, humorlessly goes to work, a bad sign he thought, serious business. 

“Mr. Lucowski  how is your mental health these days?”  Henry says “Oh, deteriorating by the minute,” She then says, “Mr. Lucowski have you been taking your medication?” He nods yes, lying— he would give the medication to Ruby at Chaim’s Deli, he didn’t know why she wanted the stuff.    

“Mr. Lucowski take this test and return it when you're finished.” 

It was the usual, Rorschach test, the ink-blots and a series of multiple choice questions like—

Which does not belong? 

A- Henry

B- Irwin

C- Fredrick

D- Grasshopper 

Or, 

Did your mother? (Choose answers or answer that apply) 

A-  Drink excessively

B- Make you wear a dress

C- Punish you harshly

D- Dance naked in the living room

Henry siting down in a plastic chair, the test pages on top of a hard bound book, on his lap, using a pencil, trying to be neat.   

He knew he had to be careful not to test too crazy, the welfare cops could lock him up in Rikers Island. It was a delicate balance, He knew the drill. 

Henry had been in the Queens Welfare Office all day, from 10 to 5.  7 hours in the comfortless world of the system, depressing, it felt like jail.

His SSI reinstated, corroborated  by the shrinks at the welfare office. 

Henry soldiered-on, still free in the world of the stiffs.   

The HIgh-Road

Henry in his apartment, sitting, looking at his lap top and thinking he wanted to eat. 

He ordered a bowl of potato-leek soup and a Bud-Light. Chaims was empty, it was the end of the month, allot of folks in Henry’s neighborhood broke.   

Henry tipped  Ruby something, his regular waitress at Chiams. On his way out Chaim says to Henry, “What about them Mets?”  Henry shrugged and walked out the door. 

Henry not flush so a massage was out 

He was bone-tired of the bars on the Bowery, green at the smell of piss and puke, done-in at the sight of bloodied bums hitting the pavement.  

He walked for an hour or so making his way to Times Square, quit the show, drag-queens, junks and midnight cowboys. A lady-boy wearing tie-died overalls and a multi-colored wig says, “Wanna party?” Henry asking her if she had Cocaine?  She says “Dear I’m a professional cock-sucker, don’t insult me.” 

Henry thinking —  great, a gratified cock-sucker. 

Henry eyeing the marque at the New Amsterdam Theater notices a John Cocteau film “The  Blood of the Poet” is playing.  Buying a ticket, slouching as he walks to the front row, sitting down, then walking slouched over with a bottle in his hand to the front row. He the wild Turkey mixed with Robitussin out of his vest-pocket. The mix just right the slow moving, cartoon-like, surreal Cocteau film. Henry enjoyed the ongoing motif of suicide and violence, and a scene where a young son escapes his mothers whining by levitating and hovering on the ceiling.  

He figured the film was a Cocteau opium dream.

He took a taxi home, done-in from the Wild Turkey and Robitussin mix. 

Henry opting for the high-road tonight, passing on a “Professional blow-job,” going to an art film instead. 

Escalaphobic

Another day another story.  

Days of Heaven, Johnny be good, Henry in his apartment on Thursday afternoon, he could hear music at street level— angelic harp and acid fused trip music, Moroccan pipes of pan, Hari Krishna  hippies chanting, jumping up and down in the  opium fields and canyons of New York City.

You could still find magic in the city Henry thought,  it was July 3, 1969, his birthday.

He planned to go out in the evening to celebrate, alone. Henry superstitious, believing it was bad luck to tell people it was your birthday. 

9 PM, peeking outside to see if it was dark, then heading out. 

Henry walking down 10 flights of stairs  to avoid the elevator because he was escalaphobic— the elevator scared the shit out of him. He wondered what was holding the god-damn thing on the side-rails? What would happen if it busted lose, broke free from the hinges or cables and fell free? He wondered if there was a big spring that would cushion a free-fall at the bottom of the elevator shaft? 

On street level he felt safe again. First stop Chaim’s deli for a bowl of matzo ball soup and some cream soda, sitting in a booth eyes down not wanting to make eye contact, afraid someone would wish him a happy birthday. Fat chance the waitresses hated Henry, he never tipped. 

Leaving Chaim’s happy to escape the place.  Siam Massage was a few doors away from the deli.  He told the cashier he wanted Sweet Water, a hill tribe gal.  The two old friends walked hand in hand down a dark hall to a marquee covered with Indian prints. The tent had a mat on the floor and smelled of Frankincense. The pair got naked and sat on the floor cross legged, then snorting coke and drinking Thai whiskey.  Henry laid belly down on a mat and Sweet Water went to work on him. As she massaged him he felt like he was falling down into space, then he fell asleep. When he woke up she was snorting lines of coke off the angel tattoo on his chest, then she blew some coke in his nose with a straw,  Sweet Water was a laugh he thought.

Henry tipped Sweet Water and made his way to a dive in the Bowery, Suicide Hall. He would sit at the bar and watch the bums drink cheap wine. It was a real show, they would talk nonsense to one another, get in fist fights, fall off bar stools, piss themselves, or just die in place. He admired the bums because they were on full throttle all the time and didn't care about anything. 

Later that morning the bums would pass out, piss their pants and vomit some more inside boxes or on park benches.  The 9 to 5 stiffs on their way to work would walk by the bums, not caring, too busy thinking about the stock market, the Mets or sex. 

Henry home and in bed by 4 am always, sleeping till noon, happy he didn’t have to work like the stiffs. 

Sam Lee's Laundry

Henry’s last story, “Easy Boulevard” only 50 hits at Busted on Empty—busted flush, a clinker. 

Siting in a booth at Chaim’s eating pickled carrots, noshing. Thinking that his work was full of old man talk— moaning on page about his peculiar despair, a romp down the Via Delarosa, mugged by Romans.

Folks tired of Henry’s junk, the jitter and jive.

Leaving Chaim’s, no tip, out the door— the waitresses didn’t like him, very few cared much for Henry the strange-bird, people avoided him. 

Lighting up an Indian Spirit, inhaling the stuff— muzzy, walking the best he could. Drinking Jack Daniels from a pint, just a warm-up, heading to Junk Street, looking for a kick-start.

Henry static but moving, doing the pelvis grind for some camp-followers, enjoying the side-show, whores on parade in line, desperately in need of this or that,  wanting just enough to get through. 

Henry walking through the Bowery now, passing dive-bars, The Cripple’s Den, Suicide Hall, The Flea Bag, carefully walking around drunks and pools of urine.

Henry hated the Bowery,  the bums a spastic army that puked all over everything and themselves. 

Junkies puked in their rooms, hiding from the world. 

Henry on Junk Street, ducking into Sam Lee’s Laundry scoring two eight-balls of coke for 60 dollars.  The Chinese laundry had an opium den in the attic. Henry would go home.

He took a taxi home to avoid the bums. Later, sitting in his apartment on a pink sofa with his feet on a cheap coffee table, listening Ray Charles and Little Walter, snorting, drinking, smoking some--- 

For a few hours despite it all, Henry was the king of the world. 

Easy Boulevard

The drill was the same, plugging into You Tube, putting on headphones, formatting Text Edit, setting the caps— American Typewriter, large print. 

A good story got 200 hits at Busted on Empty, a bad story got 50. 

Warming up —Henry, sit ups and recitations, nothing much mixed with blah, blah, blah.

Henry waxing bullshit for hours in his head, writing it down, walking out the door of his Village apartment for some air.

Lighting up, taking a deep hit, feeling the night air, then just feeling— in his stride on Easy Boulevard. 

Chaim’s Place for a bowl of borscht with sour cream and horseradish. Chaim’s full of stoners, it was in and out, hit and run for the employed and the religious. 

Easy Boulevard a place for nobody really, a dead end for losers and a temporary destination for those just passing through—  everything written down in the blind man words. 

Henry at 58th and Easy Boulevard— feeling something coming on, a storm—knocked down dead in his tracks, on his hands and knees— cocooned in white and blue light— Tabula Rosa, Hare Krishna, OM!

Henry eyes wide open, down on the sidewalk, a loaded camp follower squatting beside him peeing, she letting loose with a cascade of golden sprinkle. 

Henry the happiest man in the world—

Tabula Rosa, Hare Krishna……OM!

Breath

Henry’s last story “ A Peculiar Vision” was written in March— four or five months ago. In the dry time Henry thinking daily or nightly that he was finished, nothing else to say, dried up, kaput, time to off himself like Hemingway or Tennessee Williams. (Williams out in a kind of slow booze and dope fizzle, not a bang really.)

Simply put, he had nothing to say anymore, he was empty inside, there was nothing there, just some shit and a little blah, blah, blah. 

He was sick inside, his head thick, abandoned, neither robust or spiritual. 

At nights Henry would walk to  Seventh Street, the greatest show on earth— Whores and strumpets, sailors and sinners, here and there, chanting mantra forever—Henry could find some peace here. 

Come little children into the arms of Jesus, let him embrace you and lift you up!

Walking the dark and cold streets, through the city canyons, Henry felt poetry at work around him, perfuse, passing through it all. Silent whispers and breath keeping it all going.

People on the streets, just shadows to Henry and he invisible to them. They had breath enough to make it to the next stop he thought. Enough breath to pass the graveyards and slaughter houses, enough to make it home tonight—Henry was no different he needed breath too.

A Peculiar Vision

Henry looking at photos in a lazy way, breezy, feeling lovely, gazing the work of great photographers. 

He liked photographers that were on the lip of it, the ones that had a freakish and peculiar vision to share.

Folks like Diane Arbus, Robert Maplethorpe, William Eggleston, Robert Frank and Man Ray to name a few. 

Viewing their work transported Henry to queer places, lonely corners in small-towns and ghost-towns.  A world at the other end of the orbit: Carnivals, freak-shows, asylums, chemical-factories, subway tunnels and garbage-dumps. 

Henry loved the hip photographers, the lost and broken ones, the truth sayers, the spark-plugs transferring—a momentary vision worth a thousand words. 

He liked the black and white film “Cocksucker Blues,”  a  two part film by Robert Frank. A junk trip full of raw meat, bouncing hippy-girl breast, chickens and goats, all of it in the isle and seats of a 727. 

In “Cocksucker Blues”  Robert Frank magnified everything using grainy film shot at odd angles. In editing he cut the film up, splicing in queer ways, making the film look more insane than it's reality really was, allot of people liked it that way. 

Robert Frank and other peerless photographers gave a wide birth to day to day parallel strata like it was a rampaging Rhino.    

"How I hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity."   William S. Burroughs  

Henry loved the part of all art that didn't conform.