Hot Water Music (9 page)

Joe Mayer was a freelance writer. He had a hangover and the telephone awakened him at 9 a.m. He got up and answered it. “Hello?”

“Hi, Joe. How’s it going?”

“Oh, beautiful.”

“Beautiful, eh?”

“Yes?”

“Vicki and I just moved into our new house. We don’t have a phone yet. But I can give you the address. You got a pen there?”

“Just a minute.”

Joe took down the address.

“I didn’t like that last story of yours I saw in
Hot Angel
.”

“O.K.” said Joe.

“I don’t mean I didn’t like it, I mean I don’t like it compared to most of your stuff. By the way, do you know where Buddy Edwards is? Griff Martin who used to edit
Hot Tales
is looking for him. I thought you might know.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“I think he might be in Mexico.”

“He might be.”

“Well, listen, we’ll be around to see you soon.”

“Sure.” Joe hung up. He put a couple of eggs in a pan of water, set some coffee water on and took an Alka Seltzer. Then he went back to bed.

The phone rang again. He got up and answered it.

“Joe?”

“Yes?”

“This is Eddie Greer.”

“Oh yes.”

“We want you to read for a benefit…”

“What is it?”

“For the I.R.A.”

“Listen, Eddie, I don’t go for politics or religion or whatever. I really don’t know what’s going on over there. I don’t have a tv, read the papers…any of that. I don’t know who’s right or who’s wrong, if there is such a thing.”

“England’s wrong, man.”

“I can’t read for the I.R.A., Eddie.”

“All right, then…”

The eggs were done. He sat down, peeled them, put on some toast and mixed the Sanka in with the hot water. He got down the eggs and toast and had two coffees. Then he went back to bed.

He was just about asleep when the phone rang again. He got up and answered it.

“Mr. Mayer?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Mike Haven, I’m a friend of Stuart Irving’s. We once appeared in
Stone Mule
together when
Stone Mule
was edited in Salt Lake City.”

“Yes?”

“I’m down from Montana for a week. I’m staying at the Hotel Sheraton here in town. I’d like to come see you and talk to you.”

“Today’s a bad day, Mike.”

“Well, maybe I can come over later in the week?”

“Yes, why don’t you call me later on?”

“You know, Joe, I write just like you do, both in poetry and prose. I want to bring some of my stuff over and read it to you. You’ll be surprised. My stuff is really powerful.”

“Oh yes?”

“You’ll see.”

The mailman was next. One letter. Joe opened it:

Joe got out of his robe and got dressed. The phone rang again. He walked over to it, looked at it and didn’t answer it. He walked out, got into his car and drove it toward Santa Anita. He drove slowly. He turned the radio on and got some symphony music. It wasn’t too smoggy. He drove down Sunset, took his favorite cutoff, drove over the hill toward Chinatown, past the Annex, up past Little Joe’s, past Chinatown and took the slow easy ride past the railroad yards, looking down at the old brown boxcars. If he were any damned good at painting he’d like to get that one down. Maybe he’d paint them anyhow. He drove in up Broadway and over Huntington Drive to the track. He got a corned beef sandwich and a coffee, split the Form and sat down. It looked like a fair card.

He caught Rosalena in the first at $10.80, Wife’s Objection in the second at $9.20 and hooked them in the daily double for $48.40. He’d had $2 win on Rosalena and $5 win on Wife’s Objection, so he was $73.20 up. He ran out on Sweetott, was second with Harbor Point, second with Pitch Out, second with Brannan, all win bets, and he was sitting $48.20 ahead when he hit $20 win on Southern Cream, which brought him back to $73.20 again.

It wasn’t bad at the track. He only met three people he knew. Factory workers. Black. From the old days.

The eighth race was the problem. Cougar who was packing 128 was in against Unconscious packing 123. Joe didn’t consider the others in the race. He couldn’t make up his mind. Cougar was 3-to-5 and Unconscious was 7-to-2. Being $73.20 ahead he felt he could afford the luxury of betting the 3-to-5 shot. He laid $30 win. Cougar broke sluggishly, acting as if he were running in a ditch. By the time he was halfway around the first turn he was 17 lengths back of the lead horse. Joe knew he had a loser. At the finish his 3-to-5 was five lengths back and the race was over.

He went $10 and $10 on Barbizon, Jr. and Lost at Sea in the ninth, failed, and walked out with $23.20. It was easier picking tomatoes. He got into his old car and drove slowly back…

Just as he got into the tub the doorbell rang. He toweled and got into his shirt and pants. It was Max Billinghouse. Max was in his early twenties, toothless, red-haired. He worked as a janitor and always wore bluejeans and a dirty white t-shirt. He sat down in a chair and crossed his legs

“Well, Mayer, what’s happening?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you surviving on your writing?”

“At the moment.”

“Is there anything new?”

“Not since you were here last week.”

“How did your poetry reading come out?”

“It was all right.”

“The crowd that goes to poetry readings is a very phoney crowd.”

“Most crowds are.”

“You got any candy?” Max asked.

“Candy?”

“Yeah, I got a sweet tooth. I’ve got this sweet tooth.”

“I don’t have any candy.”

Max got up and walked into the kitchen. He came out with a tomato and two slices of bread. He sat down.

“Jesus, you don’t have anything to eat around here.”

“I’m going to have to go to the store.”

“You know,” said Max, “if I had to read in front of a crowd, I’d really insult them, I’d hurt their feelings.”

“You might.”

“But I can’t write. I think I’m going to carry around a tape recorder. I talk to myself sometimes when I’m working. Then I can write down what I say and I’ll have a story.”

Max was an hour-and-a-half man. He was good for an hour-and-a-half. He never listened, he just talked. After an hour-and-a-half, Max stood up.

“Well, I gotta go.”

“O.K., Max.”

Max left. He always talked about the same things. How he had insulted some people on a bus. How once he had met Charles Manson. How a man was better off with a whore than with a decent woman. Sex was in the head. He didn’t need new clothes, a new car. He was a loner. He didn’t need people.

Joe went into the kitchen and found a can of tuna and made three sandwiches. He took out the pint of scotch he had been saving and poured a good scotch and water. He flicked the radio to the classical station. “The Blue Danube Waltz.” He flicked it off. He finished the sandwiches. The doorbell rang. Joe walked to the door and opened it. It was Hymie. Hymie had a soft job somewhere in some city government near L.A. He was a poet.

“Listen,” he said, “that book I had an idea for,
An Anthology of L.A. Poets
, let’s forget it.”

“All right.”

Hymie sat down. “We need a new title. I think I have it.
Mercy for the Warmongers
. Think about it.”

“I kind of like it,” said Joe.

“And we can say, ‘This book is for Franco, and for Lee Harvey Oswald and Adolf Hitler.’ Now I’m Jewish, so that takes some guts. What do you think?”

“Sounds good.”

Hymie got up and did his imitation of a typical old-time Jewish fat man, a very Jewish fat man. He spit on himself and sat down. Hymie was very funny. Hymie was the funniest man Joe knew. Hymie was good for an hour. After an hour, Hymie stood up and left. He always talked about the same things. How most of the poets were very bad. That it was tragic, it was so tragic it was laughable. What could a guy do?

Joe had another good scotch and water and walked over to the typewriter. He typed two lines, then the phone rang. It was Dunning at the hospital. Dunning liked to drink a lot of beer. He’d done his 20 in the army. Dunning’s father had been the editor of a famous little magazine. Dunning’s father had died in June. Dunning’s wife was ambitious. She had pushed him to be a doctor, hard. He’d made it to chiropractor. And was working as a male nurse while trying to save up for an eight or ten thousand dollar x-ray machine.

“How about coming over and drinking some beer with you?” asked Dunning.

“Listen, can we put it off?” asked Joe.

“What’sa matter? You writing?”

“Just started.”

“All right. I’ll take a rain check.”

“Thanks, Dunning.”

Joe sat down at the machine again. It wasn’t bad. He got halfway down the page when he heard footsteps. Then a knock. Joe opened the door.

It was two young kids. One with a black beard, the other smooth-shaven.

The kid with the beard said, “I saw you at your last reading.”

“Come in,” said Joe.

They came in. They had six bottles of imported beer, green bottles.

“I’ll get an opener,” said Joe.

They sat there sucking at the beer.

“It was a good reading,” said the kid with the beard.

“Who was your major influence?” asked the one without the beard.

“Jeffers. Longer poems.
Tamar. Roan Stallion
. So forth.”

“Any new writing that interests you?”

“No.”

“They say you’re coming out of the underground, that you’re part of the Establishment. What do you think of that?”

“Nothing.”

There were some more questions of the same order. The boys were only good for one beer apiece. Joe took care of the other four. They left in 45 minutes. But the one without the beard said, just as they left, “We’ll be back.”

Joe sat down to the machine again with a new drink. He couldn’t type. He got up and walked to the phone. He dialed. And waited. She was there. She answered.

“Listen,” said Joe, “let me get out of here. Let me come down there and lay up.”

“You mean you want to stay tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again.”

“All right.”

Joe walked around the corner of the porch and right down the driveway. She lived three or four courts down. He knocked. Lu let him in. The lights were out. She just had on panties and led him to the bed.

“God,” he moaned.

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s all unexplainable in a way or
almost
unexplainable.”

“Just take off your clothes and come to bed.”

Joe did. He crawled in. He didn’t know at first if it would work again. So many nights in a row. But her body was there and it was a young body. And the lips were open and real. Joe floated in. It was good being in the dark. He worked her over good. He even got down there again and tongued that cunt. Then as he mounted, after four or five strokes he heard a voice…

“Mayer…I’m looking for a Joe Mayer…”

He heard his landlord’s voice. His landlord was drunk.

“Well, if he ain’t in that front apartment, you check this one back here. He’s either in one or the other.”

Joe got in four or five more strokes before the knocking began at the door. Joe slid out and, naked, went to the door. He opened a side window.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, Joe! Hi, Joe, what you doin’ Joe?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, how about some beer, Joe?”

“No,” said Joe. He slammed the side window and walked back to the bed, got in.

“Who was it?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t recognize the face.”

“Kiss me, Joe. Just don’t lay there.”

He kissed her as the Southern California moon came through the Southern California curtains. He was Joe Mayer. Freelance writer.

He had it made.

Harry stood in the apartment house driveway waiting for the elevator to come down. Just as the door opened he heard a woman’s voice behind him. “Just a moment, please!” She stepped into the elevator and the door closed. She had on a yellow dress, her hair was piled on top of her head, and goofy pearl earrings swung on long silver chains. She had a large ass and was heavily built. Her breasts and body seemed to be striving to burst out of that yellow dress. Her eyes were the palest green and looked right through him. She carried a bag of groceries with the word
Vons
printed on it. Her lips were smeared with lipstick. Her thick painted lips were obscene, almost ugly, an insult. The bright red lipstick glistened and Harry reached over and pushed the EMERGENCY button.

It worked, the elevator stopped. Harry moved toward her. With one hand he lifted her skirt and stared at her legs. She had unbelievable legs, all muscle and flesh. She seemed stricken, frozen. He grabbed her as she dropped the bag of groceries. Cans of vegetables, an avocado, toilet paper, packaged meat and three candy bars spilled to the elevator floor. Then his mouth was on those lips. They opened. He reached down and lifted the skirt. He kept his mouth on hers and worked the panties off. Then, standing up, he took her, banging her hard against the elevator wall. When he finished, he zipped up, hit the third floor button, and waited, his back to her. When the door opened, he stepped out. The door closed behind him and the elevator was gone.

Harry walked down to his apartment, put the key in and opened the door. His wife, Rochelle, was in the kitchen cooking dinner.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“Same old shit,” he said.

“Dinner in ten minutes,” she said.

Harry walked to the bathroom, got out of his things and took a shower. The job was getting to him. Six years and he didn’t have a dime in the bank. That’s how they hooked you—they gave you just enough to keep alive but they never gave you enough so you could finally escape.

He soaped up good, washed off and stood there, letting the very hot water run down the back of his neck. It took away the fatigue. He toweled off and put on his robe, walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Rochelle was dishing it out. Meatballs and gravy. She made good meatballs and gravy.

“Listen,” he said, “give me some good news.”

“Good news?”

“You know what.”

“The period?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t had it.”

“Christ.”

“The coffee’s not ready.”

“You always forget.”

“I know. I don’t know what makes me do that.”

Rochelle sat down and they began eating without the coffee. The meatballs were good.

“Harry,” she said, “we can get an abortion.”

“All right,” he said. “If it comes to that, we’ll do it.”

The next evening he got on the elevator and rode alone. He rode to the third floor and got out. Then he turned around, got back in and pushed the button again. He rode down to the driveway, got out, walked over to his car and sat and waited. He saw her coming up the driveway, this time without any groceries. He opened his car door.

This time she had on a red dress, shorter and tighter-fitting than the yellow one. Her hair was down and it was long. It almost reached her behind. She had on the same goofy earrings and her
lips were more heavily smeared with lipstick than before. As she stepped into the elevator he followed her. They rose up and once again he pushed the EMERGENCY button. Then he was upon her, his lips on that red obscene mouth. Again she didn’t have on pantyhose, just red knee stockings. Harry worked the panties off and put it in. They banged against all four walls. It lasted longer this time. Then Harry zipped up, turned his back on her and pushed the “3” button.

When he opened the door Rochelle was singing. She had a terrible voice so Harry got into the shower in a hurry. He came out in his robe, sat at the table.

“Christ,” he said, “they laid off four guys today, even Jim Bronson.”

“That’s too bad,” said Rochelle.

There were steaks and french fries, salad and hot garlic bread. Not bad.

“You know how long Jim’s been there?”

“No.”

“Five years.”

Rochelle didn’t answer. “Five years,” said Harry. “They just don’t care, those bastards have no mercy.”

“I didn’t forget the coffee this time, Harry.”

She leaned over and kissed him as she poured his cup. “I’m improving, you see?”

“Yeah.”

She went and sat down. “My period started today.”

“What? Is it true?”

“Yes, Harry.”

“That’s great, great…”

“I don’t want a kid until you want one, Harry.”

“Rochelle, we ought to
celebrate
! A bottle of good wine! I’ll go get one after dinner.”

“I’ve already got it, Harry.”

Harry got up and walked around the table. He stood almost behind Rochelle and tilted her head backwards with one hand under her chin and kissed her. “I love you, baby.”

They ate dinner. It was a good dinner. And a good bottle of wine…

Harry got out of his car as she walked up the driveway. She waited for him and they got on the elevator together. She had on a blue and white dress, a flower print, white shoes, white ankle socks. Her hair was piled up on her head again and she smoked a Benson and Hedges cigarette.

Harry pushed the EMERGENCY button.

“Wait a minute, mister!”

It was the second time Harry had heard her voice. The voice was a bit hoarse but it wasn’t a bad voice at all.

“Yes,” asked Harry, “what is it?”

“Let’s go to my apartment.”

“All right.”

She pushed the “4” button, they went up, the door opened and they walked down the hall to 404. She unlocked the door.

“Nice place,” said Harry.

“I like it. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure.”

She walked into the kitchen. “I’m Nana,” she said.

“I’m Harry.”

“I know you are but what’s your name?”

“You’re funny,” said Harry.

She came out with two drinks and they sat on the couch and drank them. “I work at Zody’s discount,” said Nana. “I’m a counter girl at Zody’s.”

“That’s nice.”

“What the hell’s nice about it?”

“I mean, it’s nice that we’re here together.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s go into the bedroom.”

Harry followed her. Nana finished her drink and set the empty glass on the dresser. She walked into the closet. It was a large closet. She began to sing and to remove her clothing. Nana sang better than Rochelle. Harry sat on the edge of the bed and finished his drink. Nana came out of the closet and stretched out on the bed. She was naked. The hair on her cunt was much darker than the hair on her head.

“Well?” she said.

“Oh,” said Harry. He took off his shoes, he took off his stock
ings, he took off his shirt, his pants, his undershirt, his shorts. Then he got on the bed beside her. She turned her head and he kissed her. “Listen,” he said, “do we have to have all these lights on?”

“Of course not.” Nana got up and switched off the overhead light and the bedside lamp. Harry felt her mouth on his. Her tongue entered, flicked in and out. Harry climbed on top of her. She was very soft, something like a waterbed. He kissed and licked her breasts, kissed her mouth and her neck. He continued to kiss her for some time.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“It’s not working, is it?”

“No.”

Harry got off and began dressing in the dark. Nana switched on the bed lamp.

“What are you? An elevator freak?”

“No, no…”

“You can only do it in elevators, is that it?”

“No, no, you were the first one, really. I don’t know what came over me.”

“But I’m here now,” Nana said.

“I know it,” he said, pulling his pants on. Then he sat down and started putting on his shoes and stockings.

“Listen, you son of a bitch—”

“Yes?”

“When you are ready and you want me, come to my apartment, understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

Harry was fully dressed and standing again.

“No more on the elevator, understand?”

“I understand.”

“If you ever rape me on the elevator again I’ll call the law, that’s a promise.”

“O.K., O.K.”

Harry walked out of the bedroom, through the living room and out the apartment door. He walked down to the elevator and pushed the button. The door opened and he stepped in. The elevator began to descend. There was a petite Oriental woman standing next to him. She had black hair. Black skirt, white blouse, pantyhose,
tiny feet, high-heeled shoes. She was dark complexioned, with just a trace of lipstick. That very small body had an amazing, sexy behind. The eyes were brown and very deep and looked tired. Harry reached and pushed the EMERGENCY button. As he moved toward her she screamed. He slapped her hard across the face, got out his handkerchief and forced it into her mouth. He locked one of his arms about her waist and as she clawed him across the face with her free hand he reached down and pulled up her skirt. He liked what he saw.