Rocky Marciano's Nose

It’s the early 80s— a hot day in Key West. Henry and his Cubano wife Lucia are battling the vines and odd growth creeping into their backyard. His eyes burn as he says, 

focus, dig, puncture, hack, and remove.

Lucia who’s hot and tired says, 

are you loco cariño? So, dramático.

Henry and Lucia are armed with a Honda weed wacker, an ax, and a machete. As he chops a distinctly stubborn vine, it lets loose with a watery sap, the vine's lifeblood gushes all over him, staining his clothes and getting in his eyes— blinding him temporarily.  

Afraid he's going stumble, he grabs the tail of Lucia’s bulky flannel shirt and she guides him through the sliding patio door.

In the bathroom he sits on the toilet as Lucia rinses his eyes with saline solution, using a syringe. He wonders,

what are you putting in my eyes?

Wazz, isn't that what you like? 

Your pee? Yeah, I like it. 

With his sight back, Henry goes to the kitchen with Lucia. They drink shots of mescal and smoke dope, fortifying themselves to finish off the creeping, prodigious vines. He says optimistically, 

we're over the hump. She asks, 

May I ask the great leader, why we're clearing the jungle? 

Summertime is made for croquet. Imagine a party of well-bred people with chiseled features, tall and thin, dressed in white, speaking the way society people speak,

starkly divine, loquacious, marvelous, one never knows, do they? 

Brahmins all, guaranteed decedents of the rich and powerful, owners of fleets of banana boats and big-time rag pickers, croquet aficionados. Lucia knows Henry better than he knows himself. Reeding from MS. Magazine she suggests,

When your mind's maundering, find a comfortable space, sit cross-legged, breathe through your nose, and count your breath. 

By  5 they've beaten back the bush. Henry applies the finishing touch— weed wacking the trambled grass an inch high. Rolling the miniature pitch with a Polly lawn roller. Exhausted he says,

OK, clean up time. Lucia doesn't like the new look.

Our backyard looks bald, the jungle had more character.

He's stymied, wondering what he did wrong. He'll plead, QUILTY. Quilty of being a putz, quilty of holding back, quilty of anything, hell-bent on making things right. Imploring her, 

try to understand, now trust me, doll, you're gonna love it. I’ve ordered a garden parasol and lawn chairs from Sears, and guess what? We’re going to throw a croquet party this weekend, it’s going to be a high-class affair, the talk of Key West. Lucia isn't so sure,   

invite Dick and Jane, see how it goes first. 

Tired after a long day of debilitating work, they shower and go to bed at eight. 

Sunday morning, they're lounging in the backyard, sitting on the patio chairs, drinking spiked coffee — it feels like parade day out, crisp and dry, the air's full of anticipation. 

After coffee, Henry sets up the croquet field, measuring distance and angle as he pounds the hoops and posts into the tightly cut grass. When the pitch is picture-perfect, he places the umbrella parasol and lawn chairs around the outer circumference.

Saturday afternoon Dick and Jane show at the front door. They ring the doorbell and the Chihuahuas jump, barking. 

Lucia opens the door, the couple grins from tooth to tooth— crocodile smiles. Dick's voice resonates, sounding like it's coming through a megaphone.

me Tarzan and she Jane. Lucia laughs out loud wondering, 

where’s Cheetah? 

She leads them to the backyard where Henry’s grilling T-Bones, red peppers, Vidalia onions, and baked potatoes.

Dick and Jane sit down at the umbrella carousal, looking over the backyard he says, 

I like the change, the jungle was out of control. 

Lucia brings a pitcher of mojitos, setting it on the parasol table. Looking at the croquet field Tarzan says,

We played croquet every summer in Pennsylvania, I was unbeatable, you see croquet is like golf, it's all in the wrist and the arms. Covering her mouth with her hand, trying to hold in a belly laugh, 

so you're a stud with a mallet, Tarzan? Dios mío, gue especial. 

Henry turns off the gas grill. Drops of sweat fall on the barbecued food as he arranges it on plates, he wipes his forehead with his hand saying, 

I'm burning up, foods on, gringos.

The party-goers walk to the patio table where the food's displayed— steaks, baked potatoes, peppers, and grilled onions, helping themselves.

As they eat barbecue, Henry asks Dick and Jane,

You know, I should know, but I don’t— what do you guys do? Jane isn't a big talker, she jumps in any way saying curtly,

I'm Tarzan's mommy, he's an overgrown kid, a big baby.

Dick's dumbfounded, wondering why his wife has fingered him. He feels bullied and tries to ice things over.

You know I'm busy, doll, I've got the banana plantation on Cow Key to think about, it's troubling babe, there are so many problems, the laborers don't speak English, they rob me blind. Cheetah's the best worker on the plantation, he's honest and forthright. But, on the downside, he eats his weight in bananas a few times a day, which adds up.

Jane rolls her eyes, Henry and Lucia look at one another, then she says,

Does el mico, Cheetah, live with you? 

No, he stays at the plantation, he's an amazing climber, he can climb top to bottom with a basket of fruit on his back. He's acrobatic, he could be in the circus, Cheetah's a one-man show, a phenomenon.

After sucking down four pitchers of mojitos, the small-time raconteurs are busy spinning yarns. Peppy, Henry says,  

let's play croquet.

Tarzan walks to the pitch, looking over the kit, choosing a mallet, and a ball, placing the ball on the grass in front of the turning stake. Lucia, Henry, and Jane are few yards away.

Positioning himself over the croquet ball he pulls the mallet back with a powerful swoop, failing to hit the ball head-on, brushing it with the side of his mallet instead. This causes the ball to arc sideways in the air, cuffing Henry in the nose. Blood splatters everywhere. Lucia tells Tarzan,

Let’s get him to the outpatient clinic, we can go in the Chevy, can you drive? 

Yes, sure, and just to let you know, I'd like let to pay the hospital bill,

never mind, cariño, it was an accident, we're insured with All-State, a friend you can trust.

Not knowing what to do, they wrap his head with a towel, and Lucia walks him to the garage, helping Henry into the back seat as Dick and Jane get in the front. 

Tarzan cranks the V8 engine up, he pouts saying,

Jeez, this thing has some pep. Are we in a hurry? 

Just drive carefully, Dick, we’re drunk you know.

Dick backs the wagon out of the driveway onto Peach Street, turning on Eaton, reaching Flagler Road driving towards the Stigler Clinic

Twenty minutes they're there and he parks in the clinic lot. They get out, Lucia supports Henry as they walk to the entrance, he's lost a lot of blood.

An orderly meets her at the front entrance saying, 

I'll get a stretcher.

Securing a portable stretcher, he wheels it to them, helping Henry on, so he lays face up on the cart, as the orderly wraps a fresh hospital towel on his bleeding nose. 

The orderly then pushes the upright stretcher to the entrance of the emergency room where he's met by an intern who says, 

we'll need a few pictures of the nose.  

After the X-rays, the orderly wheels the portable stretcher into the emergency room, backing the rig in, then wraping the curtain around it.

Standing, Lucia’s holds Henry’s hand as the intern pulls the curtain open, coming in and saying, 

I’m Doctor Frank, looking over the X-rays I see Henry's nose is broken. I can set it manually, which is painful, or leave it alone and stop the bleeding with Tranexamic acid. If I don't set it, he'll have a saddle nose like Rocky Marciano. 

You serious doc?  I look like a boxer. 

  

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