The Big Apple, Savory, or Rank?

 

It's 1 AM in Key West— Henry's dreaming that he’s walking through the Bowery, and everyone's a cripple. A blind man moving through the shadows, and a legless man in rags on a skateboard pulled by a spotted dog with three legs. 

As the dream of cripples retreats somewhere, wherever spent dreams go. He feels the urge to pee so he gets out of bed, falling on his face and letting out a gruff, protracted, 

shiiiit.

Lucia, his Cuban wife, hustles out of bed, rushing to his aid asking, 

what happened darling? 

my legs are numb, the circulation is gone, maybe it's Guillain-Barré Syndrome. I was dreaming about cripples and,

She massages his legs for a while, he's still on the floor as he says, 

I can feel your hands on my legs, so I don't have Guillain-Barré Syndrome.

Try to stand darling,

with her help he stands, walking to the bathroom, leaving the door open. 

She follows him and watches him pee, he lets out a long, 

aaaah, 

the peeing is pleasurable. 

She scolds him, but is concerned, 

are you losing your mind, idiota?

I dunno, I miss New York City. Whataya say we pack, get on the Vespa and ride to Key West International Airport.

The couple showers quickly, not drying much, throwing some clothes into Henry’s Boy Scout duffle bag from the fourth grade. 

Soon, they’re at EYW where they park in the bicycle and scooter lot. There’s no line at the American Airline counter, Lucia speaks in Spanish to the ticket agent who’s Cuban, 

chica, two tickets to New York, 

si, señora, may I see your IDs? 

Lucia hands the engaging clerk the couple’s passports, she looks through them then saying with shrilled voice,

dios mios, your Lucia Vargas, the Cuban movie star, I loved you in Havana Vampires, and La Ultima Cena. 

The agent scrolls down the column of her Radix Galaxy and says,

We have a direct flight to LaGuardia living at 10 AM. Because you're Cubano royalty I’m issuing two first-class tickets at coach price. 

maravilloso cariño, eres tan amable! 

Lucia pays with her Visa card and they check the Boy Scout duffle bag, laughing as Henry says, 

such a glamorous travel bag for the venerable Lucia Vargas, the queen of Havana.

They walk the hallway to the Cabana Room for a light breakfast. Sitting at the bar a toe-headed bartender approaches. With  terribly flat vibes he says, 

what'll it be?

Coconut waffles and two grasshopper cocktails. 

Lucia whispers to Henry, 

Dios mios, bebe, Señor blanco never went to charm school.

As they nibble waffle bits and sip their drinks they look through the picture window behind the bar where the ground crew’s busy as Electric Ants, loading suitcases, refueling, draining bio-waste ladened Blue Ice, stocking meals, and mini bottles of booze.

Henry drops a twenty on the bar and the couple walks to Gate 16 where they sit in a row of chairs that are scientifically designed to discourage laying on.

It's boarding time and they're flying first class— lucky, compared to the schmucks who’ll be packed in coach like hungry roaches ganging up on a Mars Bar. 

They luxuriate in the reclining sofa seats as the jet engines thrust, lifting the craft into the troposphere. A Jamaican stewardess with blond dreadlocks shows saying, 

ello, gud day, I’m Kareela, for lunch, we’re serving fillet, Jerk Chicken, or sea bass. 

My husband and I will have the fillet and sea bass.

And to drink? Henry smiles saying, 

Something that'll make us forget we're airborne in this flimsy rig held together by tiny rivets and bits of aluminum tape. 

The stew brings them mini bottles of tequila. 

Two hours later, after a slew of mini bottles, the plane’s making its descent into LaGuardia Airport, named after the mayor of the same name whose nickname was the Little Flower.

Soon at baggage claim, they're watching hypnotically as the hard rubber pads of the baggage carousel twist like a snake swirling through a creek. 

Henry grabs the couples soul piece of luggage, his Boy Scout duffle bag, and Lucia says, 

you carry the stupid bag, I don’t want people to see me with it.

Darling, I promise we’ll buy new luggage at Macy's, a Gucci Globetrotter if you like. You need a bag befitting your movie start status. 

Sí, cariño, I  don’t want to look like a bag lady, not in Nueva York.

Standing outside in the pickup area they hail a Checker cab, getting into the back seat. The cabby, an Armenian with an Afro says as he pulls out of the airport onto Highway 495. 

The Shriners are in town this week and most of the good hotels are booked. There’re plenty of rooms in the Bowery if winos don't bother you.

Nah, not at all, my wife and I are winos, we’re well sodded from the plane ride. 

OK then, we’ll go to the Bowery Grand Hotel, 

Twenty minutes later, the Checkered cab pulls in front of the hotel, Henry pays the cabby and the couple gets out, walking into the hotel lobby. 

The Grand is hardly grand and it’s owned by a couple of Chinamen. Henry and Lucia stand at the front desk, the lobby smells like soy vinegar. The clerk, who’s wearing a blue Mao Suit, says as he grins, 

welcome to the Gland Hotel, lucky to get loom, Shriners in town. Henry says, 

yes lucky, how much? 

five de five dolla a day, 

five de five huh? 

He hands over his gold card and passport, the Chinaman makes copies, then handing him a key to room 333 saying, 

lucky number for white man, need big luck in city.

For unknown reasons, the elevator is on the fritz, most likely, the Chinamen don’t want to fork out the shekels to fix it. Henry and Lucia walk three stories up to room 333, three de three de three, lucky loom, going inside. 

It’s nice for the money with red brick walls and stylish furniture — lacquered wood pieces inlaid with mother-of-pearl and plain hardwood pieces. 

Lucia turns on the air conditioner and closes the spurious zebra curtains that cover the framed windows. They undress and flop on the bed, wanting to sleep off their drunkenness and muscle up enough horsepower to party later.

They wake around eight, it’s summer in New York so they dress casually, she wears a wrap-around mumu and flip-flops. He wears Levis and an Oxford shirt. Then, they braid their waist-length raven-colored hair Native Indian style.

Henry grew up in the city and had spent many summer nights walking the Bowery, stepping over winos, and drinking in bars with names like The Vomit Mill, Evil People Lounge, The Intensive Care Unit, Suicide Hall, and so on. 

The couple walks past the front desk of Bowery Grand and the Chinaman on duty says,

careful in Bowery, bums on sidewalk sleep in poo and upchuck, make you sick. Smelly devils take money too. Henry says, 

That’s what we’re lookin for Li’, 

how you know name, Li’ ? 

Most Chinaman are named Li’.

Delany Street’s dimly lit— Henry and Lucia walk carefully, not wanting to step on a passed-out wino. She says, 

it smells like death, let's get out of here darling. 

Where almost at the station, here,

he hands her his hanky to cover her mouth.

They pass Suicide Hall and he says, 

Look, Suicide Hall, I usta drink here in the sixties, let’s go in.

No darling, I’m not going in, es terrible. 

Soon, they reach Bleecker street Station, walking down the steps into the subway tunnel where chill air and the smell of urine leaps out at them.   

Sitting on a hard metal bench they wait for their train, watching a transit cop cruising, looking for bums to harass with the tip of his billy club. 

Soon, the B train comes, and they board, sitting together. The ride's uneventful and they exit at the 14 Street Station in mid-Manhattan, walking up the steep stairway to the sidewalk. Henry says,

common, I'm gonna take ya somewhere nobody important goes.

They walk five blocks, going into Jimmy’s Corner, sitting at the bar. Every inch of the cracked, faded, and yellowing wall is covered with photos of boxers and vintage boxing posters. The bartender, a young guy in a white shirt with a flat-top says, 

whataya have folks?

Dewars and soda.

The joint’s filled with footloose Shriners from upstate New York, simple souls getting loaded and reliving war years, remembering grand times, unrestrained times. 

After a few drinks, Henry and Lucia pay and leave, they're hungry. They walk a few blocks and turn in Jerry’s Grill sitting at the counter. It’s boxcar size with swivel chairs in front of a grill. 

The cook's adroitness dazzles the couple as he whips up the fare, adeptly, taking orders as well. Lucia wonders, 

how can he do it?

They learn in the joint.

The hash slinger, who's all neck topped off with a soda jerk's cap asks,

you all hungry? 

Yes, we'll have pancakes, chunky hash browns, bacon, scrambled eggs, a cheeseburger, and coffee. 

They watch the grill cook crack eggs with one hand, pour pre-mixed pancake dough, flip burgers, turn hash browns, seconds later placing it on plates with his spatula, serving Henry and Lucia. 

The fare is generic, one color, reeking of the malodorous oil used to cook it. Henry tells Lucia, 

you have to leave the grease on the grill, it gives the food taste. She answers, 

this place is no better than the nasty taquerias in Havana. 

She pushes her plate away and Henry eats a few bites, not finishing. He drops a few bills on the counter and they walk out, catching a taxi back to the hotel— wondering why they came to New York? 

You see, the Big Apple gives off a most solicitous luster that's impossible to resist, so everyone takes a bite eventually— the fruit may be savory or rank. Going to New York is a crapshoot.

Lazy Carlos's

 

It’s early morning, a sunny day in Key West. Lucia, Henry’s Cuban wife, needs to be alone— something a woman needs from time to time.

She quietly dresses, slipping into a white thong, then covering her nakedness with an oversized Oxford shirt. Outside, she gets on her Vespa scooter, in minutes she’s at Dog Beach, where she rents an umbrella and folding beach chair from Lazy Carlos’s. 

Carlos lugs the gear behind her to her favorite spot, under two palm trees, pushing the spiked edge of the umbrella into the sand and placing her chair. 

She takes off her Oxford shirt, laying on her stomach in the outstretched folding chair, then removing her top as a group of beachgoers walks past, eyeballing her well-formed body.

Soon, the sun makes her feel so heavy that she doesn’t believe she has the energy to rise and walk to the water. A drop of sweat snags on her sunglasses, tickling her cheek. She pushes it away, looking out at the Gulf of Mexico.

Her stomach is wet with sweat, tingling, so she turns on her back, covering her chest with a towel. Her arms fall limp on the sand, touching a half-buried spoon. 

She remembers visiting Henry’s mother in Queens and talking for hours about the septuagenarian's collection of teaspoons, one from each state, each spoon with a story.

Half asleep, she dreams of diving for pebbles in Old Havana harbor with her brothers and sisters, they were poor and fantasized about finding a pirate doubloon or pearl.

A stray dog runs awkwardly in broad circles in the sand, brushing against her, waking her from a dream. She wonders if she dreams too much.

Glares flash off the windows of a fishing boat that’s bobbing in a cross-current, waking her for a moment, then she falls back to sleep.

Meanwhile, Henry’s in his study, typing madly, desperate to sell a story, hoping the Wildly Quarterly or Paisley Press will buy.

He’ll write about the why of his writing.

He had long been a fan of Ernest Hemingway novels and short stories. Yet he thought Lawrence Durrell’s work was singular and unsurpassed in the language. Hemingway was amongst the first writers he read and admired in his twenties though.

He had a poor memory, having forgotten much, there were large periods of time he simply couldn’t bring back, towns and cities, he’d lived in, names of people— large blanks. But he could remember some things. Little things— somebody saying something in a particular way, somebody wild, or low, a landscape, bits of conversations, he could bring back bits and pieces.

But, mostly, he’d make up the conversations, and invented the surroundings in his stories.

Truman Capote said that not much needs to happen in a writer's life after he’s twenty years old because plenty of stuff has already happened before that time, enough stuff to last a writer the rest of his life. 

The phone rings, Henry hesitates, then answers, it’s Lucia.

Darling, I’m at Dog Beach, a fishing boat’s stuck on the reef and people from all over the city have come to watch. Carlos the beachnik has cranked up his ghetto blaster and everyone’s getting loaded and dancing in the sand. 

I’ll be right down. 

He stops typing midway through a paragraph, runs out the front door, and jumps on his Schwinn Cruiser. Twenty minutes later he’s at the beach, where he chains his bike to a fence.

Lucia is some distance away from the partygoers, sitting in the same place she always sits, under a cluster of high blowing palms. 

Henry walks past the dancing partiers, meeting Lucia, who’s sitting up on her beach chair, shading her eyes with a magazine. He looks outwards at the bay saying,

It’ll take months or more to free the fishing boat, maybe the Navy will send recovery vessels, who knows? Someone might buy it and open a whorehouse or a casino. I need a drink, let’s go to Moon Dog and hang out with Bruno.

Lucia grabs her large Gucci purse and throws on her oversized Oxford shirt. The couple walks to the Moon Dog Cafe, where they sit at the bar. The room’s flooded with sunlight, it’s open and warm, inviting. Bruno the bartender greets the couple, he knows them, and is happy to see them saying,

my goodness, it’s the king of Key West literati, and his queen, the sexiest woman in South Florida, Lucia chuckles saying, 

dios mios, sweet mouth,

what are you kids drinking this fine day? 

A pitcher of Bone Island Brew with Clamato and freshly squeezed lime mixed in. 

Gotcha, have you been writing Henry? 

My goodness yes, it’s an addiction. I’m writing a bit that examines the pith of my work.

The waitress brings two bowls of fresh conch soup, placing them on the bar for Henry and Lucia, Bruno explains,

0ur dishwasher, Hector, brought in a bucket of freshly caught conch this morning and the chef made soup, do you like it? 

They sip spoonfuls of the sumptuous fare that’s laced with coconut milk, cumin, cilantro, garlic, ginger, and chili. 

Bruno places three shot glasses on the bar, filling the glasses with tequila Joven. He raises his drink, and toasts, a most generic toast,

to bread, without it, we wouldn’t have toast.

Henry buys another round, tequila Blanco, raising his glass and quoting Dorthy Parker,

I realize I don’t know God, but I feel I know as much as Him, at His age. 

Rounds later, Bruno, Henry, and Lucia are drunk as lords. Bruno's mind is reeling and he says, 

I’m going to crash in the storeroom before I fall. We got out of control, burned a few brain cells, but ain’t life grand? Drinks, gratis kiddies.

Henry and Lucia thank Bruno and walk out. They are blotto, drunk, stewed, pickled, tanked, in no condition to ride the Vespa or the Schwinn Cruiser home. 

At the entrance to Dog Beach, they run into Carlos, who’s just closed Lazy Carlos's having run a thick rusted chain through the stacked beach chairs and umbrellas. He says, 

the fishing boat is still hung up on the reef, if I had the money I’d buy it and make it into a casino or better yet a whorehouse. 

We were thinking the same Carlos— a whorehouse or a casino, or even a pirate radio station. 

Yeah, that’d work. I watched you two walking out of Moon Dog, your in no shape to drive, I'll take you home, common. 

They follow him to his car, it’s parked in front of Dog Beach— a Volkswagen minibus with no roof. The couple gets into the middle seat and Henry asks,

what happened to the roof, Carlos? 

my wife got pissed and chewed it off, she’s got a set of jaws like a hyena. 

They give him directions to their bungalow on Peach Street.  

Minutes later, his roofless rig is parked in the driveway, Lucia invites him in for a drink.

Henry and Carlos sit in the living room, Lucia turns on the Grundig radio that’s wedged on a shelf between stacks of hard-bound books, then goes to the kitchen to mix drinks.

Carlos is sitting in a Wingback chair facing the coffee table, Henry’s on the sofa, Lucia brings a pitcher of Dewars Twice Aged whiskey mixed with orangeade on a tray with cocktail glasses, placing it on the coffee table. Then, dialing the radio to WPRS, Miami’s Psychedelic Rock station. The Beatle’s song Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds is playing and Henry comments, 

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, its code for LSD. 

Carlos reaches into his shirt pocket, pulling out a rainbow-colored cigarette, a Sherman, saying, 

I have a cigarette dipped in LSD, whataya say we take a trip to Electric Lady land?

He holds the cigarette with his thumb and forefinger, raising it in the air. Henry giggles excitedly saying,

I was at Woodstock in 69— Wavy Gravies’ crew was passing out hits of Purple Oswald like candy. Three days touching the sky— if you can remember being at Woodstock you weren’t there. Lucia jumps in saying, 

I’ve never tried ácida, I’m curiosa. 

She's sitting next to Henry on the sofa and Carlos asks,

So, are you guys in? 

Henry and Lucia nod their heads, yes.

Carlos lights the LSD cigarette takes a deep drag and passes it to the sofa. Then, Lucia takes a toke, passing it to Henry. 

Twenty minutes later, the space cowboys are coming on. Jimi Hendrix’s Voodoo Child is playing on the old Grundig, the music flows out of the radio in rainbow-colored waves, resonating in their bodies. 

Soon, the space travelers begin feeling like a Category 5 storm has blown through their heads, obliterating every familiar point of reference— self, then time and finally matter. 

As the substance around them melts a layer at a time, they float unbounded in nothingness, not unlike what you experience in a sensory deprivation tank.

Much later, after midnight, they've peaked and are coming down. 

Henry hugs Lucia, the power of her life force surges through his body like an electric current and they can't let go of one another.

Carlos catches on saying, 

You guys are in your own groove. I've gotta get home and make my kids breakfast, then go to Dog Beach and open my shop. Lucia says, 

thanks, sweetie, we love you.

She walks Carlos to the door, he walks outside to his roofless VW Van, gets in, and drives home.

Henry and Lucia go to the kitchen. Feeling dehydrated they down two bottles of Gatorade. 

Then, they walk through the patio door to the wooden hot tub in the backyard. As it heats they get inside. 

Sitting with their backs against the tub's walls, looking at each other, they feel born again with a renewed sense of love. Henry asks Lucia, 

Did you have a good trip, darling? 

I can’t remember.

The Blob is Like The Socialist Revolution

 

It's a sultry Saturday morning in Key West. Lucia's sitting at her vanity in a ripped dressing gown and her big-size-floppy cans are showing.

Looking closely at her face in the oval mirror she wipes the beauty cream off it with a wet face cloth. 

She’s startled by Henry as he walks into the bedroom holding a tray with a cup of coffee on it and admonishes him, 

How about announcing yourself, whistle, or clear your throat, you scared me.

My hands were full sweetie. 

Use your mouth, say something, pendejo.

Is it hunting season between your legs?

So, you noticed my swollen nipples.

She pours a cup of coffee. He smiles at her saying, 

you have the most beautiful mama gamuosh babushka in the world. 

She has a coffee cup in one hand and her lipstick in the other. Het stares at her like any man stares at the woman he loves.

Her long, curly hair is roughed up, she’ll get her hair done at Carmen’s Cubano Salón on Duval Street later in the afternoon.

Lucia is combative this morning, she dials the wall phone in the kitchen, 

I need to eat or I'm going to faint, Henry

he dials a Chinese joint close by for takeaway, one  

Kum Den Chinese saying  

I need to speak with my Uncle Choy, it's important.

He's pulling the Chinamen's chains

Henry busy, busy, chopping fried wild lice with 魚和雞, adding herbs in the kitchen.

Curious, he wises up,

what's your name, 

Choy,

what about Thai massage? 

how much? 

We got a few local girls, Thai masseuses,

In that case, I'll sue, Godammit.  

Go ahead, I'm the executor, the will is going to be read next week at the civil courthouse in Morgantown. You're going to need a lawyer, I'd suggest Fredo Hammerschmidt. 

Never mind miss Clapper. I’m claustrophobic,  windowless rooms close in on me. Do me a favor will ya? Lay a petunia in Uncle Victor’s casket on his cock, it was his life's work.

That will be quite enough Mr. Lucowski, how dare you bushwhack your dead uncle? Thank you for your time, sir.

Betsy Clapper hangs up on him and Lucia who’s been listening asks,

what was that about? I take it your uncle died? I heard you talking like a Chinaman and disrespecting your dead uncle. What's come over you, idiota? 

My right arm's numb and I'm having heart palpitations. Is it indigestion or a mini-stroke? Would burping and farting at the same time help?

Henry, go to the bathroom if you need to pasar el gas. 

He obliges, walking to the privy and closing the door. Knowing it was over between he and his uncle—  dead, gone, done, and buried. 

Later, Henry’s at his desk working and Lucia comes into his study suggesting,

let’s go see a movie,

what’s playing?

Does it make a difference?

No.

They load their Coleman cooler with ice, cans of Budweiser, bottles of whiskey coolers, and snacks in the kitchen. 

As the sun sets, like clockwork at 8, they roll the cooler to their station wagon that's parked in the driveway. Their Chihuahuas, Che, and Mia follow, yapping, eager to go for a ride. 

Henry backs the wagon out of the driveway onto Peach Road, taking it to Highway 1. 

At Boca Chica Key, he follows Langley Avenue to the Starlight Drive-in Theater, wheeling the rig up to the ticket booth and asking the cashier, 

will my dogs need tickets, beautiful? 

The cashier, a piggish looking gal says, 

mister, there’s a line of cars behind you, I don’t have time to talk shit, you wanna see the film or not? 

He hands her a ten, he puts it in second gear moving on the stone driveway, greeted by two cranks with pompadours, wearing jumpsuits and twirling red-capped flashlights. 

Following their lead, he wheels 45 degrees and parks, so the car's front is resting on a stone mound, giving the lovers  

unimpeded view of the screen. 

Lucia opens the wagon’s windows to smell the sea breeze blowing off Jewfish Basin, the windward sea. 

A muffled tin-like sound comes through the cheap speaker hung on the driver-side window pane, watching cartoons on the screen, a drive-in’s lineup of  fried luck and salad, a box of popcorn, a cup of Coca-Cola with rounded eyeballs and insect legs, crooners doing the soft shoe in unison, singing the sales pitch, 

don’t forget to pick up some delicious soft drinks and popcorn at the concessions stand in the rear of the parking lot.

Lucia passes Henry a Bud from the ice cooler and grabs one for herself. On the big screen, the Road Runner's burning rubber, running circles around Wiley the Coyote, always getting the best of him. 

The Chis jump on Lucia’s lap, bracing their front paws on the dashboard, eyeballing the cartoon. She wonders, 

who do you think Chi and Mia are rooting for, the coyote or the roadrunner?

the roadrunner's the hero you know, of course, he always wins.

mi esposo, the know it all.

Another bit, advertising the junk for sale at the concession stand flashes on the screen— a three-dimensional waterfall of popcorn cascades out of the big screen onto the parking lot. This, fooling the Chis, who try to bat down the airborne kernels of corn with their paws. Lucia laughs saying, 

I love America.

The feature film comes on the screen. It’s the sixties’ sci-fi hit, The Blob. Henry asks, 

did you see The Blob in Cuba? 

You’re funny pendejo.

The couple’s full of anticipation as the opening score, Beware of the Blob by Burt Bacharach plays through the cheap-tin speaker.

In the opening scene a teenage kid named Steve, played by 28-year-old Steve Mc Queen, witnesses a meteor crash in a cornfield. When he goes to investigate, he finds an old man who is being consumed by what looks like a hand full of purple jam. Convinced the Blob is a ghoul, the kid runs to town to report the incident and of course, the sheriff thinks he’s crazy.

The flesh-eating-soulless Blob was brewed on mars, it expands, swelling up more with each living organism it gobbles up. The film which in theory is terrifying comes off as goofy. Lucia laughs and says,

el show es estupido, not scary! Henry laughs saying,

let's light a joint.

The Blob continues to expand, becoming a semi-truck size ball of goo that oozes into town, squeezing into the Colonial Theatre and absorbing a few hapless movie-goers.

As the Blob seeps out of the theater, the young hero, Steve, sprays it down with a fire extinguisher and notices the CO 2 fumes cause the jelly-bellied Blob to recoil. 

Steve then convinces a mob of angry town folk to grab every available fire extinguisher in town and spray the bugger down, freezing it in place. 

Later, the Air Force shows and tows the big-size ball of man-eating frozen jelly to a transport plane, dropping it into an arctic wasteland somewhere up north. 

When the film's over, Henry wheels his station wagon through the parking lot, driving south to Key West, asking Lucia if she enjoyed the quirky flick. She answers,

the Blob is like the Socialist Revolution, it wants to eat the world alive. In America, the good guys come in the end, pipi on the fire, and put it out.