Lunar Follies (4 page)

While the game moved forward and backward in its ineluctable and darkly mysterious way, Paul and Virginia, wandering through the area abutting the by-now deserted penny arcade, gawked at strangers shoot the chutes, their screams of delighted fear as cheering to the young couple as sweet childhood’s sunbox of Golden Delicious apples and the
bel canto
of the youthful tenor whose stage name was “the Caliph of Baghdad.” Then they were off to the Midway and the pleasures of sideshow attractions like the parrot with a beak of chocolate, the robotic weather prophet and his talking yellow durgh, the eerie habitats of extinct and loathsome marine life, and a cage crammed with representative poems on the sheer greatness of American Gothic thought and prayer. Descartes’ dovecote, a new attraction obscurely named “Starbox with Starfish,” was not quite what the couple expected, and after a time, they stopped in to the Trade Winds, a café and inn whose Longitude Suite was “just what the doctor ordered,” as Donald E. Mobile, the cutting-edge
scripteur,
once remarked in his astonishing critical prose. Virginia particularly liked the three-dimensional panorama of the sun rising, the sun setting, and days and nights of temperate beauty; while Paul was attracted to the video representations of the phases of the moon and selected cosmography elements, all of which quite mysteriously became one with the nuclear atom and its space object, which, quite unnervingly, seemed to be the night skies above the Grand Universal Hotel. The latter edifice—although this was not known to Paul and Virginia—was, or perhaps one should say,
is,
absolutely identical to the castle on the moor, within which the game of Black Hunter was now in its fifth hour. It had reached that moment of transformation called
Central Park carousel pavilion,
a critical juncture that always nullified the effects of the aggressive gambit,
American Gothic casement,
even when that move was followed by the spectacular
night sky and window façade.

“A Broken Window,” a string quartet by Dirk Giotto, woke Paul and Virginia from their lovers’ sleep, a sleep that had served as the coda to their tender but filthy amours, which, at this time, in any event, had been based on “Circe and Her Lovers in ‘Mathematics in Nature,’” a famous short story especially composed for the people of the castle, the café, the palace, and the Isle of Children. “The puzzle of the reward,” Paul said, as he and Virginia dressed, “is the sister shade.” Virginia smiled. “Home, poor heart, home,” she said, softly, and their slightly loony remarks constituted, at least for them, an allegory of innocence. At this precise moment, one of the Black Hunter players realized that
ship with nude,
a devastating, crushing move, was possible for him to make, perhaps even possible doubled, as
Robinson Crusoe and his blue nude dream.
He lifted his hand, moved his platinum counters and his vegetable tiles, and time, transfixed as if to make a rainbow, ceased for a split second, and created, as someone obscurely remarked, years later, a virtual aerodynamics for
Allegra’s valentine.
“That’s the only way I can put it,” this someone added. For that split second,
Pascal’s triangle
and
constellations of autumn
were “trumped,” so to speak, by the possessed player’s deployment of the uncertainty principle. Watching the game, a smoker of chocolate, wearing a derby hat, was the first to realize that Paul and Virginia, two shadowy icons forever hidden within the very “machinery” of the game, had suddenly made their board appearance, if such a term may be used for such an uncanny occurrence. It was a sign to all that the game was about to take a turn toward the arrest of entropic forces. A small cheer went up as Paul and Virginia assumed control, tentatively, from the hands of the last Prince of Urbino, long exiled in Babylon.

CORDILLERA MOUNTAINS

High Concept Men, High Country Fashion

DAVID APOLLO:
Celebrity and kitchenware photographer;
Three-button wool, abraded burlap and faux-orlon suit, $15,450 and “dirty” ramie and oilcloth shirt, $450. At Barron’s Ice Company. GORDY JERICHO:
Fine-art and broken-furniture embosser;
Eight-button disappearing pinstripe crushed-wool suit, $9,050. At Barchas-Willin. ELPASO JOHNSON:
Backyard and high-school-athlete sketch artist;
Four-button leather and corrugated paper jacket, $6,000 and nylon “Good Humor” pants, $1,250. At Sapp and Patsy. MANNY TOUCHANT:
Vintage guitar and ketchup-bottle repair technician;
Aged cashmere and celluloid pullover, $1,200, from Tommy Cafone. At Tommy Cafone. JUBAL OCTUBRE:
Retail-outlet and velvet-animal planning analyst;
Ink-stained cotton T-shirt, $450 and recycled-glass “midnight” jeans, $385. At Stroonz. BYRON VAN HAKKA:
Vegetable and celebrity garbage-and-excrement photographer;
Smashed cotton quarter-shirt, $605 and wool and rhinoceros-hide pants, $11,250. At Paco Coño. COLTRANE MARTINES:
Horse-lover and movie-goer;
Food-encrusted and fake rayon-blend sweater, $900. At Caponato USA. FRANKIE TEXAS:
Frozen-custard designer and transgressive artist;
Silk, penne, and potato skin sleeveless “surfer” shirt, $ 13,400. At Jacques LeBingo. FESTIS BENEDICTI:
Illustrator and underwear collector;
Steel-blend knit top with attached polystyrene tie, $410, by Popp Flikk. At Popp Flikk-Rafe Schnorrer. MOSS ROSES:
Hamburger cuisinier and guitar admirer;
Extruded fudge and linen polo shirt, $995. At Suck-Egg Mule. KIDWELL MAINWARING:
Toilet detailer and loft appraiser;
Cellophane sneakers, $550. At Heroickal Feets. MOZART DELANEY:
Duck-blind furnisher and apple polisher;
“Ham on rye” suit, $3,495 and aluminum-and-synthetic-hemp shirt, $650. Both from I.C. Assappe. At I.C. Assappe. JACK MELBA:
Pet artist;
Snap-front rotted denim jacket, $1,025 and urine-stained jeans, $674. Both from Jason Basura. At Jason Basura. ROBERT RINGLING:
Publishing enthusiast and computer magazine buyer;
Lemon-rind boots from So What? Cobblery, $2,750 and crimped stretch-porcelain sweater jacket, $4,000, from Zeppole. Both at Bygge Deele. SAMUEL URGENTE:
Crayola artist;
Zip-front “knish” jacket, $11,050. At Coney Island Mike’s. JINKS MIKADO:
Slang collector and recipe verifier;
Five-button tortured polyvinyl and “wet” swansdown jacket, $16,300. At Sabrett and Nathan.

[Photographed entirely in the Cordillera Mountains and in Jake’s Loma Prieta Bar-Bee-Kew, Shots and Beers, Day-Glo Bed-and-Breakfast, Hitler’s Place, and the Luxe-on-Luxe Inn.
Photographs by
BILLEE TUESDAY, HELMUT DIMME-BLANCO, and STEPAN BONGO.]

EASTERN SEA

A Time Capsule

Here is a tin pig, sporting a blue, badly painted-on sailor jacket and beating a tin drum; he is laden with dead hopes and wet with useless tears; his imbecile grin goes well with the grey Christmas morning; here is a tin pig with a key in his back; and here a dark booth in a Brooklyn saloon, and the angels sing; in a Bronx saloon, let it snow, let it snow; in a Manhattan saloon, winter wonderland and dark eyes, the wind off the East River knifing its way through the dead, brittle park; a dark booth, a dark night, a beer garden with colored lights swaying and the smell of salt from the bay, sound of foghorns and faint bells from the distant buoys; a snap-brim fedora, pearl grey; a flagstone patio and ice-cold outdoor showers in hot sun; vacant lot; clothes from Carson Pirie Scott, Lincoln Road, Phil Kronfeld, pulled from their exquisite boxes with sour, grudging acceptance, spoiled, soft, rich, expensive and poisoned and damned; a Bulova watch smashed in the middle of Avenue A; nickel-plated 0.38 Smith and Wesson revolver in a drawer under silk boxer shorts; slacks from Brooks Brothers, tweed jackets from Hart Schaffner and Marx, lighters by Dunhill, cursed, cursed, and, by Christ, cursed again; vacant lot; the sunlight in vast, smoky bars slathering the floor of Penn Station, all aboard for Miami Beach; a navy dress with white polka dots, white heels, white crocheted gloves, sad face; a Manhattan, a Martini, a Jack Rose, a Clover Club, a Whiskey Sour, a Sazerac, a Sidecar, whiskey, whiskey, gin, rum, quiet laughter at the bar, the snow beginning to fall, and nobody ceaselessly drunk will ever die; bitter cold, concrete platforms piled with freight bound for Jersey, painfully cold wind off the North River, smell of blood and death from the slaughterhouses, a pint of Carstairs for succor; dark eyes; vacant lot; New Year’s Eve hotel room, snow falling past the windows into the Brooklyn Heights streets, poor butterfly, she smiles through her tears; bottle of Worcestershire on the blue-and-white-checked tablecloth, bowl of salad, platter of broken heart and acid soul; the old witch in the cellar swigging from a jug of warm Manhattans, the stupid girl; beautiful scarves from John David, silk and cashmere; bewildered face in the mirror, no one will ever die; vacant lot; strong tanned legs and dazzling white shorts; the taste of scotch on Christmas Eve, smoky neighborhood bar, the usual Christmas tunes on the jukebox; orange dress, scent of Conte Castile and subtle flowers exotic in a strange apartment, a white brassiere on a copy of
Life,
hello young lovers, goodbye young lovers, take it easy young lovers, wise up young lovers; Dear John I’ll send your saddle home, you dumb fuck, with mixed emotions; letter read and folded, read and folded, read and folded, oh
fuck
her!; a bag of old pots and pans, pitiful; soft mounting roar in the thin clear October sunlight of Ebbets Field; Cadillac Fleetwood limousine and English Ovals and shadow-striped gabardine suits and Borsalino hats and a gold Dunhill; vacant lot; dark lake shining in moonlight; dark pubic hair in a perfect V; moonlight perfume, distant tenors, “Miss Thing”; a chocolate-brown wool worsted suit, black onyx teardrop earrings; the hush before the band thrillingly attacks “Ice Freezes Red,” the hush before the tenor edges into the first notes of “Three Little Words,” these are men, men!; a martini, and another martini, and yes another martini, and another goddamn fucking martini, the breakfast of champions!; drunken face in the mirror, pale and sickly, ginger snaps and Four Roses will do it every time, fuckhead; clams on the half-shell, a beer garden, sad foghorns from the Narrows, sad?, colored lights and the taste of the sea; a dead woman; a dead man; another dead woman, the smell of corruption beneath the thick scent of flowers; vacant lot; dark pubic V; a dead turkey in the sink, a crate of grapefruit in the bathtub; sixty grand lost on ten the hard way, easy come; Jimmy Gent off at 8 to 5 at Hialeah, running in the mud and out of the money, easy go; pizzaiola, white clam sauce, cannoli, sfogliatelle, and a t’ick minestrone; many, oh many a teardrop may fall; ice frozen red, granita like razzberry, right?; “Ko-Ko”; a bottle of Thunderbird, of Gypsy Rose, some Dexedrine, some Benzedrine, sweltering in Queens, the Bird on ice, you bet your ass, dead as a doornail, as hell, as shit, it’s all in the game, it’s life; faded khaki shirt, red deuce, Pfc stripes, faded khaki pants; a porch in Flatbush; the Fifth Symphony and Bullmoose Jackson, the “Jupiter” and Savannah Churchill, time out for tears; Camels and Lucky Strikes; oh, pregnant girl with trembling lip, whosoever fucketh you hath done took a powder; the Ninth Symphony; a bowlegged woman, that’s all!; sunlight on the empty beach, sails on the Sound, tight black bathing suit, cool cottage under trees, love, your magic spell is everywhere; Herbert Tareytons, grey Persian lamb, diaphanous white scarf, white tablecloths, and bread sticks; a pack of Chelseas, Virginia Rounds, Twenty Grands, Sweet Caporals, and Wings; old man falling off a chair toward good old Death, patiently waiting, faithful forever, and, oh yes, a hard worker, the roof scenically behind him as he falls, the tar gleaming stickily in the hot spring sun; a tin pig, a woman in brassiere and step-ins, silk stockings and tears, afraid to, afraid to what?; vacant lot; it’s all in the game; and strangers, unfamiliar women, weeping bitterly at the casket; flowers, flowers, the flowers.

ERATOSTHENES

Eratosthenes, one of the prize students of Callimachus, was the head of the famed library of Alexandria from about 240 BC till his death in 195 of a surfeit of new wine and adolescent boys. Or so they say. While at the library, and in moments stolen from the cataloguing and repairing of its treasures, Eratosthenes drew a map of the world, working from memory, hearsay, dreams, and the tales of Phoenician sailors. The map on display here at the Rufus X. Noogie Museum of Purest Jade is thought to be Eratosthenes’ original. Under its triple layer of shatterproof glass, surrounded by armed guards, and protected by electronic alarms of an almost frightening complexity and efficiency, it sits in its aura of splendid uniqueness. It is generally conceded that were it to be offered for sale at auction, the map, which is only 4 1/2 by 3 1/4 inches in size, would bring in excess of a billion and a half dollars. It is, incidentally, badly drawn, of muddy, indeterminate colors, rife with misspellings, and even for its time,
all wrong.

FRA MAURO

Our Neighbors, the Italians: Myth and Reality

Happy Tony, whose grandfather was deeply respected by all for helping to build the New York City subway system.

Warm Sal, who stuck a fuckin’ ice pick into warm Vito.

Familiar Carmine, who cursed out a Puerto Rican mother, hey, why not, they breed like animals.

Brutal Biaggio, who makes homemade
a pizz’
in his homemade oven in his homemade backyard with the fig trees.

Treacherous Cesare, who bounces his fat, curly-haired babies on his knee, all eighteen of them.

Loud Angie, who cries like a baby when his Mama sings “Sorrento.”

Blithe Nino, working ninety hours a week onna garbage truck to send his nephew to Fordham.

Affectionate Sal, he looks like a fuckin’ priest, God forgive me, who beat some chooch with a schlammer.