Confessing to Father Ruiz

Henry's in his study, pencil drumming quadruple time to the  Miles Davis jam— Miles Runs the Voodoo Down. He realizes his rent is overdue, remembering the letter his landlord sent him.

Dear Mr. Lucowski,

Off to Europe, chasing my dream. I have no idea when I'll be back, so, send your rent money to my local bank.

Edward Ludnik

Wells Fargo Bank

Account # 361428754 

Call Sid Hamm the handyman, his numbers listed, for home repairs. Of course, the work is on your dime. 

Yours Truly,

Ed

Henry's rattled by the letter thinking, 

Repairs on my dime? If the rent wasn't so cheap I'd call Ludnik or Hamm and tell them to take a hike— What if a hurricane flattens the bungalow?  

More importantly, he notices two flies copulating on his desk. He waits till they're finished, have gotten off, or whatever it is flies do, then, swishes the fornicators off his desk, blowing gently in their vicinity.

Lucia, Henry's Cuban wife, walks into his office looking glum and says, 

do you think I’m fat darling?

She has a statuesque body, like Sophia Loren, not anorexic like runway models. Henry ribs her saying,

You need liposuction. The obesity specialist can suck your fat out through a tube. If you like they can put it in a jar so you can see it. Better lay off the beer and tortillas.

She breaks down and sobs, he gets out of his chair, walks to her, gives her a big hug, and says,

just kidding babe, you’re perfect.

Last night Henry, Lucia, and their lover Summer Wynd watched a TV documentary on the Salt Lake City Mormons. 

The program was lifeless, and the documented Mormons were blank and colorless.

What on Earth or Heaven moved Jesus slash God, the many-hued and majestic one, to spawn the dry as dust tribe of Mormon? 

Mormons have a health code that eschews— booze, dope, tobacco, tea, coffee. And, as you might guess, a law of chastity that prohibits sex until, and outside of marriage.  

So when it comes to Mormons you can say, 

Hard and fast laws and codes make Jack a dull boy.

Eventually, Henry caves in— unable to bear the lackluster TV Mormons, switching to the Oldies Channel, watching Mr. Ed, the only horse in history other than Black Beauty, that speaks. 

Lucia, who's half-asleep, says to him,

you had sex yet?

You mean today? 

I mean, with her.

Who’s that? 

Amy, the Black girl,

you're the only one I want.

You don’t need me, you need a shrink.

I’ve talked to Dr. Kidney recently. 

And, what did he say? 

Tell me what you think? And, that’ll be  200 Dollars. 

It didn’t help, you’re still crazy.

Why?

Because you paid 200 Dollars for nothing, pendejo.

More on the Mormons as Hunter S. Thompson sees it— referencing Utah’s bid for the 2002 Winter Olympic Games, laying bugoo blame for the lost bid on the LDS.

Corruption is a way of life in Utah, and they seem to like it that way. Mormons have been beating and cheating each other since the arrival of Brigham Young In 1847— He was a stern gentleman, they say, and nobody argued when he made Utah the permanent Kingdom of the Mormon Church and everything it stood for. 

It’s the Mormon way of life, a handful of gimme and a mouth full of much obliged. 

By midnight the girls are sound asleep. Mr. Ed, Bewitched, and The Munsters are over and the Indian Head Test Pattern defiantly projects light beams out of TV sets everywhere in South Florida.

Henry lights a joint, staring at the Test Pattern, figuring, the eery TV graphic signifies something deeper than the end of the programing day.

The girls are passed out, slouched, on the living room sofa— Henry sleepwalks to the bedroom, flopping down on the unmade bed with his clothes on. 

Deep in NREM sleep, he hears a high-pitched and mocking voice calling his name, figuring it's a parrot perched in a tree somewhere.

Henry……. Henry……. Henry— then,

you’re never gonna amount to nothing son, writing isn’t a job, it’s a hobby, get a real job!

He realizes it’s the voice of his dead father Buddy Lucowski, an itinerate lingerie salesman who drove the East Coast in an old Caddilac selling his ware. 

Henry wakes abruptly in a cold sweat, relieved the encounter was only a dream. Then, walking to the bathroom, opening the mirrored medicine cabinet, reaching for a bottle of Valium, and taking a couple. 

The travails of progenitors and their offspring linger on forever, passed from generation to generation.

Lucia, walks into his study and says, 

Darling, there's something I need to tell you. I grew up on a plantation outside of Havana. My family was poor, my mother had twelve kids, and my father drank himself to death. 

When I was sixteen I left the plantation and moved to Havana. I was broke and forced to do things I didn't want to do, selling my body even. He laughs, 

Yeah, I know, the night we met at El Gato Bar, you hustled me out of 4000 Pesos. Go Confess to Father Ruiz at Saint Marys, the sooner the better.

As the gravity of her inner peril tugs on her, she puts on a conservative black dress, picks up a Rosary from her bed stand, runs out of the house, and cranks up the Vespa scooter, making a B-line to Saint Marys.

At Saint Marys, she parks on the sidewalk and goes inside the modern pink church. The pews in the Nave are empty, so she walks past the Altar into the Presbytery, where the Padre's drinking Sacramental wine, drunk as a saint. He’s startled to see Lucia, saying to her in Spanish, 

la Iglesias es closed Señora, El Padre es ruminating.  

Por favor Padre, necesito confesar— Please I beg you!

Father Ruiz says in English,

 OK, go to the Confessional, Señora

Lucia waits anxiously for twenty minutes inside the confessional, kneeling in front of the latticed screen. When Father Ruiz shows, she makes the sign of the Cross and says prayerfully,

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, my last confession was two years ago. 

Padre, I sold my body in Havana. And, I've engaged in sins of the flesh, with two lovers at once, my husband and our girlfriend. I use drugs and drink daily. This is all I can remember, I’m sorry for my sins. Father Ruiz says, 

Bless you, my child, Jesus loves you so much that he forgave your sins before you walked in the door. 

Your penance will be a personal offering and work of mercy. Go to The Tipsy Rooster Liquor store, across the street, and buy three gallons of Mogen David wine and have them delivered to the Presbytery. 

Father Ruiz then says the Prayer of Absolutions,

May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace, mercy, and love for humankind, guide and watch over you, Amen.

Lucia makes the sign of the Cross, stands up, stumbling to regain her balance because her knees are numb from kneeling.

As she walks out of Saint Marys to The Tipsy Rooster, she feels uplifted and free from mental burdens thinking, 

Jesucristo, Confessing to Father Ruiz was a miracle!

Truly a Pro

 

Henry sucks down a beer as he looks out the window of his study at the rows of manicured lawns in his neighborhood thinking,  

my neighbors would slip into comas without their lawnmowers, spreaders, trimmers, rakes, and hand trowels. I'm gonna let my grass go to seed, like a field of Kansas wheat.

Then, death comes to mind,

it's always there, waiting somewhere near, ready to pounce. Grim Reaper, you fucking bloodsucker, go knock on my neighbor's door.

He thumbs through an underground paper, the lead story's on Lenny Bruce. Lenny was funny at times, his comedy bit, I Can’t Cum was a masterpiece. But his later bits in clubs were pure legalese, not funny, dwelling on his court problems, performing junked wearing nothing but a pair of loafers and a London Fog raincoat.

Henry’s Cuban wife Lucia and their lover Summer Wynd walk into his study and hug him, tussling his hair, 

don’t mess up my hair, it’ll mat, I don't want dreadlocks. So, what're you girls up to? Summer Wynd answers,

We’re going to Jamaica with Dirk the lifeguard on his boyfriend's cigarette boat, they're leaving from Dog Beach in an hour. We've made reservations at a gay resort, Cum on the Beach. 

Cum on the Beach huh? Enticing, gay resorts are a bit over the top don't ya think? I'll take a rain check, sweetie.

OK, love, we gotta pack and get going.

Henry's been writing a story on Larry Flynt, Hustler Magazine publisher, and a founding father of monthly flesh mags— full of hotties with their legs spread, flashing pink.

As the sun sets, he showers, oils, and combs his long hair,  dresses, then putting on shorts, and a tank top. He realizes writing the bit on Larry Flynt has unleashed a powerful bodily urge, for sex and an In & Out Burger.

Leaving home, he backs his 73 Chevy Malibu Wagon out of the feeble wooden garage, backing down the driveway to the street.

The structure's standing on a whim and a prayer, ready to collapse any moment, having been eaten by a tribe of fat and happy termites.

Henry's planning a rowdy demolition party— an open house for his neighbors that'll jack em up beyond their formulated existences.

He’ll rent a mini bulldozer, put on a football helmet and a pair of safety glasses—  rev the dozer's engine on the street, then let the tractor rip full-tilt boogie down the driveway, plowing into the frail wooden garage. Repeating the process until the structure's pulverized. 

Summer Wynd will videotape the demolition-extravaganza for posterity, those poor souls who come after us.

Driving his Malibu wagon, he skims the perimeter of Key West on A1A, then, then spanning Highway 1 bridge on his way to the next island, Cow Key— home of a small Air Force base with an unknown number of B-1 Strategic Bombers deep in a concrete bunker revved to embark on sallies to Cuba at the behest of any old wild-eyed SAC commander and blow the Lilliputian island sky-high. 

The GIs stationed on Cow Key spend every minute of their 24-hour furloughs at the island's strip clubs.

After cruising the back roads, Henry wheels into the crushed stone parking lot of a joint called Booty Call.

Parking, he gets out of his car and looks at his watch, it’s 8 PM. 

There's a biker at the entrance wearing his colors— an Outlaw's patch comprised of a skull centered on two crossed pistons. 

The Outlaw's colors resemble a Nazi SS's Death Head insignia— much of their paraphernalia is Nazi-style because it rattles mainstream Americans. 

Bonafide bikers aren't anti-semitic per se, but the gangs are segregated — the Hell's Angels only accept Whites, the Bandidos only recruit Hispanics, and none of the gangs want Blacks, so Blacks put together their own clubs such as the Hells Egos, Outcasts, and Magic Wheels.

The cover in Booty Call is 20 bucks, including two drinks. 

Inside, there're four poles where stripers are in various stages of getting naked. The sounds of Motorhead's Thunder and Lighting are blaring through large black speakers suspended on chains from the ceiling. The vibe's

barking mad, and sinister to boot.

The strip joint’s plush, the booth seating, table chairs, and bar stools are upholstered with purple velvet

There’s a surprisingly good light show bright enough to get a view of the tits and ass on parade.

Henry sits at the bar, the bartender’s a light-skinned Black gal wearing a bikini, her hair's TWA style, a blond teeny weenie afro. She asks, 

What-ta-ya have handsum? 

how bout a boilermaker?

We don't get many long hairs here, just GIs from the base.

I haven’t cut my hair in twenty years, I’m Tonsure-phobic. 

Hope u ain't sex-phobic baby,

why, do you trick? 

Sure, gotta pay for Pampers you know.

What time you get off beautiful? 

Midnight,

where you staying? 

Bahamian Village with my Aunty,

you gotta name? 

Sure do, Amy Williams, and yours? 

Henry, Henry Lucowski. 

Whataya do, 

I’m a freelance writer. 

What about your old lady?

I got two of em, but they’re away, gone to Jamaica with two gay friends.

I’ll take real good care of you for 250 baby, 

no problem, you take credit cards? 

You'll funny, Henry.

Amy's enchanting, so much that Henry's tuned out the sounds of the booty-crazed GIs egging the dancers on—

come on, come on, shake that thang, take it off, take it off.  

At midnight a dancer, Brandy, shows to relieve Amy, who counts her bank then lifts the cash tray from the register, looking at Henry saying, 

Baby, what kinda car you got? 

A 73 Chevy Malibu Wagon, I’ll be sitting on the hood,

OK.

She walks with her cash tray in hand to the boss's office.

40 minutes later Amy comes out of Booty Call in jeans, and a hoody. She and Henry get in the station wagon, sitting in the front seat she begins bum rapping the owner, a guy named Stan. 

Stan, my boss, counted my bank over and over, comin on to me, I get tired of his shit. Henry changes the subject,

what about your kids?

They stay with my Aunty.

As he drives out of the parking lot towards Highway 1 he lights a joint, they pass it back and forth, Amy puts her hand between his legs and he says, 

You're making me horny, 

your ladies don’t take care of you, doll? 

Yeah sure, but there's nothin like fresh trim.

In no time Henry's wheeling his station wagon into the bungalow driveway, parking there, afraid the garage is going to collapse.

In the house, the quick lovers go to the living room and Amy sits on the sofa.

Whataya have to drink sweetie?  

Crown and Seven, 

OK, babe, you got it.

He walks to the kitchen and mixes a couple Crown and Sevens, bringing them back to the living room. 

Amy's turned the TV on, watching Woodstock, the bit where Sly and the Family Stone are playing, I Want to Take you Higher. She's in her underwear dancing. Henry's turned on saying,

Your body's perfect, I love it, 

I’m wet honey, let’s go to the bedroom. 

In the bedroom the quick lovers flop on the unmade bed, doing 69, balling hot and heavy. 

At noon the following morning, they wake, shower, then Amy wraps up in Lucia’s silk kimono. Henry pulls his hair back, wrapping it with a thick rubber band. They go to the kitchen and he makes brunch—an omelet, bagels and lox, bloody marys, and plenty of brewed coffee with hot milk. 

After brunch they walk to the back yard, stepping over the thick crawling vines and through the piles of fallen palm stalks, then getting naked and getting in the warm and bubbly wooden hot tub, making out, playing touchy-feely. 

Twenty minutes later, Lucia and Summer Wynd walk in the front door of the bungalow, hearing splashing and giggling in the back yard, they walk to the hot tub. Summer Wynd says,

we didn't make it to Jamaica, the cigarette boat's engine died, Dirk sent out an SOS and the Coast Guard eventually showed. Lucia says, 

who’s your friend Henry? You don’t waste any time puta de mierda.

Oh, Amy Williams, I'm glad you guys made it home safe.

Resigned to it all, the girls strip and get in the hot tub, in not time the scene morphs into an orgy. Amy says to Henry, 

that’ll be 450, extra for the girls, you cool with that?  

Amy was truly a pro.

Hate, Zits, & Spirituality

                                                                       

As Henry edits Hate, Zits, & Spirituality, he's getting a sinking feeling the story is rubbish— his inner anger and hate seep between the lines, hemorrhaging through the story's seams.

Regardless, he'll publish the wounded bit. 

As the French say, 

Comme on fait son lit, on se couche. 

You've made your bed now lie on it. 

People are going to do what they do and you can’t tell them what to do because their egos tell them they know it all.

They feel love and hate inside, but it’s not cool to come off as a hater, so we hate in private, or share it with our best friend.

The less you hate the better, but hating feels good, it's addictive, like junk, cigarettes, or In and Out Burgers.

Hitler, Vlad the Impaler, and Pol Pot were consumed with hate. 

Gandhi, Jesus, Moses, and Buddha transcended hate. 

Willy Nelson the cowboy Buddha says this about hate— 

Every negative thought you have makes poisons that go into your system that will kill you and give you cancer, tumors, or whatever you can think of. 

Willy is spot on, if you’re a person who values longevity, being mellow pays off. 

But for many, rage and temper addictions are a bitch to conquer— Henry is one.

When you’re raging mad, your foot slips off the brake and you puke nasty words all over who or whatever.

Surely, going postal spritzes a few ounces of poison-ridden adrenaline throughout your system.

People who blow up regularly in public, commonly known as Type A Personalities, should be required by law to wear warning lanyards with index card-sized badges reading,

WARNING, I’M EMOTIONALLY RIGGED TO EXPLODE. MY FURY CAN BE HAZARDOUS TO ANYONE IN A THREE-METER RADIUS.  

When anger meets restraint anger usually wins— 

I’m trying to hold it in, BUT, you two-bit pint-sized motha fucker, your mama...

Meditation, and or Valium can soothe anger. 

Meditating on Valium is a boon.

During the sixties, the US Public Health Department directed municipal water systems across the nation to put fluoride in their water supplies because it helped prevent cavities. 

Kids living in the sixties consumed so much candy and pop that the fluoride in the city water systems failed to save them from tooth decay.

You could put Valium in the local water supplies, but nobody drinks tap water anymore. 

Since a lot of people drink Coca-Cola— Cherry Coke, Orange Coke, Diet Coke, Vanilla Coke, Watermelon Coke, Coffee Coke, let's put Valium in Coca-Cola.

Most folks love the mellow feeling they experience on Valium because the drug is relaxing and their troubles disappear. 

Big pharma, pharmacist, and physicians keep Valium under lock and key, doling it out, doing their part supporting the Food and Drug Administration and the DEA in the war on high times and fun in America.

Why not make Valium legal and put it in Coca-Cola to boot?

America and the world need Valium Coca-Cola, NOW. 

Leon Russell, the Hall of Fame rock star, composer, and session man played on endless recording sessions, with— The Supremes, Dion, Aretha Franklyn, George Harrison, Joe Cocker, JJ Cale, Tina Turner, Cher, to name a few.

As a rule of thumb, he made it a point to keep his mouth shut while working sessions because he despised the scene, thinking it was pretentious. 

On one occasion, while working a Phil Spector produced Cher recording session, Spector told Leon to treat him with respect. Leon Russell then jumps on top of his piano, and begins boogalooing, saying to Spector, 

fuck you. 

Everybody working the session, including Cher, laughed like loons for 10 minutes. The nut-job Phil Spector didn't find it funny.

Leon left the session and never worked for Spector again, going on to compose his own songs— a string of novel, high-powered, and emotionally stirring rock albums. 

As the newly released Leon Russell and the Shelter People CD played in a New York City limousine on a rainy night in Manhattan, the passenger, Aretha Franklyn, asked the driver to set the song on repeat,  

Aretha listened to Leon's song, Stranger in a Strange Land over and over. After the twelfth replay, she began to cry.

Freddie Mercury, the lead singer of  Queen spent his professional life fussing over his severe hormonal acne. 

He spent millions of Euros on creams, medications, make-up, even having his face sanded by a dermatologist with 200-grade sandpaper until pinpoint bleeding was observed, then having his facial area massaged with creme disinfectant and a special potion.

Freddie’s dressing room at Queen concerts was off-limits to everyone, even band members. Only his makeup artist, Jan Sewell was allowed in to do his makeup, put on his prosthetic nose, and secure veneers over his crooked teeth. 

When the concerts ended, venue janitors were tasked with cleaning the mess in Freddie’s green rooms, stinking of glue, nail polish remover, and hydrocortisone.

The dressing rooms were also awash with used cotton balls and wads of paper tissues. Walking through them was like wading throw a snowy field.

Charles Bukowski, legendary barfly, recalcitrant, and laureate of American lowlife, had worse acne than Freddie Mercury— Acne Conglobata.

Buk suffered mightily from acne during the late thirties when he attended Los Angeles High School. 

He writes in his book Ham and Rye about taking ROTC instead of gym, because he was ashamed to wear shorts, exposing the boils on his legs. 

Around this time, his old man, Heinrich, finally sent Charles to a dermatology clinic where a nurse spent hours painfully sucking pus and blood out of his large cysts and boils with a syringe. After a few weeks of the horrid process, Buk’s face and body looked worse. 

At the advent of World War II, Buk dropped out of Los Angeles Community College because he was failing courses, wanting to drink and write when he wasn't working at the post office.

By the fifties, Bukowski’s Acne Conglobata was a non-issue. Freddie Mercury, on the other hand, obsessed over his zits for the rest of his life. 

Mercury was homosexual, and looks are an issue in the gay community. 

In Bukowski’s barfly world, LA rummy bars such as— King Eddy’s Inn, Frolic Inn, and The Spot, looks meant nothing, buying drinks, particularly for women, was everything.

Recently while writing Henry was experimenting with Kush weed, a 65 percent THC strain. He smoked every few hours for four days. At first, the buzz was magic, he loved the feeling, and never wanted to stop.

By the third day mental fog and paranoia set in, and he couldn't focus on writing.

On the fourth day, he gave the weed to his Cuban wife Lucia and their lover Summer Wynd— realizing weed didn’t work for him anymore.

Here's a beat-up adage that’s been around for the last couple of centuries, longer even, possibly coined by Shakespear.

one man’s meat is another man’s poison.

So, Henry decides to give up the pot and drink moderately, augmenting booze using Valium and Tramadol (synthetic opium), thinking,  

God fucking forbid, the last thing I want to do is booze urban fashion, like the rolling rich bimbees on the made-for-TV soaps Dallas and Dynasty— sipping zinfandel from tall stemmed wine glasses by the pool and in their marble and stainless steel kitchens at 1O AM in the morning. 

There's a film, Down and Out in Beverly Hills, where— 

a high-strung coat hanger magnate, Dave Whiteman (Richard Dreyfus) rescues a bum Jerry Baskin (Nick Nolte) from drowning in Dave’s swimming pool. 

Jerry's invited to stay at the Whiteman's Beverly Hills mansion by Dave's anxious and horny wife, Barbara (Bette Midler), and their bigender son Max.

Not particularly wanting to give up bumhood, Jerry accepts the invite anyway.

One day by the pool, the woebegone tramp bonds with the family dog Mattise, who has one blue eye and one black and is depressed, teaching him to fetch. 

Soon, Mattise is on top of the world, happy as a pup. 

Barbara who’s sexually frustrated because she and Dave haven't had sex in years is beguiled by Jerry’s hoodoo on Mattise, so she fucks him while Dave’s at work, having orgasms upon orgasms.

Then Jerry bangs the young and sensual Mexican housemaid, Frida, who's been having a fuckfest with Dave Whiteman for over a year.

Frida tells Dave she's balled Jerry,  jealous he plots revenge on the sagacious bum.

Soon the two smoke dope together and spend the night talking about life by the pool, ultimately bonding.

Everyone in the Whiteman family is unhappy, Barbara's sexually frustrated, Dave's strung out because he's overworked, their son Max wants to tell them he's gay but can’t, and their daughter Jenny, played by Ricky Nelson’s daughter Tracy is anorexic. A good part for her because she was anorexic in real life back then,

Dropped by the gods from Heaven, Jerry the bum's brain is mush because the drinks 5 pints of port every day.

Walt Witman wrote money never made any man free.

The moral here is— holy fuck, shit, puke.

Money can’t underwrite happiness, but spirituality can.