Modern Art, Flying, & Pole Dancing

 

 

Five more minutes, I thought. If I can lay here five more minutes and allow my food to digest that’s all I need. 

Then I’ll lay two pillows against the baseboard of the bed and write about New York City.

Performance Art is scheduled at MoMa this month and at the Rico Shoe Cafe. 

My flight leaves from Key West International Airport in the afternoon. 

It’s early winter in the city I pack sweat socks, long khakis, jungle boots, sweatshirts, and a field jacket.  

I dress like I’m going to war, riding the Vespa, parking it at the airport. 

At the TWA  counter, they weigh my bag, I beg the agent, 

give me a seat next to a beautiful woman, in her 50s, with a good shape, 

no problem sir, enjoy your flight. 

I have a drink at the Conch Lounge, a shot of Gold Tequila, then another, I’m a paranoid flyer, sure this plane, Flight 366, is going to crash. I freak out when the plane vibrates, shit can happen, rivets can fall out, wings can fracture.

One passenger, an old Japanese lady, sprang up, hitting her head on the coach compartment— knocked out with a concussion.

I read about Madame Nogasu in Modern Mechanics or Popular Aviation.

Madame Nogasu, never flew again. She was awarded a lifetime air pass on TWA and a settlement of 200,000 dollars.  

TWA was Howard Hughe’s airline, he wore long hair and a beard before the Beatles and was an obsessive-compulsive junky. 

Flight 366 takes off at 2:34 PM.

I sit in seat 27C, an aisle seat. 

A drag queen puts her large handbag in the coach compartment, steps over my legs sitting in the B seat next to me. 

She’s hot in a Cleopatra wig with purple lipstick, braless in a low-cut dress showing off her tit job.

We hit it off right away, they turn the seat belt light off at 20,000 feet, and the ladyboy, Thelma Lou, undoes my seatbelt, it tickles, I feel torrid, Thelma Lou says, 

don’t cum in your pants cowboy. 

Queers have talent, William Burroughs, and Tennessee Williams, were queer Gods.

The Night of the Iguana by Williams, I know the plot from start to finish. 

The Reverend T. Lawrence Shannon in The Night of the Iguana was bipolar and so was Tennessee Williams, who wrote the play and the screenplay. Writers write about themselves. 

I’m a manic depressive on medication, I don’t like to write about it, people don’t need to be educated on depression. 

Anyone who’s been depressed knows it feels like shit. Thelma Lou tells me,

I’m Cher in the drag show at the Tarzan Club.

You’ve got one hellova shape, Thelma Lou.

You’re a naughty boy, you like gay sex? 

No, I can’t get it up, gay or straight, I don’t like sex. 

Good for you, We are what we are, dumb, evil, brilliant, handsome, crippled, bent, or gifted. You're bent and pretty Henry. 

TWA flight blah, blah, blah lands and the passengers are in a frenzy to get off the fucking plane. 

Henry and Thelma Lou take a taxi to the Chelsea Hotel, she has an apartment on the top floor decorated like a Tiki Bar.

Later they go out, dressing warm. Hannah Wilkes’ show is at the Tarzan Club, it’s a go-go bar where tranny and straight women poll dance— a non-smoking place where you can drink, but bring plenty of money. 

We sit at a small metal table. 

It’s a spartan club, unlike the techno clubs in the city.  

There’s no doorman, no lines of people, anybody can get in, it's a club for anonymous people with mostly 80s music.

Henry and Thelma Lou walk to Hanna Wilkes who’s standing at the bar, her hair's in rollers and wrapped in a Gucci scarf, she's wearing jeans, boots, a mohair sweater, and a man's sport coat.

Can I buy you a drink, Miss Wilkes?

yeah, a martini,

he introduces himself and his friend, 

I'm Henry and she's Thelma Lou. Wilkes wonders,

are you artists? 

She’s a dancer and I write, are you going to perform tonight?

no, the owner doesn’t pay, the dancers live on tips, this is a dump, I’m not a stripper, I hate it, let's go to the Whitehorse. 

Hanna, Henry, and Thelma Lou walk 10 blocks to the Whitehorse, eating in a booth— steak, lobster, with caviar sauce pasta, and pitchers of 0.0 Heineken. They share a hash cookie for dessert. 

Henry pays the bill it's over 200 dollars.

They take a cab to Hannah's loft in the Hassidic neighborhood. 

Hannah unlocks a rusted metal door and they take a freight elevator to the 5th floor, entering a large brick and wood-beamed space with furniture and a bar. Her abstract paintings are on the walls. Hannah's work is soft and reflects nature. We drink rum and coke and the artist says desperately,

I want to write plays, it’s cheaper and not messy like painting.

One Bloody Day

 

I’m broke again. There are only two things wrong with money— too much or too little. And here I am down at the too little stage again, and you can't live on luck.

My mobile phone rings, 

hello, I answer,

Henry baby, how ya doin?

It’s Rico Shoe, the publisher of The Headbangers Ball, a hip New York rag, 

I’m busted, Rico, 

Well, it’s your lucky day my man, I've transferred 2 grand to your bank account for a story, 10 pages or so, email it to me.

You’re a lifesaver Rico, love ya baby. 

Henry, write freely, a dirty philosophic bit. 

You got it, Rico.

Dirty philosophic? What the fuck is that, maybe Rico Shoe read

F*ck sEx, or Cunnilingus is Dangerous.

I'll write a story about the day, spontaneous prose.

I step into the shower, and slip, bruising my shin, getting out and walking it off like a soccer player. 

Slipping in the tub is a sign of things to come.

Sitting on the bed in front of a mirror, I braid my hair like  Sitting Bull. Among Indians, long free flowing hair represents freedom of life. That's what I want, independence from the need for money, that's a laugh.

Dressed for the beach in cutoffs, a Hawaiin shirt, and rubber slippers, I step outside, locking the door to keep the thieves out, I don’t want any homeless bums getting at my stash of beer and whiskey.

In minutes I’m sitting at Frank’s Bar, on Duvall, drinking 3 Boilermakers, dropping shots of whiskey into mugs of beer.

I’m no Charles Bukowski but I love beer and whiskey.

Have you heard people say? 

Nobody gets in fistfights or robs banks on weed. 

Well, how the hell do they know? Robbers and brawlers can be on anything, most likely Methamphetamine. 

Frank asks, 

what you up to, Henry? 

I’m gonna write a story on the day's happenings for a New York rag, whatever comes down the track.

You're quite the philosopher, Henry. 

Frank, a writer needs to be inventive. 

I pay for the drinks and walk to Higgs Beach, a nude beach, getting naked like everyone else and thinking, 

people come in all shapes and sizes. There are fat and thin folks, women with boobs the size of basketballs, ladies who have huge nipples but no chest. Thin guys with wrinkled skin that are hung like burros, and fat guys who don't have cocks at all.

I’m thin, nice to look at, but not hung, I don't like paying for dates. 

I rub sunblock on my body, and sit in the sand, smoking a joint and trancing out on the mind-blowing teal color of the Sand Keys Channel.

Hot, I run towards the sea, taking a spill in the sand, it’s a dead giveaway that I’m soused. The nudists think it's funny.

Standing up, I give it another shot, diving into the breaking waves and swimming out far enough to paddle in place, rubbernecking like a fool for a Great White to show and gobble me up like an Hors D'oeuvre. It’s the fucking pot, it makes you paranoid. 

I feel tiny fish, Gara rufa, nibbling on my legs.

Wading ashore, I put my shorts and slippers on, walking south past Higgs Beach. 

A pathway into the jungle triggers my attention. I walk into it foolishly without a machete.

They say there are Rattlesnakes in the bushes and poisonous trees with sap that can kill you if you brush your fingers and suck on your fingers.

Soon I’m lost, feeling like the bushes are wrapped around me like 2 giant arms. 

The area is full of potential hazards, but what does me in is the large thorns of the Aurel Greenbrier bushes, puncturing my skin. At this point, I’m hurting and pissed, so I run like a maniac toward the sound of the waves and dive into the sea. The seawater absorbs the blood and stops the bleeding for a while.

Walking the shore past Higgs beach people look at me in the oddest way, like I'm a zombie.

I make my way to Key West Medical Center, walking, I hate ambulances because the drivers are uptight you're going to puke in their vehicles.

After my wounds are treated I take a cab to my bungalow. In the study, I type the day's story on my laptop and email it to Rico Shoe. 

The following day Shoe calls, saying

Henry, baby, the story couldn't have been better if a Great White bit off your arm.

Ha ha, Rico, funny man, funny man. 

Henry Consults Jesus

 

I’m poor, worthless, miserable, and sick, my hot-tempered father used to beat the shit out of my mother and me, once kicking my mother and breaking her leg, I guess I should have called the cops, but I was in shock.

No wonder I’m depressed.  

So I go to a shrink, Dr. Dipshitz on Duvall Street.

I sit on a hard plastic chair, it must be 90* in the waiting room. For entertainment, I eyeball the other headcases, who tremble and look down, fearful of eye contact. 

An hour later it's my turn, I'm sweating and smell like a wet dog. 

Mr. Lucowski, Dr. Dipshitz will see you now.

Sitting in front of the doctor’s desk, I stare at taxidermic Parrot Fish, as long as your arm, that's plastered on his wall. Then the questions begin.  

Henry, what was your early family life like?

It was a total shit-storm, Doc, I’m lucky I got out alive.

Do you have any friends? 

Real friends you can touch, no, but I have 20,000 followers on Twitter. 

Are you a loner? 

Well, I’m different for sure. I’m a writer, I think artists tend to be loners.

When was the last time you cut your hair, is the messy hair a statement?

Is your balled head a statement Doc? 

It’s genetic, my mom's uncle was bald. 

When was the last time you had sexual intercourse, Henry? 

A month ago with a Cuban hooker. 

Was it satisfying for you? 

No, she smelled like mackerel. 

How do you spend your time? 

Laying in bed writing and listening to music on my laptop. 

Do you watch TV a lot? 

Yes, 

How about exercise? 

None, whatsoever. 

Henry, your depression is the result of your hard-hearted early family life, and your sedentary lifestyle sitting in front of your computer and TV. I’m going to prescribe electroshock, and   Lexa-Pro, 40 Mg per day.

That sounds frightful Dipshitz, do I have a choice Doc? 

Yes, of course, Henry,

No.

As I'm Walking out of the clinic, it’s hot, midafternoon, so I duck into a Catholic church, Iglesia De Dios Restauracion. It’s empty except for an old lady dressed in black who lights a few candles and splits.

I eyeball the crucifix on the west end of the church behind the altar— carved from maple wood. 

Compelled I lower the cushioned hassock and kneel, looking at Jesus on the cross who has Jamaican features. 

I freak out as Jesus speaks, his wooden lips opening and closing, saying, 

Henry, don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today’s trouble is enough for today,

You got that right Jesus. 

I'm nervous and Jesus knows it saying, 

fear not Henry, I am with you— don’t be dismayed,  I will help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

I feel like Jesus can see through my soul, asking Him, 

Is it lonely on the cross? 

The image on the cross is a vehicle, so we can connect. At this moment I’m seated at the right hand of God who has placed all things under my feet. I can feel everything in every way. 

So, end suffering, Jesus.