Read This Story Naked

 

Read this story naked in your hot tub as your hitting on a Moroccan Sebsi pipe packed tight with burning red hash that's sending smoke signals to the next town, signaling retreat.

During his adult life, Hunter S. Thompson occupied himself eating an inimitable breakfast every day at noon in the study of the Owl's Nest, his home in the hills of Aspen. Anyway, in his own words—

I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is breakfast—

The food factor should always be massive— four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crêpes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned-beef hash with diced chilies, a Spanish omelet or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a  chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of key lime pie, two margaritas and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert... Right? 

And there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours, and at least one source of good music... all of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked.

It's October 1984 in Key West, Henry's up early at eight. His mind's groggy, and his memories of the wee hours are blurry.  He walks to the kitchen in his underwear, toasting wheat bread and brewing coffee.

Lucia, his Cuban wife, is still in bed, lying on her back naked and uncovered. The muscles of her thighs feel sore as she passes her hands over them feeling grainy-dry cum that’s stuck here and there. She slides her hand between her legs, feeling the elasticity of her vagina, then slips her finger inside, exploring gently.

She remembers waking in the middle of the night and kissing Henry— loose mouth, relaxed, brushing each other gently, seeking to become one mouth as she nips the inside of his lower lip with her teeth, then his tongue comes out, searching out the roof of her mouth. 

There are as many kinds of kisses as there are people on earth. No two people kiss alike— no two people fuck alike—but somehow the kiss is even more personal and individualized than the fuck.

Oh, my, the 2 AM fuck, sublime, foggy, the one you stumble through when you’re half asleep, the one that feels better than any other. 

Still in the kitchen, Henry spreads jam and butter on toast. Then, pouring fresh coffee with cream into a ceramic pot and placing it on a bed tray with a single blue daisy in a small vase on it. He carries the tray to the bedroom where Lucia's sitting up with her back resting on the headboard, placing the tray on her lap.

Outside, a cloud comes over the sun, it’s thundering— the Chihuahuas, Che, and Mia run behind the living room sofa, scared.

As she eats toast with jam, the sun makes an appearance again, sun rays flow through the half-open bedroom curtains, there's a slow, lazy feeling in the air— like things are standing still. She asks her husband sweetly, 

darling, can we go to Duval Street for lunch? I’m in the mood for a real meal, dried toast is for grumpy babies who need something to teeth on other than their mother's titas.

After showering they dress casually in tank tops, and cut-offs, then oiling each other's waist-length hair with patchouli oil and braiding it American Indian style.

They leave the Chihuahuas in the bungalow's fenced-in yard to play and chase away prowlers, the wee-bits are lion-hearted.

Outside at the driveway, the love-duo cranks their Vespa up, riding it to the Moon Dog Cafe, a Greek-owned restaurant in a single-story Conch-style House, a block from the Ernest Hemingway House and Museum. 

After parking the scooter, they walk into a large open room. The cafe has a bucolic feel, with lively painted murals on the walls and a hardwood floor and ceiling.

They sit in a booth, a waitress who's in her mid-twenties shows, she has a pink-bobbed wig on, and is wearing a short plaid skirt, low cut Converse, and a white Oxford shirt, letting the couple know,

our special today is grilled Grouper with a choice of four sides. Lucia orders, 

we’ll have the Grouper with wild rice, pinto beans, Caesar salad, soft tortillas, and a pitcher of Dewar’s Double Aged whiskey and orangeade. 

The valley girl smiles pleasantly saying, 

I’ll bring your drinks first. 

Then, turning and walking away. 

Henry's feeling low, he confesses to Lucia,

lately, when I sit in front of the typewriter I'm struck down by a dull pain and overcome with fear. And, worst of all, I can’t write a lick. Hemingway blew his brains out with a shotgun because he lost his writing chops. He lived to write and so do I. 

The girly-girl sets a pitcher of whiskey and orangeade on the table and a couple of mugs, Lucia pours the drinks saying, 

darling, don't shoot yourself like Hemingway, you're very different from him, and, we don’t have a pistola. Give it time baby, tu inspiración will come.

The pink-wigged-frau shows again, balancing five plates in her arms with great dexterity like a circus juggler— setting them on the table one by one.  

Henry orders another pitcher of whiskey and orangeade, then saying as he digs in, wrapping a tortilla with Grouper and portions of the sides, 

I feel flat, the shits got a hold of me like I gotta 400-pound gorilla on my back.

Lucia knows him better than he knows himself— for Henry  getting a handle on his mood swings is like herding cats, she comforts him saying,

I’ll call Dr. Sprinkle and schedule an appointment. Trust me, lover, a bottle of ganja tablets will do the job— and, you know how your polla goes limp on antidepresivos.

After sucking down three pitchers of whiskey and orangeade they ask for the bill. The dolly-girl walks to the couple's booth, saying candidly to Lucia,

I’ve seen you at Dog Beach with the Chihuahuas, you look amazing in your thong, like a movie star. Lucia blows her a kiss saying, 

chica your mouth is full of honey, let's meet at the beach, we'll smoke marihuana, and drink Rum Cocos. Henry clowning says,

she's a pornstar like Linda Lovelace and Jamba Juice. Lucia tells him, 

oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?

After paying the bill they leave the Moon Dog Cafe, walking to their Vespa that's parked in the lot, getting on, cranking it up, driving through the parking lot, and falling over as they stop at the t-section of Duval Street. 

The couple’s dead drunk— unable to balance the bike. Henry walks the scooter back into the lot where it will stay until one of them is sober up enough to drive.

There's a hack stand in front of the Heminway House. They grab a taxi, minutes later reaching the bungalow.

Going directly to the kitchen, Lucia dials Dr. Sprinkles's office as Henry staggers to the living room, passing out on the sofa. The shrink's nurse answers, 

Happy Times Clinic, Nurse Bumford,

Nurse Bummer, this is Lucia Lucowski, 

it's Bum-FORD.

Perdóneme señora, I'm calling because I'm worried about my husband, Henry. He's been obsessing about Hemingway's suicide like he owns it or something. Maybe we drink too much, I don't know. The nurse tells her,

oh, that sounds serious, I know you're concerned, we have an opening at 4.

Terrifico, we'll be there in a few, cariño.

Lucia hangs up and makes a b-line to the living room sofa, where Henry's laying, drunk out of his cord. She trips over the coffee table, falling on top of him and saying,

we can see Sprinkle at 4, let’s change and clean up, we reek of whiskey. 

Back in the kitchen, she calls Friendly Cab, the taxi's sitting outside of their house on Pecan Road twenty minutes later. 

They lock the front door on the way out, going to the cab and getting in. The cabby has long thick dreadlocks. He says,

wah gwaan?

Lucia figures wah gwaan means— where you going? But it means how ya doing in Jamaican, so she says, 

Happy Time Clinic.

The Rastafarian, a man of few words obliges saying,

ya, mum. 

As the ride progresses, Henry frets, wondering if the next stop is the cuckoo's nest.

At Happy Time Clinic, Lucia pays the fare and the Rastaman says, 

mo life mo strength, go ahead now. 

She chuckles saying, 

si hombre, cool. 

They get out of the cab and proceed through the canopied walkways of the single-story pink cement mall to the clinic.

Inside, Henry touches base with Nurse Bumford at her desk and asks,  

Mr. Lucowski, do you have insurance? 

No, my policy doesn't cover shrinks, I'll pay cash, 

They go to the waiting area, sitting on the clinics' hard plastic chairs, she picks up a copy of El Matancero Libre the Cuban newspaper published in Miami. Sometime later Nurse Bumford looks their way saying, 

Henry, the doctor will see you now.

He and Lucia walk the hallway to the doctor's office

Inside, they sit next to each other in front of his

desk. The walls are lined with framed pictures of fishing boats and men holding long fish on chains — Blue Marlins, Mahi-Mahi, tuna. Doctor Sprinkle reads through a stack of index cards, then looks at Henry and comments,

I see you're feeling depressed, and have suicidal thoughts. 

Yeah, doc, I’m blue, but not suicidal. Sprinkle raises his eyebrows, takes off his bi-vocals, and says,

Well, there are options— medication or a new therapy called Ego Descent that utilizes hypnotism like electroshock, cleansing the subconscious. 

Doc, wiping my subconscious clean concerns me, but I'll tell ya, a bottle of THC pills would work magic.

OK, I can do that. And, our in-house pharmacy is stocked with pharmaceutical cocaine as well. I'll write a script for THC and Coca. I think the meds will give you the boost you need.

Standing, the couple thanks Dr. Sprinkle, leaving his office,  and walking to the nurse's station, feeling exulted. 

Nurse Bumford hands Henry the bill and he gives her his VISA card. She processes it, then turns around, walking to an open cabinet lined with 300-milligram bottles of cocaine and THC tablets displayed like bottles of vitamins or Coca-cola on a supermarket shelf. 

The nurse reaches for a couple of blue glass vials, placing them in a plastic bag and handing it to Henry and Lucia who laugh as they read the bag.

                                          Happy Time Clinic 

                          We've been spreading joy since 1972 

                                            

Whisper-RING

                                                                       

A whirlwind of seeds and dust in the backyard rustle out a voice in the dark, whispering, 

you may be taller, but you'll never be as great as me— Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, because you’re an alcoholic and I'm not. 

Henry gets out of bed, puts on his bathrobe, opens the patio door, whispering back at the whisperer standing in the middle of the jungled backyard, 

what does size have to do with it?

Not much, Toulouse-Lautrec was 4 foot 9. The point is he’s greater than you because you have a drinking problem. Henry whispers back,

Is this a joke? 

Dick Byrd, known as Tarzan in the neighborhood, has climbed the fence into the Lucowski's yard. 

Dick was like, Nelly, the bipolar swimmer in John Cheevers's short story The Swimmer, a habitual suburban fence hopper.

Tarzan's standing in the moonless backyard whispering nonsense and Henry tells him,

Dick the cops are on the way, I reported a prowler in the neighborhood, asshole.

You're shitin me, boss. I couldn’t sleep so I jumped the fence to see what you're doing.

Frankly, I was in the middle of a homosexual dream. Tarzan who's surprised admits,

now, you're scaring me.  

Dick, I was in someone's arms, I don’t know him. All I know is that he will take care of me. He will pay the bills, the taxes, balance the checkbook. Tarzan asks, 

Were you lovers? 

I wouldn’t go that far, it was a more a half lucid, fading, androgynous dream of fucking, lasting seconds in real-time. 

It begins to rain heavy, Tarzan says,

so much for fuck dreams. I’m gonna hop the fence and bone Jane in the kitchen, we do it in different rooms, it's bringing back the vim in our relationship.

Forget it pal, never happen, you're a lousy lover.

Henry turns away from Dick the whisperer, walking through the patio door, silently going back to bed. Lucia, his Cuban wife is talking in her sleep. 

The rain falls even heavier, she calls out a man’s name three times, 

Pedro, Pedro, Pedro,

he wonders who Peter is? 

Lucia begins crying, the loudness of the rain wakes her. 

You were crying, 

yes, I had a nightmare, 

Lucia turns away from him and goes back to sleep.

Between five and six in the morning, a few birds are singing and it’s still dark. Henry lays on his back with a sleeping mask on looking like Zorro, he sleeps two more hours, waking at seven, fearful and feeling unprepared for the day.

By 11 AM he's in the kitchen, biting into assorted donuts and sweet rolls, throwing them back into the box—distracted, thinking, trying, to put the bits and pieces of last night's homoerotic dream in place.

Sipping coffee he looks over the Miami Herald, reading in the folio it's July 1984 in South Florida. He remembers they're out of everything at home and need to go to Winn-Dixie.

After showering, Henry and Lucia drip dry, torpidly cooling their bodies. 

There’s a clean pile of summer clothes on the bed. They choose tank tops and shorts, they're close to the same size and they wear each other's close, medium-large. 

Accessorizing, they don contoured straw cowboy hats, the brims shaped like scalene triangles— the hats help rein in their waist-length hair. 

Henry and Lucia are phobic— they're tonsurephobic. What are the chances of a couple of tonsurephopics finding each other and spending their lives together? 

On the front porch, they slip into rubber flip-flops. Most South Floridians dress casually like— Hawaiians, Saint Lucians, Jamaicans, Bahamians, Tahitians, the tropical climate demands it. 

Henry makes a b-line to the bungalows’ two-car wooden garage, inside opening the drivers' side of his 73 Chevy Malibu wagon, getting in, switching the ignition on, and listening to the V8 engine rumble.

He reverses onto the chipped rock driveway, stopping— Lucia opens the middle door of the wagon, so the Chihuahuas, Che, and Mia can jump in. 

Then, going to the passenger door and getting in, sitting next to Henry, close, so their bodies touch and she can put her arms around him. Henry hugs her saying,

ain't love grand?

On the way to Winn-Dixie, he drives the long way around the island to the mall, on scenic Highway 1.

It’s a fast-moving summer day in Key West. The speed boats, sailing catamarans, sports fishing boats, and mega yachts from Miami, Louisana, and the Caribbean Islands berth at conch Harbor, or A & B Marina for supplies— bait, booze, fuel, ice. The vessels are packed with good ole boys and rich folks doing what they do at sea — fishing, and getting loaded. 

As the station wagon moves down Highway 1, the Chis stand with their forelegs braced on the half-open windows with their little heads outside taking in the breeze. 

Lucia waves a handheld Japanese fan briskly, the Chevy wagons' air conditioner is on the fritz, she's hot and says, 

the traffic's awful, it's tourist season, the island is overcrowded. I’m going to Saint Thomas, or Nassau next summer. Henry has a plan to escape the summer crowds,  

we'll hide out till winter— in our bungalow and at Dog Beach. We'll have meals delivered, booze and ganja. We'll declare war on the jungle in the backyard, hacking it to fleck with machetes. We'll turn the earth with our hands like Mandarin peasants, plant a garden— pot, rosemary,  rows of Anthuriums, and tulips. We can share the housework— you can teach drama at Key West Community College, you were a movie star in Havana. Lucia laughs out loud, playing the monkey,

Señor monkey lips, hooh, hooh...hooh, hooh.

He wheels the station wagon into the parking lot of  

Sunshine Mall, parking in the back of the lot, backing into a spot, facing the two-story peach colossus, the department store that looks like a mausoleum— The Sears & Roebuck Building. Henry comments, 

art deco at its best, they don’t make 'em like that anymore. She says, 

yeah, it pulls at you to go inside and shop, where’s Winn

Dixie? 

On the opposite side, we'll walk through Sears to get there. 

Inside Winn Dixie, the love couple walks the well-stocked aisles discriminately placing this and that in their cart. Ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, Himalayan salt, olive oil, dried rosemary. Lucia says, 

I know we’re going to forget something, you should have typed a shopping list, you spend most of your life in front of a typewriter. 

I memorized the list. 

We didn't do a list, pendejo.

Nevermind.

At the meat counter they order the butcher around, they're particular about the look of the meat— weary of butchers spritzing decomposing beef with dioxide to color it rosy-red. 

The butcher's a proud member of Amalgamated Meat Cutters Union #307. A poor slob who looks like every butcher in the world with a thick neck, pale skin, and dark lines around his eyes. 

Worst of all, the carnivore is unhealthy because he eats meat every day, frying steaks in the afternoon with his pal the produce manager on the deli grill.

Indifferently, the couple chooses a number of prime cuts, moving on and pushing their packed cart to the check-out lane. 

The cashier's a high school girl, seventeen maybe, the job bores her. Her hair's frosted and the special offer concealer on her face is drying and cracking.

She ignores Henry and Lucia, working the cash register tactically but removed from the moment. 

Two hundred dollars worth of groceries, Henry hands sweet sixteen his American Express card saying, 

that'll do for few days.

The Lolita in thick makeup is thinking to herself that the couple are old people. She's a self-assured queen bee who'll be seventeen forever.

Lucia pushes the grocery cart outside to the sidewalk. Henry walks through Sears into the parking lot to get the station wagon.

Driving around the mall, he parks on the Winn-Dixies sidewalk and gets out of the car. They load the groceries in the boot of the wagon as the Chis bark at passing strangers, pawing the car windows, 

yap, yap...yap, yap. 

He drives the wagon straight, then turning, reaching the exit of The Sears & Roebuck Mall, choosing a direct route home to Pearl Street.

At the bungalow, he parks in the cut-rock driveway. Lucia steps out of the car, opening the middle door, letting the Chis out to play in the yard. Then the couple schleps bag after bag of groceries through the front door, placing them on a counter near the kitchen sink. 

Lucia puts the ice cream in the freezer first, followed by ground meat, pork ribs, sliced french fries, fresh-caught grouper, and a couple of whole chickens, deftly balancing the bagged goods into the available freezer space.

At 7 PM, Henry orders take away from Tongue Thai'd— pha Thai, sweet and sour chicken, sum tom, and barbecued curried pork sticks. Then mixing some drinks.

In the living room, Lucia switches on their Hatari fan, arranging it to blow on her body. She sits on the sofa with her legs open, enjoying the gust from the fan on her thick bush.

Lucia hangs her hat in the here and now, she and Henry are hedonists who can feel every grain of sand when they walk on the beach.

He carries a pitcher of Dewar's Double Aged whiskey mixed with frozen peach-ade, pouring drinks into tumblers on the coffee table, sitting with Lucia on the sofa— they suck down the top line booze.

The lovers watch Stanley Kubrick's film, Dr. Strangelove, which was supposed to be a drama until Peter Sellers hijacked it, adlibbing during takes, creating comic mayhem, losing himself throughout filming because Kubrick pressured him to play three roles— the mild-mannered US president, Merkin Muffley, and the creepy ex-Nazi scientist, Strangelove.

The doorbell rings, Lucia gets up, going to the front door, and opening it. An attractive middle-aged Thai woman asks, 

Lucowski? 

si, how much? 

Twenty-four sixty-six.

Lucia hands her a twenty and a ten, the lady says thank you in Thai, 

kop coon kap, 

Stashing the cash in her pocket, she turns, walking down the porch steps into the yard where the Chis nip at her heels as she walks and tries to brush them away with her feet. 

There's a 60s Daihatsu parked on Peach Street, she, opens the door, gets in, driving a short distance to Tongue Thai'd.

Henry sets up a collapsable card table in the living room, placing paper pails of Thai food, a bottle of Dewars, peach-aide, highball glasses, an ice bucket, bowls, and chopsticks on it.

Eating bits of Thai food off of chopsticks, they watch Dr. Strangelove. The film fills them with disbelieve and awe. She giggles somewhat nervously wondering,

Is this a true story darling? El Generales Americanos have blood flowing out of their eyes. They're going to blow Cuba out of the sea someday, no one is safe in the world.

Forget it, Dr. Strangelove's fiction— a crazed film about crazed people, with crazed actors directed by a crazed man. 

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players, who have their exits and their entrances — one man in his time plays many parts, WHISPERING to anyone who will listen.  

                                                                         

William Shakespeare