Having been an underground writer all of my life I have known some strange editors but the strangest of them all was H. R. Mulloch and his wife, Honeysuckle. Mulloch, ex-con and ex-diamond thief, was editor of the magazine,
Demise
. I began to send him poetry and a correspondence ensued. He claimed my poetry had ruined him for everybody else’s poetry; and I wrote back and said it had ruined me for everybody else’s poetry, too. H.R. began talking about the possibilities of putting out a book of my poems and I said okay, fine, go ahead. He wrote back, I can’t pay royalties, we’re as poor as a church mouse. I wrote back, okay, fine, forget royalties, I’m as poor as a church mouse’s shriveled titty. He replied, wait a minute, most writers, well, I meet them and they are complete assholes and horrible human beings. I wrote back, you’re right, I’m a complete asshole and a horrible human being. O.K., he answered, me and Honeysuckle are coming to L.A. to check you out.
The phone rang a week and a half later. They were in town, just in from New Orleans, staying in a Third Street hotel filled with prostitutes, winos, pickpockets, second story men, dishwashers, muggers, stranglers and rapists. Mulloch loved the low-life, and I think he even loved poverty. From his letters I got the idea that H.R. believed that poverty bred purity. Of course, that’s what the rich have always wanted us to believe, but that’s another story.
I got in the car with Marie and we drove on down, first stopping for three six-packs and a fifth of cheap whiskey. There was a little grey-haired man about five feet tall standing outside. He was dressed in workingman’s blues but with a bandanna (white) about
his throat. On his head he wore a very tall white sombrero. Marie and I walked up. He was puffing on a cigarette and smiling. “You Chinaski?” “Yeh.” I said, “and this is Marie, my woman.” “No man,” he answered, “can ever call a woman his own. We never own ’em, we only borrow ’em for a little while.” “Yeh,” I said, “I guess that’s best.” We followed H.R. up the stairway down a hall painted blue and red that smelled of murder.
“Only hotel in town we could find that would take the dogs, a parrot, and the two of us.”
“Looks like a nice place,” I said.
He opened his door and we walked in. There were two dogs in there running around, and Honeysuckle was standing in the center of the room with a parrot on her shoulder.
“Thomas Wolfe,” said the parrot, “is the world’s greatest living writer.”
“Wolfe’s dead,” I said. “Your parrot is wrong.”
“It’s an old parrot,” said H.R. “We’ve had him a long time.”
“How long have you been with Honeysuckle?”
“Thirty years.”
“Just borrowed her for a while?”
“That’s the way it seems.”
The dogs ran around and Honeysuckle stood in the center of the room with the parrot on her shoulder. She looked dark, Italian or Greek, very skinny, with pouches under her eyes; she looked tragic and kind and dangerous, mostly tragic. I put the whiskey and beer on the table and everybody moved forward toward it. H.R. began ripping off beercaps and I started peeling the whiskey. Dusty drinking glasses appeared along with several ashtrays. Through the wall to the left, a male voice suddenly boomed, “You fuckin’ whore I want you to eat my shit!”
We sat down and I splashed the whiskey around. H.R. passed me a cigar. I peeled it, bit off the end and lit up.
“What’cha think of modern literature?” H.R. asked me.
“Don’t really care for it.”
H.R. narrowed his eyes and grinned at me. “Ha, I thought so!”
“Listen,” I said, “why don’t you take off that sombrero so I can see who I’m dealing with. You might be a horse thief.”
“No,” he said, sweeping the sombrero off with a dramatic gesture, “but I was one of the best diamond thieves in the state of Ohio.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
The girls were drinking away. “I just love my dogs,” said Honeysuckle. “Do you love dogs?” she asked me.
“I don’t know if I love them or not.”
“He loves himself,” said Marie.
“Marie has a very penetrating mind,” I said.
“I like the way you write,” said H.R. “You can say a lot without getting fancy.”
“Genius might be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way.”
“What’s that?” H.R. asked.
I repeated the statement and splashed more whiskey around.
“I gotta write that down,” said H.R. He pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote it down on the edge of one of the brown paper bags laying on the table.
The parrot climbed off Honeysuckle’s shoulder, walked across the table and climbed up on my left shoulder. “That’s nice,” said Honeysuckle. “James Thurber,” said the bird, “is the world’s greatest living writer.” “Dumb bastard,” I said to the bird. I felt a sharp pain in my left ear. The bird had almost torn it off. We are all such sensitive creatures. H.R. ripped off more beercaps. We drank on.
Afternoon became evening and evening became night. I awakened in the dark. I had been sleeping on the rug in the center of the floor. H.R. and Honeysuckle were asleep in the bed. Marie was asleep on the couch. All three of them snored, especially Marie. I got up and sat at the table. There was some whiskey left. I poured it and drank a warm beer. I sat there and drank some more warm beer. The parrot sat on the back of a chair across from me. Suddenly he climbed down and walked across the table between the ashtrays and empty bottles and climbed up on my shoulder. “Don’t say that thing,” I told him, “it’s very irritating to me when you say that thing.” “Fuckin’ whore,” said the parrot. I lifted the bird by its feet and placed him back on the chair. Then I got back down on the rug and went to sleep.
In the morning, H.R. Mulloch made an announcement. “I’ve decided to print a book of your poems. We might as well go home and get to work.”
“You mean you realized I’m not a horrible human being?”
“No,” said H.R., “I didn’t realize that at all, but I’ve decided to ignore my better judgment and print you anyhow.”
“Were you really the best diamond thief in the state of Ohio?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I know you did time. How’d you get caught?”
“It was so stupid I don’t want to talk about it.”
I went down and got a couple more six packs and came back and Marie and I helped H.R. and Honeysuckle pack. There were special carrying cases for the dogs and the parrot. We got everything down the stairway and into my car, then we sat and finished the beer. We were all pros: nobody was foolish enough to suggest breakfast.
“You come out and see us now,” said H.R. “We’re going to be putting the book together. You’re a son of a bitch but a man can talk to you. Those other poets, they’re always flaunting their feathers and putting on a dumb asshole act.”
“You’re okay,” said Honeysuckle. “The dogs like you.”
“And the parrot,” said H.R.
The girls stayed in the car and I went back with H.R. while he turned in his key. An old woman in a green kimono, her hair dyed a bright red, opened the door.
“This is Mama Stafford,” H.R. said to me. “Mama Stafford, this is the world’s greatest poet.”
“Really?” asked Mama.
“The world’s greatest living poet,” I said.
“Why don’t you boys come in for a drink? You look like you need one.”
We went in and each of us forced down a glass of warm white wine. We said goodbye and went back to the car…
At the train station, H.R. got the tickets and checked in the parrot and dogs at the baggage counter. Then he came back and sat down with us. “Hate flying,” he said. “Terrified of flying.” I went and got a half pint and we passed it around waiting. Then they started loading the train. We stood around on the platform and suddenly Honeysuckle leaped on me and gave me a long kiss. Toward the end of the kiss she passed her tongue rapidly in and out of my mouth. I stood and lit a cigar while Marie kissed H.R. Then H.R. and Honeysuckle climbed into the train.
“He’s a nice man,” said Marie.
“Sweetie,” I said, “I think you gave him rocks.”
“Are you jealous?”
“I’m always jealous.”
“Look, they’re sitting at the window, they’re smiling at us.”
“It’s embarrassing. I wish the fucking train would pull out.”
Finally the train did begin to pull out. We waved, of course, and they waved back. H.R. had a pleased and happy grin. Honeysuckle seemed to be crying. She looked quite tragic. Then we couldn’t see them anymore. It was over. I was about to be published. Selected Poems. We turned and walked back through the train station.
When I rang he was on his sixth or seventh beer and I walked to the refrigerator and got one for myself. Then I came out and sat down. He looked really low.
“What is it, Max?”
“I just lost one. She left a couple of hours ago.”
“I don’t know what to say, Max.”
He looked up from his beer. “Listen, I know you’re not going to believe this, but I haven’t had a piece of ass in four years.”
I sucked at my beer. “I believe you, Max. In fact, in our society there are a great number of people who go from cradle to grave without any ass at all. They sit in tiny rooms and make objects out of tinfoil which they hang in the window and watch while the sun glints on them, watch them twist in the wind…”
“Well, I just lost one. And she was right here…”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, the doorbell rang and there stood a young girl, blonde, in a white dress with blue shoes, and she said, ‘Are you Max Miklovik?’ I told her I was and she said she had read my shit and would I let her in? I told her I would, really, and I let her in and she walked over to a chair in the corner and sat down. I walked into the kitchen and poured two whiskey and waters, walked back out, gave her one and then walked over and sat on the couch.”
“A looker?” I asked.
“A real looker and a good body, that dress didn’t hide a thing. Then she asked me, ‘You ever read Jerzy Kosinski?’ ‘I read his
Painted Bird
,’ I said. ‘A terrible writer.’ ‘He’s a very good writer,’ she said.”
Max just sat there, thinking about Kosinski, I guess. “Then what happened?” I asked.
“There was a spider weaving a web up above her. She gave a little scream. She said, ‘That spider shit on me!’”
“Did it?”
“I told her that spiders didn’t shit. She said, ‘Yes, they do.’ And I said, ‘Jerzy Kosinski’s a spider,’ and she said, ‘My name’s Lyn,’ and I said, ‘Hello, Lyn.’”
“Some conversation.”
“Some conversation. Then she said, ‘I want to tell you something.’ And I said, ‘Go ahead.’ And she said, ‘I was taught to play the piano at the age of 13 by a real count, I saw his papers, he was legitimate, a real count. Count Rudolph Stauffer.’ ‘Drink up, drink up,’ I told her.”
“Can I have another beer, Max?”
“Sure, bring me one.”
When I came back he continued. “She finished her drink and I went over to get her glass. As I reached for her glass I leaned over to kiss her. She pulled away. ‘Shit, what’s a kiss?’ I asked her. ‘Spiders kiss.’”
“‘Spiders don’t kiss,’ she said. There was nothing to do but go in and mix two more drinks, a bit stronger. I came out, handed Lyn a drink and sat down on the couch again.”
“I suppose you both should have been on the couch,” I said.
“But we weren’t. And she went on talking. ‘The Count,’ she said, ‘had a high forehead, hazel eyes, pink hair, long thin fingers and he always smelled of semen.’”
“Ah.”
“She said, ‘He was 65 but he was hot. He taught my mother the piano too. My mother was 35 and I was 13 and he taught us both the piano.’”
“What were you supposed to say to that?” I asked.
“I don’t know. So I told her, ‘Kosinski can’t write shit.’ And she said, ‘He made love to my mother.’ And I said, ‘Who? Kosinski?’ And she said, ‘No, the Count.’ ‘Did the Count fuck you?’ I asked her. And she said, ‘No, he never fucked me. But he touched me in various places, he made me very excited. And he played
marvelous
piano.’”
“How did you respond to all that?”
“Well, I told her about the time I worked for the Red Cross during the Second World War. We went around and collected bottles of blood. There was a nurse there, black hair, very fat, and after lunch she’d lay on the lawn with her legs opened toward me. She’d stare and stare. After we collected the blood I’d take the bottles to the storage room. It was cold in there and the bottles were kept in little white sacks and sometimes when I handed them to the girl in charge of the storage room a bottle would slip out of its sack and break on the floor. SPOW! Blood and glass everywhere. But the girl always said, ‘That’s all right, don’t worry about it.’ I thought she was very kind and I took to kissing her when I delivered the blood. It was very nice kissing her inside that refrigerator but I never got anywhere with the one with black hair who laid on the grass after lunch and opened her legs at me.”
“You told her that?”
“I told her that.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said, ‘That spider’s coming down! It’s coming down on me!’ ‘O, my god,’ I said and I grabbed the
Racing Form
and opened it and caught the spider between the third race for maiden three-year-olds at six furlongs and the fourth race which was a five thousand dollar claimer for four-year-olds-and-up at a mile-and-one-sixteenth. I threw the paper down and managed to give Lyn a quick kiss. She didn’t respond.”
“What did she say about the kiss?”
“She said that her father was a genius in the computer industry and he was seldom home but somehow he found out about her mother and the Count. He got hold of her one day after school and took her head and beat it against the wall, asking her why she had covered up for her mother. It made her father very angry when he found out the truth. He finally stopped beating her head against the wall and went in and beat her mother’s head against the wall. She said it was horrible and they never saw the Count again.”
“What did you say to that?”
“I told her that once I met this woman in a bar and I took her home. When she took off her panties there was so much blood and shit in them that I couldn’t do it. She smelled like an oil well.
She gave me a back rub with olive oil and I gave her five dollars, a half bottle of stale port wine, the address of my best friend and I sent her on her way.”
“Did that really happen?”
“Yeah. Then this Lyn asked me if I liked T. S. Eliot. I told her I didn’t. Then she said, ‘I like your writing, Max, it’s so ugly and demented that it fascinates me. I was in love with you. I wrote you letter after letter but you never answered.’ ‘Sorry, baby,’ I said. She said, ‘I went crazy. I went to Mexico. I got religion. I wore a black shawl and went singing in the streets at 3 a.m. Nobody bothered me. I had all your books in my suitcase and I drank tequila and lit candles. Then I met this matador and he made me forget you. It lasted several weeks.’”
“Those guys get plenty of pussy.”
“I know,” Max said. “Anyhow, she said they finally got tired of each other and I said, ‘Let me be your matador.’ And she said, ‘You’re like every other man. All you want to do is fuck.’ ‘Suck and fuck,’ I told her. I walked over to her. ‘Kiss me,’ I said. ‘Max,’ she said, ‘all you want to do is to play. You don’t care for
me
.’ ‘I care for me,’ I answered. ‘If you weren’t such a great writer,’ she said, ‘no woman would even talk to you.’ ‘Let’s fuck,’ I said. ‘I want you to marry me,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to marry you,’ I said. She picked up her purse and walked out.”
“That’s the end of the story?” I asked.
“That’s it,” said Max, “no ass in four years and I lose that one. Pride, stupidity, whatever.”
“You’re a good writer, Max, but you’re no ladies’ man.”
“You think a good ladies’ man could have worked it?”
“Sure, you see each of her gambits must be parried with the correct response. Each correct response turns the conversation in a new direction until the ladies’ man has the woman backed into a corner or, more properly, flat upon her back.”
“How can I learn?”
“There’s no learning. It’s an instinct. You have to know what a woman is really saying when she is saying something else. It can’t be taught.”
“What did she really say?”
“She wanted you but you didn’t know how to get to her. You couldn’t build a bridge. You flopped, Max.”
“But she’d read all my books. She thought I knew something.”
“
Now
she knows something.”
“What?”
“That you’re a dumb ass, Max.”
“Am I?”
“All writers are dumb asses. That’s why they write things down.”
“What do you mean, ‘That’s why they write things down’?”
“I mean, they write things down because they don’t understand them.”
“I write a lot of things down,” said Max sadly.
“I remember when I was a kid I read this book by Hemingway. A guy climbed into bed with this woman again and again and he couldn’t do it although he loved the woman and she loved him. My god, I thought, what a great book. All these centuries and nobody has written about this aspect of the thing. I thought the guy was just too blissfully dumb-ass to do it. Later on I read in the book that he’d had his genitals shot off in the war. What a let-down.”
“You think that girl will be back?” Max asked me. “You should have seen that body, that face, those eyes.”
“She won’t be back,” I said, standing up.
“But what’ll I do?” asked Max.
“Just go on writing your pitiful poems and stories and novels…”
I left him there and walked down the stairway. There was no more I could say to him. It was 7:45 p.m. and I hadn’t had dinner. I got into my car and drove over toward McDonald’s, thinking that I’d probably go for the fried shrimp.