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  All right, man, we’ll just have to screw on the floor in a pile of old dishrags and a rubber overshoe. Now is the time, man, to give her the downbeat.

  “I have to go,” she says, standing up.

  “Go? Baby, we just got here. Come on, baby, there’s plenty of time.”

  “I have to be home by ten o’clock,” she says, putting on her skirt. Fifteen-year-old chicks, man, do anything, fuck anybody, and be home by ten o’clock. I don’t have the strength to protest, man, I’ve lost my suit jacket, I’ve wrecked fifteen boxes of sheet music, forgot to buy teaballs, and as a result am not getting balled. The gods, man, arrange everything. Maybe they will arrange for her to return tomorrow night, when I have my school bus and can drive her home. Man, I’m so tired from climbing up those boxes and falling down. I’ve got to find my bed, man, and get some zzzzzzz’s.

  Chapter 7

  Horse Badorties Dreams

  Horse Badorties having dream: Dream he is running around in a circle with elephants, hippopotamus. Teaching them to sing harmony. And here’s a bear, man, riding a tricycle, carrying a hot dog umbrella.

  Horse Badorties’ dream: Walking up great mountain of paper bags tin cans smoking bones walking up tremendous mountain of trash. The people of the village are afraid to climb the mountain of trash because no one has ever climbed it and lived to tell the tale. Impossible maze too much piles of junk everywhere you turn. Lose balance slip sink down through old eggshells, cardboard boxes, coffee grounds, melted plastic. Man went out there up to Great Trash Mountain and was never seen again. Thousand old sardine cans in a pile flashing blinding light. Stuff everywhere to confuse you and nobody ever found their way out of it.

  Horse Badorties walks up it easy. He walks up the great mountain of trash one two three, man. Horse Badorties’ own backyard, that’s all this Mountain of Trash is, man. Simplest thing in the world to climb climbing up up up

  Horse Badorties dreaming: Old medieval village, tell by thatched-roof cottages. Horse Badorties goes into sunlit meadow where old-type people in capes weird gowns cloaks stand together, holding precious valuable sheet music, and Horse Badorties is conducting them. Making perfect chords, Maestro Badorties is at the center of the golden meadow light with golden birds flying up in the sky

  Dream Horse Badorties: Dreaming he is in a bathtub or toilet or some kind of water-basin. A dark figure above him, pushes a screen down over him, pushing him into the water. Where’s my fan, man. Horse Badorties will knock off all ugly mothers of imagination!

  Horse Badorties waking up. Horse Badorties in fucking bed of pain. I’m sleeping all night in a bed of rocks, man, some kind of plastic sword in my back. What time is it, man, what universe am I in?

  Horse Badorties waking up oh no not another day Horse Badorties, not another day of running around buying school bus, selling fans, going crazy. You don’t want another day. Go back to sleep in your junk pile, man, catch a few more zzzzzz’s. Snuggle back down into empty milk carton, valuable treasures, sink back down into. Remove wax from eardrums hear better, make small figures, start ear-wax museum. To sleep again Horse Badorties to sleep.

  Horse Badorties dream he walking along and a flying saucer man is coming after him.

  Chapter 8

  Horse Badorties’ Number Two Pad

  A knocking at the door, man, I have to get up and answer the door, man, stumbling falling across the room to the door.

  “Yes, who is it?”

  “Luke”

  “Right, come on in, man,” Luke, man, cat lives down the hall in the only other occupied pad on this floor. The other two pads are empty, man, and I am going to get them, soon and somehow.

  “I’m going to Japan, Horse.”

  “You are, man? That means, man, we can get fans directly from Tokyo and eliminate the middleman, man. We can work a fantastic import-export deal, man, and not make any money.”

  “I’m going to enter a Buddhist monastery, Horse. No more deals.”

  “These fans, man, are religious objects. Half the time they don’t work, man. Nirvana fans, man, perfectly motionless. Consider them on that basis and send me a hundred as soon as you get there, for distribution here among fifteen-year-old chicks.”

  “I don’t know where the landlord is, Horse. Will you give him the key to my apartment for me?”

  “Gladly, man. I would consider it a privilege to serve you in this way, seeing as you are entering the religious life.”

  “Thanks, Horse. Take care of yourself.”

  “Just answer me one question, man: That little bag you are carrying, no bigger than a gum-bag, in which only a toothbrush and safety razor could fit–is that all you are taking with you to Japan?”

  “That’s all, Horse.”

  “Incredible, man. I plan to go to Japan myself, next year, when I buy a 747 super-fortress flying boxcar, man, to take all my stuff with me, and bring fans back. I’ll see you then, man, I’ll see you in Japan next year, man, stay cool.”

  There goes Luke, man, down the steps for the last time, to a Buddhist monastery. He’s on the Path, man, and so am I, directly down the hallway to his pad, man. Opening the door, and going inside. How neat, man, just like a monk’s cell–bare, everything in place, only the essential objects. My new pad, man. All it needs is a few homey Horse Badorties touches. In fact, man, since the landlord has evicted me out of my Number One Pad, I will now move into this Number Two Pad. This is my lucky day, man, a brand-new pad. A new pad and a second-hand school bus, which reminds me, man, I must get out of my new pad AT ONCE and go to New Jersey, man.

  Chapter 9

  About a Spoonful

  Now, man, that I am outside my two-pads in the fresh air and on the way to New Jersey, let me sit down on this Tompkins Square Park bench and eat my newly-purchased container of yogurt. Take into my person tiny Transylvanian bacteria which will digest the valuable precious contents of my stomach for me. Where, man, is the spoon I should have put in my satchel?

  No spoon, man. I must find one, that is definite. However, I do not wish to travel back to my Horse Badorties two-pads as I will only get locked in a repetitive cycle and be there all day. I must find a spoon out here, in the world. Shouldering my umbrella, man, I walk on, knowing that a spoon will turn up.

  What is that music I hear, man, floating out over Fifth Street? That is fantastic saxophone playing, man. Somewhere in one of these buildings, man, I must find the source of that music and sign the saxophone player into the Love Chorus.

  Where exactly is it coming from, man. Seems to be emanating from this brick building here which is falling down. Filthy half-starved wild dog in the doorway, growling over a chicken bone.

  "Stand aside, man."

  Definitely, man, the saxophone music is coming from up there, up these stairs. The music of a finished artist, man, like myself. Finished and done for. I wonder what music school he was thrown out of. I am getting closer to the sound, man, climbing up the stairs. How beautiful the way that saxophone drowns out the music of all the Puerto Rican radio stations playing in this building.

  It seems to be coming from this floor. Yes, man, it is coming from that door at the end of the hallway. A very advanced sound, man, the river-flowing ego-gone supreme-school sound and I am beating on the door the orchestral tom-tom. Saxophone playing stops.

  Door opening, spaced-out suspicious paranoid saxophone player staring at me, man, with his ax in his hand.

  “Was that saxophone playing coming from here, man?”

  “No, man, it wasn’t.”

  “It was great playing, man.”

  “All right, man, that’s different.”

  “Exactly, man, and now that we understand each other, just tell me one thing, man, one especially important fact about your musical development, man, and that is, man, do you have somewhere in your pad, man, a spoon so I can eat this motherfucking container of Bulgarian yogurt.”

  “Yeah, man, I guess I do, come on in.”<
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  Chapter 10

  The Wonderful Yellow School Bus

  “Man, that yogurt has given me new strength and vitality, man, I’m ready to leap over a tall building in a single bound, help me to the door, man, I have terrible indigestion, man, from those motherfucking Transylvanian bacteria, man.”

  “Why don’t you smoke a little of this, man?”

  “You’re right, man. Let’s be civilized.”

  The sax player takes out a stash of Peruvian mango skins, the mild vegetable stimulant to help you see the iguanas in your eyeballs.

  “Allow me to ignite it with my Japanese match, man. ”

  Scratch… scratch

  “Here, man, try a wooden match.”

  “Right, man … man… .” Smoking Peruvian mango, man, a green high, speaking of which, man, I have to get on the highway to New Jersey and buy my school bus. “Dig, man, I’ve got to split, man. I’ll see you tonight at St. Nancy’s Church on the Bowery.”

  “OK, man, I’ll try to make it.”

  A rare find, man, a trained musician to add depth to the Love Chorus in its last week of rehearsal. My lucky day, man, and now, man, NOW? Yes, man, now, with my mind liberated by Peruvian mango skins I race down the stairs and in super-fast lightning flash astral-hero compressed time sequence, I arrive at the Port Authority Building, buy ticket, and stumble onto the bus just as it leaves the station.

  I am riding on a bus to New Jersey, man, watch the scenery flop past, guy at a gas station, gone past, kid on a front lawn, gone past, Two Guys From Brooklyn pants factory, gone past, great Jersey swamp spreading out and out.

  “Finkfield.”

  Finkfield, man, that’s my stop.

  “Hold everything, man, my umbrella is stuck in the seat, man, don’t close that door, here I come, man… . ”

  Charging down the aisle, leaping down the steps, hitting the ground, man, the Knight of the Hot Dog is on his spiritual quest!

  The junkyard, man, stands right alongside the highway, beautifying the state with ten thousand old vehicles piled up, and I am entering it slowly, man, humbled in the presence of all this junk. It exceeds my wildest dreams, man, and I am turning down the lane here into an incredible MOUNTAIN OF JUNK! My dream, man … this is last night’s dream, man, coming true to show me I am on the right path buying a school bus. Look, man, look at the incredibly numerous broken piles of old batteries wheels parts iron heaps altars of stashed crap, man. And ahead of me, standing in the middle of it all, is the owner, man, Mr. Thorne. I’d recognize him anywhere, man, because of the spaced-out look in his eyes. A collector, man, of weird objects–a burly guy standing there, man, looking it all over, in an old busted hat and falling apart trousers. He’s the Pope of Junk, man, look at him, looking around with deep religious feelings moving in his heart, man. I have found my guru.

  “How’s it going, man?”

  “Afternoon.”

  “I called about a school bus.”

  “Here she is over here, near-perfect condition, just needs a little work on the steering box, the ball-joints, and the brake shoes. She squeaks a little when you brake her.”

  “Minor details, man. I can see that it is a road-worthy bus. I have an instinct about such things.”

  “Is that so? Well, over here now, is somethin else you might be interested in. It’s an old air-raid siren.”

  “Man, I am looking for an air-raid siren for years, man!”

  “Got an old minesweeper here alongside it.”

  “Right, man, throw it in the bus, I’ll use it to look for lost wristwatches in my pad … help me lift it in, man.”

  We’re loading the bus, man, with valuable precious objects. I feel like I’ve come to heaven, man. What is that I see lying there on the ground, all rusted-up with handles and bands, a piece of modern sculpture which I can sell to the Whitney Museum. “What’s this here, man?”

  “This is the braking mechanism from an old subway car, an antique you might say.”

  “Give me a hand with it, man, load it in.”

  Man, this school bus is tremendous, man. I can get so many fantastic objects in it, go anywhere, a floating junk pile, man. “What’s this thing lying here on the ground, man, all these poles and pulleys and springs, man."

  “That’s a fabulous piece of machinery, son, belonged to a feller known as the Great Springboard. Just a local boy, got into the big time, toured all over the world. Used to shot hisself a hunnert feet in the air on this thing and come down in a net.”

  “What happened to the cat, man?”

  “Out at the World’s Fair over in New York a few years ago, he sprung up in the air and came down on his head in the parking lot. After the funeral, his mother came out here and sold it to me.”

  “How much do you want for it, man?”

  “I don’t figure on sellin it just yet. I kinda like to come out here now and then and look at it and think about that boy, springin off through the air.”

  “I know how you feel, man. It is obviously a valuable precious content of your junkyard. Well, how much do I owe you for the rest of the stuff, man?”

  “Three hunnert bucks takes it away.”

  “Right, man, here’s a check from the Fourth Street Music Academy … hey, is this your dog, man?”

  “I wouldn’t pet that dog if I were you, son. He smells pretty bad, you’ll have to throw your clothes away if he rubs up against you.”

  “Here, man, come here and give Horse your paw.”

  His paw, man, is encrusted with grime and oil and his coat is covered with burrs and grease and he is the perfect watchdog for my pad, man. “How much you want for this dog, man?”

  “Ten bucks takes him away.”

  “All right, man, here’s a check for three-hundred-ten bucks, man, and now I’ve got to split in my school bus.”

  “Here’s the owner’s card, son. Be careful backin out.”

  The dog is in the bus, man, and I am behind the wheel, and starting up the motor.

  “Come back again, son. I got a lot more stuff here you should look at. Got an old airplane engine here, if you like to fly.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow for it, man. Don’t sell the airplane engine to anyone else. I can use it to fan my studio.”

  The old school bus is moving, man, listen to that engine purring. It handles like a tank, man, I can hardly steer it, what an advantage. Turning it around, man, in the junkyard practically tears my arms out of the sockets. I should have remembered to get a driver’s license, man, but there is plenty of time for such things later because now, man, NOW, I am off and away, onto the highway and heading back toward New York City, with a school bus at last, man, piled with precious objects and a dog.

  Fenders rattling, windshield broken, hole in the floorboards, wind rushing up through–my cool school bus, man. Maestro Badorties is wheeling along at last, man, forty miles an hour in his own valuable vehicle. The things I can do with this bus, man, the incredible adventures and fifteen-year-old chicks I can get in here, man. But the first thing I must do is slow down, man, there is a sharp curve up ahead… .

  … slowing down, brakes working all right, but the wheels, man, do not seem to be turning in the direction I must go in. There is a little dirt road, man, head for it directly, go down here bumping off the highway and down this narrow steep dirt road, fighting with the steering wheel which turns, man, but nothing happens and I cannot stay on the little dirt road either, man, I am careening along with the brake pedal all the way to the floor and it is not working, man, there are no brakes, I’d better shift it down, man, double clutch down into low gear, there is no more low, man, the clutch is gone watch out, man, the bus is going off the dirt road and over this bank, man, and down, man, my life is rushing past me, man, there is Van Cortlandt Park before my eyes, man, and I am bouncing down this bank of rocks and dirt and going down into New Jersey swamp grass, man, down into a foot of water and mud and coming to a stop, man, in a swam
p of tall weeds, with my wonderful school bus, and my dog is looking at me.

  “That’s it, man. We’ve had it.”

  We are mired in fetid grassland with pussy willows coming up past the windows. I’d better get out before the fucking thing sinks completely under, man, and the state police come and discover I have no license to drive my school bus. How awful, man, to leave behind my school bus with air-raid siren, minesweeper, and subway-braking mechanism, man.

  Can’t get the fucking door open, man, so it is out the window with my satchel and umbrella, man, and dropping down into the swamp. Now to get my dog out. “Come on, man, crawl out of there.” Water, man, and muck, and there, man, coming over the hill is a police car. No time to get my dog out, man. The police will have to remove him. I’ve got to get the hell out of here, man, through these tall pussy willows, man, and continue off through the swampland, which feels exactly like the floor of my apartment, man, about a foot of water and mud. I can go through it easily, man, with trained footsteps, they’ll never catch old Horse.

  Keeping my umbrella low, man, I proceed through the swamp grass and there are the state troopers, man, swarming over the school bus and scratching their heads, man, looking at my dog behind the steering wheel.

  I am out one school bus, man, but it will be returned to the owner of the junkyard, along with the rubber check I gave him, and now, man, I am slipping far away from the scene of my wonderful yellow school bus. Through this grove of trees, man, I can watch as they bring down a tow truck, man, and haul out the old bus. It’s sad in a way, man. But I realize now, man, that instead I should buy a used mail truck.

  Chapter 11

  The Mad Dialer