|The Story||The Authors|
"things were different" He swallowed a wad of phlegm that had lodged in the
back of his throat. "Everything was backwardsy, topsy-turved, turned around. We
never knew if we were coming or going."
|"The cause of that can be easily narrowed down to the fact that you're another goddamned Arcadian whose family tree resembles nothing so much as a Moebius strip," croaked Burroughs wryly from the back of his throat with a tonal range that made Allen shiver and summoned to his mind the exotic Brazilian noisemakers used in secret midnight candomble ceremonies in the teeming humid forests of Bahia. An erection made itself known to him between the crisp pleats of his chinos, and so pulled and divided had his attention become among the conflicting gravities of desire, duty and persona, that he was surprised to look up and see Kerouac and Burroughs in the panting aftermath of the latest bout of fisticuffs, a bemused Irish cop holding them benevolently apart, Kerouac holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose and Burroughs holding his bruised sides with a sore look having less to do with physical pain than it involved the fact that Jack's unexpectedly low hook had crushed a plastic baggie full of 50 mg Dilaudid tablets into fine powder which had run through the hole in his pocket and was now dispersing freely among the dark linty world inside the lining of his jacket. He'd have to tear the lining out again -- somehow this always seemed to happen everytime he and Kerouac came to blows -- and resign himself to injecting a lint-Dilaudid speedball, and he hated that because the adulterating lint always gave him visions wherein the molecular structure underlying the universe was revealed to his eyes alone to have as its structural lowest common denominator what else but tiny green pingpong balls? -- It was enough to give a man the willies and make him turn away from the sensible business of pest control in favor of art, or writing, or some such nonsense... And what was more, Joan was decidedly NOT going to be pleased when he got home. The money he'd used to cop the Dilaudid had, of course, been hers, and she hated her dope in any form but tablets and suppositories... In any form but suppositories, really, becuase when he got pills she just shoved them up her ass anyway and let them dissolve. Bill found the habit both odd and compulsive, but when he questioned her about it, unable to stop his nose from wrinkling up in disgust, she merely said "It gives me a more tingly high," and smiled with a faraway look and a little smile and went back to painting her nails then licking the nailpolish off before it had a chance to dry with staring out the sootbegrimed window and down the unrelenting yellowgrey canyon-length of Columbus Avenue.|
The nubian sexual experience was the best thing that ever happened to her.
there is no way that she could find any substitute.
Her search for the seven fingered leper would be relentless. Once found
she knew her life would never be the same again.
|Her days would stretch endlessly and loneliness would be her fate.|
|She would sit in her kitchen in the mornings and drink Oolong tea with her cat, Rhett, a handsome grey tabby with a bright pink nose and an uncanny ability to predict the woman's thoughts. She would stare at the rain falling endlessly outside and reach the dregs of the teapot and be utterly unable to decide whether she should make a new pot of Oolong or switch to green tea, which she had heard was extremely anticarcinogenic. Especially if you bought the Celestial Seasonings variety with added antioxidents... It was so nice the ways these small grass-roots organizations actually looked out for their customers, actually meant what their advertising said, even while sitting quietly in the cold dark shadow of the evil corporate empire, which only seemed to get eviler and more corporate every day... Life was scary, and she spent a large portion of her days worrying about the different types of cancer she might be slowly but inexorably contracting, and filling her CD changer with the complete Carole King catalogue and putting it on shuffle-play... Ah, and the rain fell, and she felt langourous, luxuriantly melancholy, almost in need of a bout of good old-fashioned swooning... At times like this she would fill the bathtub with steaming water, and scented oils, and float rose-petals across its surface... She would light candles, and dim the lights, and perfume her whole body... And rise glistening wet from the heady waters like a dryad, and stand before the full-length Queen Anne mirror which had been her dear grandmother's last bequest to her... and then she would get on the phone and call Jimmy to come over, Jimmy who was hung like a bull rhinoceros, and in her most deperate tones she would plead with him to please do it the only way she'd ever really been able to like it, the undertaking of which required, on Jimmy's part, sustained action combing the words unlubricated, posterior, and brutal... When it was all over she would be back to her old self again and scarecely able to look him in the eye... She would send him on his way with a generous tip and then -- so sore from her libidinous exertions she had no recourse to anything else -- shut all the curtains guiltily and tip-toe to the medicine cabinet, where -- hidden behind an eternity of useless creams and cremes and Sudafeds and outdated flasks of Dymatap -- she kept her secret cache of heroin suppositories... And drawing not one but two from their bed of castor-oil which glinted in the light of the candles still burning in the bathroom, and retire to the more private seclusion of her bedroom, even as the hourse itself seemed to shrink to the flaccidly uninspiring dimensions of a mere house, and the walls closed in around her...|