The Teahead Bishop of Queens

Henry working as usual through the day, sipping Budweiser in a mug filled with ice, soul-searching as he typed on his IBM Electric typewriter— wondering if he could write? 

It was summer, sometime between 1970 and 1980.

More than a few, but not a swarm of so-called friends had told him he was good, but was he good? 

As an unknown writer—  you wrote because you had to, or wrote because you loved it, or wrote as an addiction, which after the math was a cop-out because everybody who writes wants to be publicly known and lionized by world literati. 

The story of the hungry artist, as often told on the written page and in film, how the artist struggles, broke and hungry, sending manuscripts everywhere, auditioning and such, going through the motions day after day until the exercise backslides into sleepwalking. 

And finally, the day comes for the chosen few— the day they make it. Making it always followed by romps in the hay with hordes of hot-bodied groupies, endless phones calls and offers, walking down the street and being mobbed by people who forcibly put felt-tipped pens in your hand, asking you to autograph body-parts or clothing. 

Buying a house in the suburbs, a new Cadillac and joining a country club.  

You know the scene? Most have seen or read about it many times in film and on written page, and we just can’t get enough of it.

Henry pads down a mound of hashish into a Moroccan hash pipe, lights it and takes a deep draw of smoke and holds it in, exhaling slowly.  

Standing on the small balcony of his Queen’s apartment, looking at the ant-sized people walking the street below. He waves his hands in the air as he recites passages of Allen Ginsberg’s epic poem Howl, screaming the lines—

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

Who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

Henry blessing everybody in the world from high—for the moment he was the teahead bishop of Queens. 

The day gone in a heartbeat as the sun falls into the night. 

A summer night in New York City— people letting go, seized by a collective buzz that could be felt all over town.     

Henry walking to Chaim’s Deli, smiling as he looked up at the night sky, happy to be part of it all.  

At the deli, he sits in his favorite booth. Ruby makes her way to his table real sexy-like and says,

Hi doll, I was reading your short stories in the irrelevant underground rag, Headbanger, you know the two, Asian Swamp Rats and The Monkey Gods, Henry you are really good, I love your work! Henry says,

what did you like about the stories? Ruby says,

when I read your stuff I feel like I’m hovering on the ceiling looking down at you, close to you and all, you’re dreamy baby and you have literary insight. Then Henry says,

does reading my work make you feel horny?  Horny enough to bring Sheila your hooker friend to my apartment for a threesome?  Ruby says,

oh yes darling, yes!

Ruby and Shiela Henry's groupies— 

It was a sign that being publicly known was in the cards for him, just a crap-shoot away.  

Ruby says,

whataya have doll?  Henry says,

just liquid today Ruby, a bottle of Jack Daniels, some ice and bring the soda siphon too. 

Later, Ruby brings him a bowl of pistachio nuts to munch on, he drinks for an hour or so, half a bottle of whiskey, leaving the rest of the bottle for next time. 

Henry decides to walk to Lower Manhattan and places some lines of cocaine on a police box outside of the Chaim's Deli, snorting the lines.  

Once in Manhattan, he goes to The Black Cat Coffee Shop, a place with old-time atmosphere— brick walls framed with wood-beams, full of antique lounge chairs, sofas, and wood tables. 

Henry orders a poor-boy sandwich that is bigger than the plate it is served on and some black coffee, he nods off, going into a dream. 

Waking in a few minutes, he sees a women sitting at his table, staring at him and smiling. An attractive blonde, her hair is in a milkmaid’s braid, Nordic and Germanic looking. She says to Henry,

are you Henry Lucowski the writer? I have read your stories in the irrelevant underground rag, Headbanger, I love your work, he then says to her,

yes, I’m Henry, who are you and why are you sitting at my table staring at me?  She smiles and says,

Oh, I’m Uma Kline, I’m an actress, I’m in an Off-Off-Broadway play at Here Theater called Skin Tight. I sat here because I had seen your picture in Headbanger and I like your face. Henry thanks her and she says,

Henry shall we go to my place and have a drink?  It's not far, we can walk there. He says,

OK, coffee shops bore the hell outta me.

As they walk Uma grabs his hand, her hand is warm, her warmth is appealing. 

They reach the Chelsea Hotel, Uma lives there, Henry hip to an A-list of literati who have lived there over the years—   Mark Twain, Herbert Huncke, and Quentin Christ to name a few. 

They ride a cage-elevator up to the 11th floor and get off, he follows Uma to her room and they go inside. 

It is a rectangular room with a black and white tiled floor, purple patterned wallpaper, lush red velvet curtains and an antique desk against the wall. 

Henry sits on her bed, Uma pours Jack Daniels out of the bottle straight up into high-ball glasses. She hands Henry a drink, then she strips down and places a mat on the floor and starts doing naked yoga. 

She goes into the Happy Baby pose, lying on her back opening her legs into a y-shape and holds the position, deep breathing dramatically. 

Without hanging-back Henry goes down on Uma's well-plummed muff and tongues it in bonafide fashion.

Uma the sex-meister knew every position in the book, she twisted Henry's body about as he banged her rhythmically, then losing control and blowing his nut. 

The sex hounds done-in, fall asleep arm in arm. 

Henry wakes up at noon and sees a note Uma has written in lipstick on her full-length mirror saying— 

See you tonight at Here Theater madman, tickets on my desk, kisses Uma.

Monkey Gods

Henry sitting cross-legged on a straw mat in front of his IBM electric typewriter, at home in his Queen’s apartment. 

His mind ripped apart and addled, feeling like someone was watching. It was the incorrigible Hindu Monkey Gods at play, spying from their veranda on high, busting a gut, drinking mead, rolling Jackal bones, enumerating earthling fate— everyday stuff for them.

The Monkey Gods jacked-up on spirits, talking shit about Henry, 

should we ax him, how about Leukemia or suicide? Set his apartment on fire. 

Have him win the lottery and take a trip to Vegas and lose it all.

We can start a civil war in America, he can be the first to die in the Battle of Central Park, he will be a hero, a Much Ado About Nothing hero, full of bravado for the cause and dying for nothing. 

Give him gout, draw out his suffering— 

The Monkey Gods laughing like oafs, neophyte half-Gods who were pitiless. With luck, the Martians would step in and clean up the mess they were making before it was too late. 

Henry would mess up the Monkey Gods plans for him, which he knew odds-on wouldn’t be charitable. He wouldn’t let them into his dreams, he would do everything in reverse, turn left instead of right, go to Harlem when he was thinking of Times Square, eat Halal instead of Kosher, so on and so forth— sabotaging the Monkey God’s voodoo with hoodoo.

He leaves his Queens digs at 830 PM, obsessed, hounded by the Monkey Gods— he had sat in front of his typewriter all day, unable to put a sentence together.

Henry goes to eat where he eats every night, Chaim’s Deli. He sits at his usual booth near the door so he can get out fast if he has too. He regular waitress Ruby comes to his table, looking worried and says,

Jesus Christ Henry, you look like a ghost, what is going on with you?

Henry pinches himself wondering if the Monkey Gods were breathing on him.

He then says to Ruby, not daring to tell her about the days musings, knowing she would call the shrinks at the Queens Welfare Office.

Oh, I’m great Ruby, you know me, solid as a rock, a pillar of sanity, then Ruby says,

OK Henry, you know we care about you here and you have my number.

Henry thanks her and orders saying,

How about some Halal today, something different, nonkosher too boot, Arab food, falafel, humous, koubah and the lot? And some Arak to wash it down, make it a double, liquid fire as they say.

Henry, drunk, still at the deli, he had drank a bottle of Arak and was slumped over his table mumbling about Monkey Gods. Ruby comes to his table and puts her arms around him, saying—

Henry baby, Chaim wants you outta here—NOW, please leave!

Henry pays his check and leaves, but he goes to the bathroom first to snort some cocaine, which wakes him up. 

Walking through the Bowery he sees a dive called Suicide Hall. He walks in and goes to the bar, the smell in the place is awful—a milky-wine soaked-vomit-piss smell. Henry rips a napkin into two pieces and puts them in his nostrils  

He orders a Jack, the bartender a no-neck guy with a blockhead that sits between his shoulders says,

A Jack? Youse aint in Soho Bud, youse in da Bowery, we got Ten High, if you don’t like it hit the bricks ass hat.

The bartender a dolt, thick-skinned, stupid and pugnacious, Henry then says,

OK a Ten High straight up—and

be a hero Mack, do the world a favor—get a vasectomy and take massive doses of Thorazine, the bartender says,

Whad you say Bud? You bein smart or somethin?

Henry smiles and says,

no nothin, I didn’t say nothin.

Henry sits in Suicide Hall and drinks for another hour, watching the show, doing his best to look invisible.

The bums, their brains putrefying by the second, sucking up cheap wine, yelling as they conversed blankly, gasping for air as they coughed up bloody death. 

The Bowery was a raw scene, lacking pretense—once a bum descended into the bowels of the Bowery, his days were numbered.

11 PM, Henry happy to leave the Bowery, very few people except for cops and missionaries ventured into the hell-hole.

He walks uptown towards Chinatown, the day had been an ominous day, a threatening and baleful day. The Hindu Monkey Gods like hell-hounds on his back. 

In Chinatown Henry goes to a noodle house called Flower Drum and orders lemon rice soup and jasmine tea. The owner John Chow sits with him and says,

Good to see you Henry, you always welcome at Flower Drum. Maybe you are going to Lee’s laundry for the usual tonight, you’re a bad boy Henry, Lees very bad, hahaha, Henry says,

John, sometimes I need to shake off my demons, you understand don’t you? John says,

OK, sure Henry you enjoy Chinatown, save face, go into dream and have fun, hahaha!

After eating he walks a few blocks to Lee’s Laundry, going into an alleyway that led to the basement door of the laundry. He knocks on the door, an elderly Chinese lady opens it and says,

Knee-how Henry, be careful, very dark in basement, many sleep and dream on the floor, come in.

Henry follows her to a straw mat on the cold basement floor. There is a small wooden stool on the mat to lay his head on when he nods out. 

She sets him up with an opium pipe, the bowl filled with black tar, he takes the long pipe and puts it in his mouth and lights it, taking a deep draw, then nodding out and falling into a dream.

In the dream, he is walking through a lush jade jungle which leads to a fluorescent crimson poppy field. He lays down to rest in the field and looks into the sky. He sees a white colored blimp that is expanding, it ruptures into a thousand pieces, the poppy field is covered in a white dust. When the dust settles he looks around and sees he is surrounded by the Monkey Gods wearing flowing rainbow-colored pajamas. The Monkey Gods are standing in a circle, their eyes beaming like lasers at him. One of them says,

Henry, we are finished with you, you’re big trouble, you evade our voodoo with your hoodoo. 

He wakes up in the basement of Lee’s Laundry, still feeling addled and confused—he began the day at ground zero and the day ends at ground zero. 

Henry non compos mentis, his brain took him places that normal people didn't dare go. 

You're a Loser, a Nothing

Henry awake by 10 AM, in his Queen’s apartment, smoking a bowl of hashish and drinking Screwdrivers, thinking about his father, Benjamin Lucowski, who they called Benny. 

Benny Lucowski, a traveling salesman who ran away from 10-year-old Henry and his mother, Helen Lucowski for assorted reasons, the primary reason being that Helen was a lush. The Lucowski family hired a maid because Helen couldn’t do much in her condition, she would lay in bed for days and drink, or run away for months at a time, leaving little Henry with his deaf maid, Nil. 

The dysfunctional and strange family lived in a small wooden framed house in Queens.

Benny Lucowski, spent most of his time on the road, selling sleeping apparel and shower curtains. He came home late one night, drunk. 

Benny and Helen, who was also loaded, go at each other head-on while little Henry and his deaf maid Nil are hunkered down in the kitchen, Henry can hear the shouting, Nil can feel the angry vibes,  Benny says,

You’re a lush Helen, you're a fucking bum, you lay in bed all day, Nil does everything for little Henry, he is a mess and will never amount to nothin, then Helen says roaring insanely,

shut it Benny, you know God Damn well that you fuck everything that moves when you’re on the road, you’re a rotten salesman and an even worse person, we don’t have enough money to make ends meet. 

Little Henry is the way he is because you’re never home, you’re a lousy father!

Well, that was it for Benny, he simply says, 

I’ve had enough of your shit Helen and I don’t have to take it anymore!

He walks out the front door, gets in his Cadillac and drives away into the night— never seen or heard from again by Helen and little Henry

It's 11 AM in Queens, it's sometime between 1970 and 1980. 

Henry sitting on his futon in his apartment knocking down Screwdrivers, thinking about a dream he had last night—he,  talking with his father Benny who says,

look at you Henry, you’re a drunk like your mother Helen and even worse you’re on dope. You don’t have a job and you're on welfare, like I told you, you aint gonna amount to nothin. 

And so it goes in the down and dirty psychic world.

He had an appointment with one of the shrinks at Queen’s Welfare Office in the afternoon. 

Henry up and running, good and wasted— off to the welfare office. 

At Queen’s Welfare by 2 AM, breezing through security, directed to a large gray room that housed the offices of the shrinks, who were, to borrow a line from Hunter S. Thompson—feared and loathed, because they could commit you to Riker’s Isle or even worse, revoke your crazy-pay.

Anyway, the welfare office was busy and Henry waited 3 hours, bored out his cord until his name was called, he was told to go to office 7. 

He is met by an older guy smoking a pipe of all fucking things. The guy introduces himself saying, 

hello Henry I’m Doctor Pickle, what can I do for you today? 

Henry laughing says,

how about electroshock?  

The shrink, Pickle says to him,

Henry, please sit down we need to go over a few things, 

Just a few questions and then you can go, let us start with,

do you feel excited about life? 

Henry says,

Pickle it’s funny you asked, well you know I have my ups and downs, and last night I had a dream that I was talking to my father who I haven’t seen in 33 years,

Doctor Pickle’s bushy eyebrows slant upward, his face is animated, he looks excited like he has found a 100 Dollar bill on the floor, saying,

Oh, very good Henry I think we have hit pay-dirt, go on,

Henry says,

Well Pickle, my father Benny says to me, 

Henry, you're a drunk and you're on dope, you're a nothin, a loser.  

Henry goes on to explain to Pickle, 

I felt like shit when I woke up and needed a few drinks to straighten up some. 

Pickle abruptly interrupts Henry saying, 

you know you aren't supposed to be using and that you should be going to AA Meetings, Henry says,

oh, I meant buttermilk Doc, Pickle then says,

Henry, you're experiencing father-hunger, you have ambivalent feelings towards your father because he deserted you, let's wrap it up for today.

Henry agrees, thinking on the way out, 

I will never see Benny again, he could be dead for all I know? I’m not setting the world on fire, but I am having a ball, Benny can shove it. 

It was a minor catharsis of sorts for Henry. 

He would make an appointment to see Dr. Hiccup next month instead of Dr. Pickle, he felt that Pickle was anal and a dick who pried too much. Henry preferred Hiccup’s line of questioning— the did you move your bowels today and can you get a hard-on stuff.  

Henry leaves Queen’s Welfare Office at 630 PM,  direly needing a drink. 

He walks and walks, going over the psychic happenings of the day, ending up on the Lower East Side in Chinatown. He stumbles in a bar by accident, tripping over a rough spot in the pavement. It is a dive called Mr. Fongs, with no signs outside. He can smell egg rolls frying as he walks in, its dive and he loves it. He sits at the bar and orders a double Jack and soda and some egg rolls. 

After a few drinks, the outlaw poet David Lerner sits down next to him. Henry knew of him and liked his work which was contrary to everything literary. An example would be this bit from his poem Mein Kampf which speaks to his disdain for the poet Gary Snyder and the organic seed-eating sect of the Beats.   

I’d rather be Richard Speck 

than Gary Snyder

I’d rather ride a rocketship to hell

than a Volvo to Bolinas

Henry thought Gary’s Snyder’s whole earth purism was bogus as well. He nervously looks at David Lerner, the literary outlaw,  thinking the pirate was going to bite his head off and says,

I’m Henry Lucowski, I'm a underground writer on crazy-pay and I would rather take a speed-ball and ride a suicide rocket into the dark side of the moon than drive a Volvo to Bolinas.   

Lerner looks over at Henry and sizes him up, with a sinister look, then he says,

why I’ll drink to that Lucowski,

They both laugh and David Lerner buys Henry a drink. They go on to talk about all the bullshit in the world—about the affected and sanctimonious nature of hip and other literati.

In what seemed like a short time David Lerner says to Henry, 

Lucowski, I’m flying home to San Francisco tomorrow, keep it raw baby!

Henry wondering if his work was affected? 

Not a chance he thought— well, I get off track sometimes, but it all comes from the guts, it's raw.  

A Million to One Shot

Henry at home thinking about writing, writing easy for him, he didn’t get writer’s block— every week he would turn the music way up, pour some drinks and write a short story. 

As he began writing the story would unfold, as if it had a life of its own— it was like opening a can of worms, letting them out, following the little buggers around and then chucking the can. 

He would write every day, in the evening he would wrap it up, finished or not and then go out to eat. Later walking the streets of New York City, open to all of it, weirdos, those on the fringes and junk poets especially welcome. 

It was a fall night sometime between 1970 and 1980, winter a mean old man peering around the corner.  

Henry ready to go out, his hair uncombed and uncut, starting to grey, his face pale and drawn— wearing a knee-length black leather coat, pegged chinos, and low-cut red Converse All-Stars. 

He was 43 years old, out of hand and cool, he wasn’t going to make the cover of GQ anytime soon, that was his charm, not giving a shit. 

He leaves his Queen’s digs around 8 PM and walks to Chaim’s Deli, sitting alone as usual in a booth, his regular waitress Ruby walks to his table and says,

Why Henry, how you doin palsy? I’ve missed you, let's get together soon? He says,

How about tomorrow morning at my place? Ruby says,

Ok Henry, see you there!

She would clean his apartment and do his laundry by hand then hang it out to dry on his small balcony. 

Ruby a nice girl, motherly, an angel to boot.  

He orders dinner, 

Ruby, I’ll have some brisket, some hash browns, a bowl of chicken soup with dumplings and some green beans. Ruby writes down his order, winks at Henry and turns around, walking to the counter, shaking her money maker all the way to heaven. 

After noshing Henry says goodnight to the folks at the deli, walking out into the cool night air, going somewhere, anywhere.

He sees Siam Massage in the distance, not far from Chaim’s Deli, and goes inside, the place dimly lit with a black light for mood, there is a white plastic sofa, some cheap chairs, and a fake bamboo tree in a pot on the floor. The woman at the counter asked Henry, speaking in a heavy Viet Namese accent,

Hey baby, you cute, you want nice girl sucky, sucky, make you happy, happy? 

Henry would pass this time, it was the end of the month and he was short of cash, he laughs and then turns around and walks out.

Back on the street, he goes to a punk bar on the Lower East Side in Chinatown called Clockwork Bar, in the early days they booked the Ramones and Debby Harry—Henry liked blues mostly and could give a tinker's shit about Harry or the Ramones. 

In Manhattan at Clockwork Bar, a cramped place with a small stage covered everywhere with stickers and graffiti, dimly lit with red and blue lights. 

Henry sits at the bar and orders a Budweiser and a shot of whiskey. 

A tall and thin guy with red hair parted in the middle, his face drawn, he had eyes that pierced your soul, wearing a sports coat that was too large and of all fucking things a Ramones t-shirt, sits next to Henry. It was the poet and musician Jim Carroll, who introduces himself to Henry, Henry says, 

I’m Henry Lucowski, I’m a writer on welfare who is addicted to most things, Jim Carroll says in a quivering and fragile voice,  

nice to meet you, Henry— I'm reading later tonight, I hope you stay. 

Jim Carroll then going into to an extended rap saying,

You know Henry junk is a monkey run wild that has taken a big size bite of my potential and spit it out, ravaging my body and soul. I got junked up in my teens and never turned back really, it gave me a vision and blinded me at the same time. It is sad that getting vision required such great height, I would have rather been on the ground with others, everyone really, those I deeply care for. 

Jim Carroll buys Henry a drink and Henry lays some lines of cocaine on the table which they promptly snort. 

Soon it was time for Jim Carroll to read, he walks up to the stage and the music in the Clockwork Bar stops and then the crowd shuts up as though the Gods just walked in. 

Standing at a small podium on a small stage, he simply begins reading his poem The Distances without introduction. 

Henry amazed as Carroll reads his poem, not Beat or punk, more like the Romantic Poets or Yeats. 

of still another morning, mornings which are

always remaining behind for one thing or another

shivering in our faces of pride and blooming attitude.

in the draught of winter air my horse is screaming

you are welcoming the new day with your hair leaning

against the sand, feet dive like otters in the frost

and the sudden blue seems to abandon as you leap. 

O to make everything summer! soldiers move along lines

like wet motions in the violent shade’s reappearance.

  

Henry loving every bit of The Distance, its validity, the ancient and eternal quality of it, knowing now that Jim Carroll was the most underrated poet of any century, and one of the great poets of the 20Th Century.

After the reading people in the crowd rushing the stage with copies of Basketball Diaries for Jim Carroll to sign. 

It was clear that he didn’t like the attention, fame for him a burden, an unwanted golden cloak that was forced on him. 

He walks over to Henry who is still at the bar and says,

Let’s get outta here Henry, let’s go somewhere, anywhere! 

The two leave Clockwork Bar and get a taxi to Siam Massage in Queens. Carroll relieved to be free of the unwanted attention at the Bar. 

As they talked and laughed in the back seat of the taxi, it was clear they had bonded— two junks who lived to write, two junks who took the untraveled road. 

They walk into Siam Massage, the same Chinese woman is at the counter, Henry says,

We want a couple of gals that can suck the knobs off a hubcap.

Two lovely Asian girls appear and the four of them walk arm and arm down a dimly lit blue hallway to separate rooms. 

Henry falling asleep as he is getting massaged, wanting to go home and go to bed, it was 4 AM.

He leaves the massage joint and walks a few blocks to his Queen’s digs, wondering how it went for Jim Carroll at Siam Massage? 

Henry never saw Jim Carroll again. They—two overly sensitive souls, connecting at the heart for a night. 

It was a million to one shot alright.