Chapter 2
My work consists of two parts: the one presented here plus all that I
have not written. And it is precisely
this second part that is the important one.
Ludwig
Wittgenstein
I
think the weirdness started last night when I picked up the drunk
Indian. He took me by surprise so I
reacted badly. He said his name was
Johnny Ross and that he was a Fox warrior and he let out a war hoop and I don’t
know why, but I asked him if he was any relation to Betsy Ross. He let out a blood curdling scream and began
hurling insults at me and I tried to calm him down but he kept insulting me.
These savages had left their country,
and were endeavoring to gain the right bank of the
He
was pretty well crocked, but he was in a mood to fight and it looked like he
could sober up if he wanted to. He asked
me, “What are
you going to do if I give you just one dollar?”
“What
do you want me to do, call the Bureau of Indian Affairs for the rest?”
The
Indians had their families with them; and they brought in their train the
wounded and the sick, with children newly born, and old men upon the verge of
death. They possessed neither tents nor
wagons, but only their arms and some provisions. I saw them embark to pass the mighty river,
and never will that solemn spectacle fade from my remembrances. No cry, no sob, was heard amongst the
assembled crowd, all were silent.
Then
I said, sort of backing down,
“I
will have to call the police,” like I didn’t want to, trying to make
it impersonal like. I didn’t want to
fight and I could see where he was at: he wanted to fight.
Their
calamities were of ancient date, and they knew them to be irremediable. The Indians had all stepped into the bark,
which was to carry them across, but their dogs remained upon the bank. As soon as these animals perceived that their
masters were finally leaving the shore, they set up a dismal howl, and,
plunging altogether into the icy waters of the
It
really got crazy because I first picked him up at the Pow
Wow bar and took him to the Old Homestead bar and then when we got into the Old
Homestead ----- I’ve got to describe the 52 year old beatnik first because
she... well, before I picked up the Indian, I got a call to Kibby’s
bar. When I got there, no one wanted a
cab. So I’m standing there looking
around and all of a sudden a very drunk Mexican turns around on his stool and
starts talking to me in half English and half Spanish.
I
can’t understand him so I say
“No comprendo.”
He
asks, “You
speak Spanish?”
I
answer, “Sí, hablo un poco.”
He
starts jabbering away, and I don’t understand a word. It sounds like another language. He’s smashed anyway, so I turn around and go
back to the cab. I’m writing No Go on
the waybill, when I hear a lady call out, “I’m coming.”
She
gets into the front seat and says, “Let’s get out of here, this isn’t my
element- you speako Spanish?- ha ha-
I’m better off with Beatniks in
We
do not wish to say, or even imply, that
She’s
wearing a man’s undershirt and it looks like she isn’t wearing a bra--- I can’t
tell for sure, but usually you can see the strap coming through a white tee
shirt -- and her breasts are sagging about where they should on a fifty-two
year old woman. She’s wearing blue jeans
and her hair is straight and long.
“Did
you ever meet a fifty-two year old Beatnik?”
She
doesn’t expect an answer. She continues
talking to herself. I break into her
monologue to find out where we are going.
2202 Foothill, about 4 blocks from the bar. We drive past the house where Jack London
grew up. It doesn’t even have a plaque
on it. Nothing. Some poor family that isn’t even related to
him lives there. The meter doesn’t click
past 50 cents. As we drive towards her
apartment, she mumbles a lot of sexy things and stretches voluptuously,
cat-like. We’re almost in front of her
apartment and she begins another conversation with herself, “I want it -- Who
needs it? -- I do.”
I
hear from the most unexceptionable authority that the ladies in
I tell
myself, there is no way I’m going to ball her.
But
we would say to the parents of San Francisco to look closer to their daughters,
for they know not the many dangers to which they are exposed -- know their
associates, guard their virtue-- and to mildly counsel their sons, for when
upon the streets of the gay city they are wandering amid many temptations.
We are
sitting in front of her place. She opens
her purse and picks through it slowly, looking for coins. She finds a few dimes and nickels and leans
towards me and presses thirty cents into my hand, holding it a little too
long. Then she leans back to search for
more money, but gives a sort of quick, sidelong glance at my crotch, and falls
on my leg, and with her head resting on my thigh, stares at my fly.
Every
man thought every woman in that day a beauty.
Even I have had men come forty miles over the mountains, just to look at
me, and I never was called a handsome woman, in my best days, even by my most
ardent admirers.
Obviously
I’m still thinking -- no way. But physiology is asserting itself. A few seconds pass. She kisses my leg and then rises,
slowly. She starts a new tack: “I’ve just blown a joint and I’m really out
of my head.”
“Not
likely,” I
think. She’s seems to be thinking of
something to say or do. Suddenly, again,
she falls onto my leg, and rests her ear on my thigh. I don’t respond and she gets up a little
quicker and begins counting her money again.
I
ask, “You have
enough?”
“Yeah
there’s enough.”
Then she
looks at the door. She wants me to get
out and open the door and then she can invite me up to her apartment. A lot of them use that one.
“How
do I get out of here?”
As if they haven’t got out of cabs before. I reach over to get the door, and I pause at
her cunt, giving her a sort of thrill, then I open the door, saying, “Don’t burn me with that cigarette,” as if that was the reason for the pause. Then I say,
“Thank you,” loudly, sort of conveying my proper tone, as if to
say: “let’s stay on this business level,
etc. and keep away from those thoughts,” and she gets out but she suddenly
changes her mind. She says that she
wants …. (The