Authors: Great Jones Street
“Spain,” I said into the phone. “Get me the Spain the tourist never sees.”
“When are you getting out of here, Bucky? Don’t you want to make some sounds? You haven’t written anything, you haven’t played, you haven’t even hummed. What the hell, man.”
“What the hell, man.”
“You should be playing.”
“You should be dealing,” I said. “Where’s your man? If your man doesn’t show up, where are you then? You’ll have to go back to Texas and manage your daddy’s empire. You want to deal, that’s dealing. Why’d you ever leave? Come up here in this freezing gray slush. Hang around in that little bed waiting for some long-time weird geek bureaucrat to drive up in his pimpmobile and knock on your door. It makes no sense.”
“Could be you’re right. But I know one thing. My eyes need contrast.”
“Spain,” I said into the phone.
Several days later people of various sorts appeared in the room. Some I knew; others were unknown to me. I sat in the bowl-shaped canvas chair. Opel led the celebrants around me. I nodded, blinked and occasionally touched another’s jutting hand. I had little to say but was sure no one would mind. They already knew my voice. It was my presence they were eager to record, the simple picture of man-in-chair, a memory print to trade for other people’s time. Slowly the room began to fill. It became obvious the original ten were intent on trebling. People spoke of where they lived, in what shamble of rooms or post-atomic street. Of their health, poor and poorer. Of bands of howling boys abroad in NoHo. Of distant spring on the banks of the East River, stoic picnickers watching bodies rise to the surface, braided in weed and pecked by idle fish. Someone mentioned the loft he’d just moved into, a large windy place, floors buckled and humped, no lights without a kite and key. Of teen-age wino communes. Tia Maria modeled (draped) for art students at Cooper Union. Chester Greenlee panhandled on Eighth Street, wearing a Mickey Mouse mask. Miss Mott lived alone on Mott Street, as in the past, called Miss Rivington, she’d lived on Rivington Street, and on Canal Street as Miss Canal. She was in her late sixties (it was speculated), a collector of Dad’s Root Beer bottles and copies of the
Wall Street Journal. 1
took a breath and then another. A man smoked a pipe, sitting with legs jauntily crossed, dressed in patched corduroy. The neon creepies chatted and wept, bad teeth, worse posture.
“This is the last party.”
“Look, I’m wearing my forty-dollar chinchilla Luv Glove. It’s a gesture. We need gestures today. People’s stomachs are shrinking with fear. We need to wear each other’s underwear. I issue this edict. Wear each other’s underwear. It’s a gesture of faith in each other. It’s the end of fear.”
“Oh God my head. Oh my whole mind. My limbs and extremities. Oh God my hair, my nails, my pores.”
“I’m troubled by movie dreams. Glamorous faces appear and disappear. All the great names. I find it troubling for some reason. I wake up fearful and unsettled. The faces are sad. Maybe that’s it. The sadness of great fame. The famous movie dead. Dead but not dead. That’s why I’m unsettled maybe. Because they’re unsettled. Dead but not really dead. Never really dead. The whole concept of movies is so fundamentally Egyptian. Movies are dreams. Pyramids. Great rivers of sleep. The great and the glamorous with their legendary sphinxlike profiles. I wake up trembling.”
“This is the last party.”
“I was all set to wear my sequined baby-doll nightie from Frederick’s of Hollywood and come crashing out of a big freaky birthday cake. But I settled for the Luv Glove. Nobody makes gestures today. We’re all scrunched up like piglets being born. Opel, mail me some underwear so I’ll feel better. Yours and Bucky’s. Lycra, mail Bucky your underwear, one or two things. It’s a gesture of faith. People need each other. I issue this edict. A chain letter with underwear enclosed. Everybody who gets the letter mails one pair of underwear to the next name on the list. If nobody breaks the chain, we end up with sixty-four pairs of underwear each. Of and for the people. I’m pro-people. This is a people thing.”
“Of course I act like a child. Of course I revert. Of course I’m anal.”
“Burnt skin, Opel, use mink oil soap. And your hair looks like an Arab’s been chewing on it. Use a comb to style. Use a brush to condition. And rinse with Jell-O, sweetmeat.”
I continued to breathe, never before conscious of the effort needed to generate this act. People passed supernaturally across the room, leaving contrails of smoke and scented ash. Others settled around me, moving their lips. All were breathing, sullenly pumping blood, embarked together on a perverse miracle. Our movable parts carried us past the edge of every deathly metaphysic. Our organs, lifted from our bodies, plucked out with silver pincers and left laboring on bright Tiffany trays, would comprise the finest exhibit of our ability to endure. Euphoric with morphine we’d be wheeled among them, noting proportions and contours, admiring the beauty of what we were. In death, our opened bellies dripping, we’d be placed in refrigerated elevators and sent soundlessly into the earth. Above, our organs would be tagged and stored. Or, if found defective, fed to the poor.
“It’s axiomatic that history is a record of events. But what of latent history? We all think we know what happened. But did it really happen? Or did something else happen? Or did nothing happen?”
The pipe-smoking man crossed and uncrossed his legs, a shade of vaudeville in the genealogy of his movements. He banged the pipe into an ashtray, inspected the bowl, blew into the stem, inserted a grimy pipe cleaner. Around him people spaced from birth passed chocolate kisses hand to hand. The pipe-smoking man began to refill his pipe, treating the instrument with appropriate manly endearment.
“I’m Morehouse Professor of Latent History at the Osmond Institute. But I don’t occupy the Morehouse Chair. I occupy the Houseman Chair. This professorship deals with events that almost took place, events that definitely took place but remained unseen and unremarked on, like the action of bacteria or the rising and falling of mountain ranges, and events that probably took place but were definitely not chronicled. Potential events are often more important than real events. Real events that go unrecorded are often more important than recorded events, whether real or potential. At one time sixty per cent of the population of black Africa was white. We have tools and femurs. But we’re not sure what happened to this blue-eyed race. Were they wiped out by wars and disease? Did they sail away in long wooden ships? We’re still sifting materials at the Homer Richmond Blount Memorial Wing of the Institute and we hope to have some answers very soon. One of the major thrusts of latent history is to avoid a narrow purview. We’re presently assembling evidence about the French Revolution indicating that a dissident faction of the sans-culottes used to assemble secretly under cover of dark for the sole purpose of wearing culottes. They’d strut around all night in foppish knee breeches. An orgy of strutting and posturing. At daybreak they’d get into tight-fitting pantaloons and go back to their revolutionary activities. History is never clean. In some cases less happened than we suspect. In other cases we merely suspect that less happened. It’s axiomatic that people in the Middle Ages went to bed early. We’re studying this to learn what effect it had on the Hundred Years’ War dragging on for as long as it did. Latent history never tells us where we stand in the sweep of events but rather how we can get out of the way. I myself am currently doing a paper proving that the Reformation, as such, never took place. The Counter Reformation was a response to something that never happened, as such. The Nile once flowed into the Amazon. We have sediment to prove it. What dreams did it carry? How much of the blood and poetic impulse of all of us? These are among our central concerns at the Institute.”
Lloyd Boyd stood in the doorway, then spotted me and came over. Lloyd was an actor who’d recently served time on a charge of reckless endangerment. Since his release he’d been living in Grand Central Station, sleeping on benches or in the doorways of clam bars. He told me he tried to think of Grand Central Station as his apartment. One room but a nice size. High ceiling. Nice big window. Marble floor. Centrally located, always important for an actor making the rounds. A little bit noisy and could be more heat. But the high ceiling made up for everything.
“I got depressed so I took an antidepressant.”
“As -who wouldn’t?”
Lycra Spandex lived with her mother and sister in Lefrak City. I didn’t know where Vegemato lived. Lynn Forney lived with Notorious Nora and the Seventh Fleet on Avenue B. Jerry Dane lived in an East German Vopo greatcoat. Tia Maria used to live in a city bus abandoned under the West Side Highway but truck drivers on their way to the meat terminals used to ram the bus for fun, sometimes stopping just long enough to rape Tia Maria, more or less, and finally she moved into a storefront church presided over by a man who wore spats and claimed to be a direct descendent of Mohammed. I closed my eyes a moment, aware of a woman’s voice depositing names at my feet.
“Bucky, this is Zenko Alataki, who happens to be Axel Gregg the documentary film-maker’s brother-in-law, and I’m Axel’s sister Lillian, Zenko’s wife, Lillian Alataki. My husband’s just up from northwest Mexico to raise some money for the earthquake he’s been working on down there. Just make sure you don’t call it art. It’s not art. It’s back to before art. Fire-building and the fingering of testicles. The wonder of pre-information is that men perceived the earth and themselves actually in the process of changing. Zenko’s been trying to create pressure along a fault with a series of very delicate TNT explosions. Just a few more in the right places and hell have his small quake. The greatest work of art ever achieved. Except don’t call it art.”
“Is this true?”
“Why not?” Zenko said. “The continents ride on plates. The crust shifts, which causes breaks or faults. The beauty of a man-made fracture is that you can photograph the adjacent surface. Place objects on the surface and take aerial photographs of the objects toppling. I call this a kinetic shiver. Objects toppling. Objects being swallowed up. If society wasn’t so obsessed with false values, I would be permitted to use live animals in my shivers. Sheep, goats, some rabbits. Earthquake technology enables man to give back to the earth. Goats being swallowed up would make a perfect shiver. It’s an act of sacrificial love. We give back. The earth takes and is greener. How much do you weigh?”
“Is this the first shiver you’ve worked on?”
“This is the world’s first shiver,” he said. “I’m being prudent but bold. Life-serving destruction is always bold. How much do you weigh? Have you noticed what a very emaciated group this is? It’s as though you’re all disappearing before my eyes.”
Opel went to bed fairly early in the evening. People crawled over and around her, and a few of the more forlorn simply remained at her sides in little ribbons of woe. Diane Bowie took a teddy bear with her into the bathroom. Voices seemed to burn slightly. People bit the tips off chocolate kisses, bad teeth, smudged fingers, horrible posture. Winona Barry said she’d advertised her sewing skills in a West Village newspaper. A man called, wanting a nun’s habit and crotchless riding pants. They bargained in spare phrases. “Extra for perversion.” “Money no object.” “Extra for satiny under-things.” “Do a sensitive job.” “Extra for the hole in the riding pants.” “Ill send plenty more business your way.” Miss Mott tried to dial the time on Opel’s phone.
“My sister has a new fella,” Lycra Spandex said. “He’s a detective with the safe, loft and truck squad. He took one look at me and nearly gagged. How do I tell a fella like that about the childhood I spent dreaming of lash curlers, mascara, highlighters and toners? Can I explain to a plainclothes man about gauzy blouses, long flared skirts, superbitchy underwear, chokers, earrings, pins and clips? He’s a plainclothes man. He wouldn’t understand, would he? Do I dare tell him what it means to wear eye shadow and have skin that’s rose-petal soft? All my life all I’ve ever wanted was to be two people. Marge and Gower Champion. Alternating day to day. Can I confide in this detective? Can I explain about the whole Fox Movietone era and those girls in tutus jumping over the sawhorses? This detective spent his entire adolescence hitting other kids with bicycle chains. I’m supposed to tell him about my sheer pantyhose that do away with crotch sag? Sorry but I won’t play that game. I know what’s best for Lycra Spandex. Lycra Spandex does not have to kowtow to authority figures, even when they’re with the police department of the city of New York, even when they’re with the safe, loft and truck squad. If the son of a bitch is so great, why doesn’t he get me a decent loft to live in, or a safe where I can keep my crappy jewelry, or a fucking truck that I can drive over a cliff?”
A tall pale girl stood near my chair. Her red hair was in pigtails and she wore paint-streaked jeans and a T-shirt with a hole in the middle. I leaned over and touched her arm. Therefore I am. She turned and I put my mouth to her navel. This made her laugh and twist a bit. Softly her thumbs browsed about my ears. Her navel was lint-free, abnormally large, an inner moon of convolutions and repose. There was no reason to wonder who she was or how that level moment was rounded by her hands.
“Name’s James,” someone said. “Heard and enjoyed your stuff. Third album’s a landmark work. Stunning album. Noise and screaming and babble-babble. Heard all your albums and all your singles and liked them all and that comes from someone who’s kind of famous in his own right except nobody knows it. Mylon and I. I’m a friend of Mylon’s. We live in the same piss-hole building. I gather you’re laying back. Understandable. There’s nothing to paint and nothing to write and nothing to film and nothing to sing about and nothing to make love to. But your sound comes out of the radio all the time. Stunning sound. Amazing when you think about it how your sound is big even out there in the sticks and boondocks where I come from originally, the absolute sticks, the deep boonies, where it’s unlike a big city where people can absorb that kind of sound. Your second LP is killer too but I think number three’s the landmark work.”