The Fan Man Read online

  The indestructible comic cult classic starring the legendary Horse Badorties, founder of Dorky Day

  “This short, artfully structured, supremely insane novel is Buddha’s story, turned inside out… Horse Badorties walks into American literature a full-blown achievement, a heroic godheaded head, a splendid creep, a sublime prince of the holy trash pile… send congratulations to William Kotzwinkle, also a hero, man.” William Kennedy, New Republic

  “A delightfully, often devastatingly funny novel… William Kotzwinkle is a first-rate fabulist and has created in Horse Badorties a new kind of American character who, while dwelling in the realms of the fantastic, touches upon far more aspects of contemporary life then do many so-called American characters… (Horse is a) kind of Ginger Man, Lucky Jim, Huck Finn, and Easy Rider all mixed up in one… a marvelous creation.” Seattle Times

  “The landmark novel of the dusking of the Age of Aquarius after its beatnik-hippie, speedfreak-pataphysician, revolutionist-artist Lower East Side decade-long summer of love – be-ins, psychedelics, dumpster prospecting, tenant squatting – is William Kotzwinkle’s The Fan Man.” Herbert Gold

  “Kotzwinkle’s story of a drug-flavored, flailing genius is a fine and funny piece of work that deserves to outlive many more studious efforts to limm the psychedelic ethos – and to wind up, perhaps, in some college lit class of the future, along with Thompson and Wolfe, all examples of a rare and exotic strain of experience that crept into the literature of the sixties and seventies.” Rolling Stone

  “Bill Kotzwinkle is one of the few American writers in complete control of his materials, and his materials seem to come from somewhere deep down. The Fan Man is nearly flawless and seamless, as nearly as I can tell.” Kurt Vonnegut

  “Kotzwinkle has invented a human dada, full of one-line gags and comic perceptions.” The New York Times Book Review

  “Old Horse is one hell of a character, man.” Philadelphia Bulletin

  “The Fan Man cuts through so many games that it leaves a trail of clear light.” Ram Dass

  “This is one of my favorite books. Ever… The sixties are long gone (sigh). But William Kotzwinkle’s creation of a doped-up, cooled-out street bum – whose prize possessions include the self-given mantra Dorky and a fan that hums with the universe – lives on. Go on. Check it out.” QPB Review

  The

  Fan

  Man

  The Novel by

  WILLIAM KOTZWINKLE

  Drawings by

  KEITH BENDIS

  Forward by

  KURT VONNEGUT

  Copyright © 1974, 2013 by William Kotzwinkle

  Illustrations Copyright © 1979, 2013 by Keith Bendis

  Forward copyright © 1994 by Kurt Vonnegut, 2013 by Estate of Kurt Vonnegut

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a fictional story, created solely by the author.

  Any similarity to real persons or events is entirely coincidental.

  Layout: Cheryl Perez www.yourepublished.com

  No content from this book, whether whole or in part, may be copied, reproduced, licensed, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted by any means, electronic or mechanical, by photocopying or recording, without the expressed written consent of the copyright holder, William Kotzwinkle.

  The

  Fan

  Man

  Contents

  Foreword to the Twentieth-Anniversary Edition

  Chapter 1: Horse Badorties’ Number One Pad

  Chapter 2: Horse Badorties’ Satchel

  Chapter 3: Horse Badorties’ Bottle of Piña-colad

  Chapter 4: A Knight of the Hot Dog

  Chapter 5: The Overcoat That Went to the Bronx

  Chapter 6: Fugue in A Minor

  Chapter 7: Horse Badorties Dreams

  Chapter 8: Horse Badorties’ Number Two Pad

  Chapter 9: About a Spoonful

  Chapter 10: The Wonderful Yellow School Bus

  Chapter 11: The Mad Dialer

  Chapter 12: Commodore Schmuck on the Water

  Chapter 13: Commodore Schmuck Is Betrayed at the Bay of Crabs

  Chapter 14: The Fan Man in the House of the Dead

  Chapter 15: The Fan Man Gets the Shaf

  Chapter 16: Far Out, Man

  Chapter 17: The Elephant Dance

  Chapter 18: Horse Badorties’ Four Pads

  Chapter 19: Hawkman Lives!

  Chapter 20: The Doctor Foot-Itch Miracle Cure

  Chapter 21: It’s Dorky-Day Once Again!

  Chapter 22: Good-bye Horse Badorties’ Four Pads

  Chapter 23: >The Avatar at Work

  Chapter 24: Uncle Skulky

  Chapter 25: The Fan Man Eats It

  Chapter 26: Something Calls to the Fan Man, Faintly

  Forward to the Twentieth-Anniversary Edition

  This is music to be played in the head, and only the quickest, least inhibited sight-readers can play it as written, and thus hear head music the likes of which, prior to its publication in 1974, had never been heard. It was and remains important, but, since it requires its readers to be skilled performers, it can never be for everyone.

  And it is especially not for those who require writers, no matter how seemingly hilarious or how bizarre their subject matter, to indicate that they are in fact solid citizens, treasurers of sanity devoted to the well-being of their communities. In this book neither the author nor any character in his cast offers the wispiest hint as to how healthy and reasonable people should feel about its hero, Horse Badorties. The moral stabilizer in the story, take it or leave it, is like the busted junk Badorties keeps buying for chaotically imagined future uses. It is what Badorties thinks of himself while fog bound by drugs and absolutely terminal incompetence and loneliness.

  One must understand that in this book Badorties is the only judge, and that has to be judge enough, or, again, this book cannot be for you. It is like an egg. Everything which is supposed to be inside the shell is in there. Good luck to the egg, and good luck to you.

  Kurt Vonnegut

  January 1994

  The

  Fan

  Man

  Chapter 1

  Horse Badorties’ Number One Pad

  I am all alone in my pad, man, my piled-up-to-the-ceiling-with-junk pad. Piled with sheet music, with piles of garbage bags bursting with rubbish and encrusted frying pans piled on the floor, embedded with unnameable flecks of putrified wretchedness in grease. My pad, man, my own little Lower East Side Horse Badorties pad.

  I just woke up, man. Horse Badorties just woke up and is crawling around in the sea of abominated filthiness, man, which he calls home. Walking through the rooms of my pad, man, through broken glass and piles of filthy clothes from which I shall select my wardrobe for the day. Here, stuffed in a trash basket, is a pair of incredibly wrinkled-up muck-pants. And here, man, beneath a pile of wet newspapers is a shirt, man, with one sleeve. All I need now, man, is a tie, and here is a perfectly good rubber Japanese toy snake, man, which I can easily form into an acceptable knot looking like a gnarled ball of spaghetti.

  SPAGHETTI MAN! Now I remember. That is why I have arisen from my cesspool bed, man, because of the growlings of my stomach. It is time for breakfast, man. But first I must make a telephone call to Alaska.

  Must find telephone. Important deal in the making. Looking around for telephone, fighting my way through piles of sheet music, man, piled up to the ceiling. And here is an electric extension cord, man, which will serve perfectly as a belt to hold up my falling-down Horse Badorties pants, simply by running the
cord through the belt loops and plugging it together.

  Lookin’ through the shambles wreckage busted chair old sardine can with a roach in it, empty piña-colada bottle, sweet sticky gummy something on the wall, broken egg on the floor, some kind of coffee grounds sprinkled around. What’s this under here, man?

  It’s the sink, man. I have found the sink. I’d recognize it anywhere … wait a second, man … it is not the sink but my Horse Badorties big stuffed easychair piled with dirty dishes. I must sit down here and rest, man, I’m so tired from getting out of bed. Throw dishes onto the floor, crash break shatter. Sink down into the damp cushions, some kind of fungus on the armrest, possibility of smoking it.

  I’m in my little Horse Badorties pad, man, looking around. It’s the nicest pad I ever had, man, and I’m getting another one just like it down the hall. Two pads, man. The rent will be high but it’s not so bad if you don’t pay it. And with two pads, man, I will have room to rehearse the Love Chorus, man, and we will sing our holy music and record it on my battery-powered portable falling-apart Japanese tape recorder with the corroded worn-out batteries, man, and when we play it back and listen to it we will not be able to hear it. How wonderful, man.

  Sitting in chair, staring at wall, where paint is peeling off and jelly is dripping and hundreds of telephone numbers are written. I must make a telephone call immediately, man, that is a MUST.

  Sitting in chair, staring at wall. Unable to move, man, feeling the dark heavy curtain of impassable numbness settling on me, man. Roach crawling up the wall. Yes, man, even my roaches have roaches.

  Falling back to sleep, head nodding down to chest, arm falling off side of chair, fingers touching smooth plastic. I’ve found the phone, man. It was right beside me all the time, man, like a good little animal, and I am holding it up, man, and there is margarine in the dial holes. This, man, is definitely my telephone. My avenue of communication is now Ma Bell into whom I am inserting my dial finger, man, again and again. She’s excited, man, she’s responding… .

  “… hello? … hello, man, this is Horse Badorties … right, man, I’m putting together a little deal, man. Acapulco artichoke hearts, man, lovely stuff … came across the Colorado River on a raft, man, it’s a little damp, but other than that … can you hold on a second, man, I think I hear somebody trying to break through the window.”

  I cannot speak a moment longer, man, without something to eat. I am weak from hunger, man, and must hunt for my refrigerator through sucked oranges, dead wood, old iron, scum-peel. Here it is, man, with the garbage-table wedged tightly against it. Tip the table, man, this is no time for formalities, I’m starving.

  Some kind of mysterious vegetable, man, is sitting in the refrigerator, shriveled, filthy, covered with fungus, a rotten something, man, and it is my breakfast.

  Rather than eat it, man, I will return to my bed of pain. I will reenter the Bardo of Dreams, man, if I can locate my bed. It’s through this door and back in here somewhere, man. I must get some more sleep, I realize that now. I cannot function, cannot move forward, man, until I have retreated into sleep.

  Crawling, man, over the bureau drawers which are bursting with old rags and my used sock collection, and slipping down, man, catching a piece of the bed, man, where I can relax upon a pile of books old pail some rocks floating around. Slipping onto my yellow smeared stiff mortified ripped wax-paper scummy sheets, man, how nice. And the last thing I do, man, before I sleep is turn on my battery-powered hand-held Japanese fan. The humming note it makes, man, the sweet and constant melodic droning lulls me to sleep, man, where I will dream symphonies, man, and wake up with a stiff neck.

  Chapter 2

  Horse Badorties’ Satchel

  Horse Badorties waking up again, man. Man, what planet am I on? I seem to be contained in some weird primeval hideous grease. Wait a second, man, that is my Horse Badorties pillowcase. I am alive and well in my own Horse Badorties abominable life.

  Time to get up, to get up. Get up, man, you’ve got to get up and go out into the day and bring fifteen-year-old chicks into your life.

  I’m moving my Horse Badorties feet, man, getting my stuff together, collecting the various precious contents of my pad, man, which I MUST take along with me. I have the Japanese fan in my hand, man, and I am marching forward through my rubbish heap. Cooling myself, man, on a hot summer morning or afternoon, one of the two.

  Over to the window, man, which looks far out over the rooftops to a distant tower, where the time is showing four o’clock in the afternoon. Late, man. I’ve got to get out of the pad or I will circle around again in it, uncovering lost treasures of ancient civilizations, and I will get hung-up and stuck here all day.

  Here is my satchel, man. Now I must stuff it with essential items for survival on the street: sheet music, fan, alarm clock, tape recorder. The only final and further object which must be packed in my survival satchel is the Commander Schmuck Korean earflap cap in case I happen to hear Puerto Rican music along the way.

  There are countless thousands of other things in these rooms, man, I should take along with me, in case of emergency, and since it is summertime, I MUST take my overcoat. I have a powerful intuition it will come in handy.

  Many other things, man, would I like to jam in my satchel. All of it, man, I want to take it all with me, and that is why I must, after getting a last drink of water, get out of here.

  Roaches scurrying over the gigantic pile of caked and stuck-together greasy dishes in my Horse Badorties sink. The water is not yet cold enough. I’m going to let the water run here, man, for a second, while it gets cold. Don’t let me forget to turn it off.

  I’ve got everything I need, man. Everything I could possibly want for a few hours on the street is already irrevocably contained in my satchel. If it gets much heavier, man, I won’t be able to carry it.

  “I’m turning on the tape recorder, man, to record the sound of the door closing as I go out of my pad. That long strung-out creaking noise, man, is the wonderful sound of freedom for Horse Badorties. It is the sound of liberation, man, from my compulsion to delay over and over again my departure … wait just a second, man, I forgot to make sure if there’s one last thing I wanted to take.”

  Back into pad once more, man, goes the insane one in his folly. Did I forget to do anything, take anything? There is just one thing and that is to change my shoes, man, removing these plastic Japanese shoes which kill my feet, because here, man, is a Chinese gum-rubber canvas shoe for easy Horse Badorties walking. Where is the other one, man? Here it is, man, with some kind of soggy wet beans, man, sprouting inside it. I can’t disturb nature’s harmony, man, I’ll have to wear two different shoes, one yellow plastic Japanese, the other red canvas Chinese, and my walking, man, will be hopelessly unbalanced. I’d better not go out at all, man.

  Look, man, you have to go out. Once you go outside, man, you can always buy a fresh pair of Lower-East-Side-Ukrainian cardboard bedroom slippers which fall apart after walking half a block. Of course, man, it’s quite simple when looked at rationally. Let’s go, man, out the door; everything is cool.

  Out the door again, man, and down the steps, down the steps, down … one … two … three flights of stairs…

  Jesus, man, I forgot my walkie-talkies. I’ve gone down three flights of steps, man. And I am turning around and going back up them again.

  I am climbing back up the stairs because, though I am tired and falling-apart, I cannot be without my walkie-talkies, man. Common sense, man, must rule over bodily fatigue.

  “It is miraculous, man. I am making a special tape recorded announcement of this miracle, man, so that I will never forget this moment of superb unconscious intuition. Ostensibly, man, I returned for my walkie-talkies, but actually it was my unconscious mind luring me back, man, because I left the door to my pad wide fucking open. Anyone might have stepped in and carried away the valuable precious contents of my pad, man. And so I am back in the scrap-heap, man, the wretched
tumbled-down strewn-about fucked-up-everything of my pad, man, and I am seeing a further miracle, man. It is the miracle of the water in the sink, man, which I left running. Man, do you realize that if I had not returned here for my walkie-talkies, I would have flooded the pad, creating tidal waves among my roaches, and also on the roaches who live downstairs with the twenty-six Puerto Rican chickens? A catastrophe has been averted, man. And what is more, now the water is almost cold, man. It just needs to run a few more minutes, man, and I can have my drink of water.”

  But first, man, I see that I forgot to take my sweet little moon-lute, man, hanging here inside the stove. The moon-lute, man, the weirdest fucking instrument on earth, man. Looks like a Chinese frying pan, man, and I am the only one in the occidental world who would dare to play it, man, as it sounds like a Chinaman falling down a flight of stairs. Which reminds me, man, I’d better get out of this pad, man, and down the stairs. I’m going, man, I’m on the way, out of the door. I am closing up the pad, man, without further notice.

  Chapter 3

  Horse Badorties’ Bottle of Piña-colada

  The street, man, dig the street. I’m free of my pad, man. I’m out here in a summer day walking along carrying satchel and overcoat. Man, why did I bring this overcoat I must take it back to my Horse Badorties pad immediately.

  “This is Horse Badorties turning on the tape recorder, man, collecting more valuable sounds. Dig, man, the hum in the background. Horse Badorties is flaked out in the Clear White Grease, man, standing in front of the great Con Edison power transformer. Dig, man, the loud humming dragon, man, listen to it. I wish I could stay and listen to it, man, but I’ve got to recruit fifteen-year-old chicks for the Love Chorus, man, IMMEDIATELY!”

  Horse Badorties turning onto Avenue A, man, what a wonderful street. Look at the filth, man, everywhere. It’s my pad, man, Avenue A is merely an extension of my ever-shifting shitpile. Why, man, did I bring this overcoat with me? It must be ninety degrees in the shade of a New York TREE!