To have seen a specter isn’t
everything, and there are death masks piled, one atop the other, clear to
heaven. Commoner still are the wan visages of those returning from the shadow
of the valley. This means little to those who have not lifted the veil.
The ward nurse cautioned me not to
excite her (how can one prevent that?) and I was allowed only a few minutes.
The head nurse also stopped me to say I was permitted to see her just because
she always called my name and I must cheer her. She had had a very near brush
and was not rallying properly, actually was in marked decline, and still much
in danger. Quite impressed to my duties, I entered and gazed down on her
slender form resting so quietly on the high white bed. Her pale face was
whiter; like chalk. It was pathetically clear how utterly weak she was, there
seemed absolutely no blood left in her body. I stared and stared, she didn’t
breathe, didn’t move; I would never have recognized her, she was a waxed mummy.
White is the absence of color, she was white; all white, unless beneath the
covers, whose top caressed her breasts, was still hidden a speck of pink. The
thin ivory arms tapered inward until they reached the slight outward bulge of
narrow palms, and the hands in turn bent inward with a more sharp taper only to
quickly end in long fingers curled to a point. These things, and her head, with
its completely matted hair so black and contrasting with all the whiteness,
were the only parts of her visible. Quite normal, I know, but I just couldn’t
get over how awfully dead she looked. I had so arranged my head above hers that
when her eyes opened, after about ten minutes, they were in direct line with
mine; they showed no surprise, nor changed their position in the slightest. The
faintest of smiles, the merest of voices, “hello.” I placed my hand on her arm,
it was all I could do to restrain myself from jumping on the bed to hold her. I
saw she was too weak to talk and told her not to, I, however, rambled on at a
great rate.
There was no doubt she was overjoyed
to see me, her eyes said so. It was as though the gesture of self-destruction
had, in her mind, equalized all the guilt. The courage of committing the act
seemed to have justified her to herself. This action on her conviction, no
matter how neurotic, had called for all her strength and she was now released.
Free from the urge, since the will-for-death needs a strong concentration of
pressure to fulfill itself and once accomplished via attempt, is defeated until
another period of buildup is gone through; unless, of course, one succeeds in
reaching death the first shot, or is really mad. Gazing down on her, with a
grin of artificial buoyancy, I sensed this and felt an instant flood of envy.
She had escaped, at least for some time, and I knew I had yet to make my move.
Being a coward I had postponed too long and I realized I was further away from
commitment than ever. Would hesitancy never end? She shifted her cramped hand,
I looked down and for the first time noticed the tight sheet covering a flat
belly. It was empty, sunken; she had lost her baby. For a moment I wondered if
she knew it, then thought she must know—even now she was almost touching her
stomach, and she’d been in the hospital for ten days—surely a stupid idea. I
resolved to think better. The nurse glided up and said I’d better go; promising
to return the next visiting day, I leaned over and kissed Joan’s clear forehead
and left.
Off to the pool hall, back to the old
grind; I seemed to have a mania. From the way I loafed there all day one would
scarcely believe I’d never been in a pool hall two short years before; why,
less than six months ago I still couldn’t bear to play more than one game at a
time. Well, what is one to say about things he has done? I never again went
back to the hospital to bless Joan, oh, that’s what I felt like; blessing her.
Each day I lacerated myself thinking on her, but I didn’t go back. “Sometimes I
sits and thinks. Other times I sits and drinks, but mostly I just sits.” I must
have been in a pretty bad way.
Anyhow, two more weeks went by in
this fashion, my inability to stir from my pool hall prison became a joke, even
to me. It was the night before Christmas, about five PM, when a handsome woman
near forty came inside the gambling gaol’s gates and asked for me. I went up
front to meet her, as I came closer I saw that she was better than handsome, a
real good-looker and despite her age, making quite a stir among the boys. She
introduced herself, said she was a friend of Joan and invited me to dinner. My
heart bounced with guilty joy, I accepted and we walked the five blocks to this
fine-though-forty lady’s apartment without talking. The fatherly taxidriver
opened the door, my hostess said it was her husband and that Joan would be out
in a minute. Preparations for a huge dinner were in the making. I sat on the
sofa and waited. The bathroom—ugly word—door swung out and before my eyes was
once again the gorgeous Joan, “second” of Jennifer Jones. Fresh from the
shower, mirror-primped, stepped my heroine resplendent in her new friend’s
housecoat. Just when you think you’ve learned your lesson and swear to watch
your step, a single moment offguard will pop up and hope springs high as ever.
One startled look and I knew I was right back where I started; I felt again
that choking surge flooding me as when first I’d seen her. I started talking to
myself, determined to whip the poolhall rut and drag my stinking ass out of the
hole.
Over the prosperous supper on which
we soon pounced hung an air of excitement. Joan and I were leaping with
lovelooks across the roastbeef, while cabby and wife beamed on us. And we
planned, yesir, all four of us, and right out loud too. I was kinda embarrassed
at first when the host began without preamble, “Alright, you kids have wasted
enough time, I see you love each other and you’re going to settle down right
now. In the morning Joan is starting at St. Luke’s as a student nurse, she’s
told me that’s what she would like to do. As for you, Neal, if you’re serious
I’ll get up a little early tomorrow and before I go to work we’ll see if my boss
will give you a job. If you can’t get away with telling them you’re 21—the law
says you gotta be 21, you’re not that old yet are you? (I said no) so that you
can drive a taxi, you can probably get a job servicing the cabs. That okay with
you?” I said certainly it was and thanked him; and everybody laughed and was
happy. It was further decided that Joan and I stay with them until we got our
first paycheck; we would sleep on the couch that opened out into a bed. Gorged
with the big meal, I retired to the bathroom as the women did the dishes and
the old man read the paper. (By golly, it seems everything I write about
happens in a bathroom, don’t think I’m hungup that way, it’s just the incidents
exactly as they occurred, and here is another one, because—) A knock on the
toilet door and I rose to let in my resurrected beauty. She was as coy as ever,
but removed was much fear and embarrassment. We did a bit of smooching, then,
seated on the edge of the tub to observe better as she parted the bathrobe to
reveal an ugly red wound, livid against her buttermilk belly, stretching nearly
from naval to the clitoris. She was worried I wouldn’t think her as beautiful,
or love her as much now that her body had been marred by the surgeon’s knife
performing a Caesarian. There might have been a partial hysterectomy too and
she fretted that the production of more babies—“when we get the money”—would
prove difficult. I reassured her on all counts, swore my love (and meant it)
and finally we returned to the livingroom.
Oh, unhappy mind; trickster! O fatal
practicality! I was wearing really filthy clothes but had a change promised me
by a friend who lived at 12th and Ogden Sts. So as not to hangup my dwarf
cabbie savior when we went to see his buddyboss next A.M., my foolish head thought
to make a speedrun and get the necessary clean impediments now. Acting on this
obvious need—if I was to impress my hoped-for employer into hiring me—I
promised to hurry back, and left. Where is wisdom? Joan offered to walk with
me, and I turned down the suggestion reasoning it was very cold and I could
make better time alone, besides, she was still pretty weak, and if she was to
work tomorrow the strain of the fairly long walk might prove too much—no sense
jeopardizing her health. Would that I’d made her walk with me, would that she’d
collapsed rather than let me go alone, would anything instead of what happened!
Not only did the new promise for happiness go down the drain, and I lost Joan
forever, but her peace was to evaporate once and for all, and she herself was
to sink into the iniquity reserved for a certain type of beaten women!
I rushed my trip to the clothes
depot, made good connections and was quickly on my way back to the warm
apartment and my Joan. The route from 12th and Ogden to 16th and Lincoln Sts.
Lies for the most part, if one so desires, along East Colfax Ave. Horrible
mistake, stupid moment; I chose that path just to dig people on the crowded
thoroughfare as I hustled by them. At midblock between Pennsylvania and Pearl
Sts. is a tavern whose plateglass front ill-conceals the patrons of it’s
booths. I was almost past this bar when I glanced up to see my younger
blood-brother inside drinking beer alone. I had made good time and the hard
habit of lushing that I was then addicted to pushed me through the door to bum
a quickie off him. Surprise, surprise, he was loaded with loot and, more
surprising, gushed all over me. He ordered as fast as I could drink, and I
didn’t let the waitress stop, finishing the glass in a gulp; one draught for the
first few, then two for the next several and so on until I was sipping normally
by the time an hour had fled. First off he wanted a phone number—the reason for
his generosity I suspect—and I was the only one who could give it to him. He
claimed to have been sitting there actually brooding over the very girl on the
other end of this phone number, and I believed him; had to take it true,
because for the last five months it had become increasingly clear that he was
hot-as-hell for this chick—who was my girl. I gave him the number and he dashed
from one booth to the other. I had cautioned him not to mention my name, nor
tell her I was there, and he said he wouldn’t. But he did, although he denied
it later. The reason for his disloyalty, despite the fact that it cost me Joan,
was justifiable since as one might when about to be denied a date of importance
while drinking, he had used my whereabouts as a lastditch lure to tempt her
out. He came back to the booth from the phonebooth crestfallen, she had said
she couldn’t leave the house just now, but to call her back in a half-hour or
so; this didn’t cheer him as it would have me, he’s richer and less easily
satisfied. He called her again, about forty-five minutes after I had first been
pulled into the dive by my powerful thirst, and she said for him to wait at
this joint and she’d be down within an hour. This length of time didn’t seem
unreasonable, she lived quite a ways further out in East Denver. I thought
everything was going perfectly. Bill got the Girl, I got my drinks and still
had a short period of grace in which to slop up more before she showed (I
certainly didn’t intend to be there when she arrived) and I’d only be a little
late returning to Joan where I’d plead hassle in getting the clothes. O sad
shock, O unpleasant time; had I just not guzzled that last beer all the
following would not be written and I could end this story with “And they lived
happily ever after.”
Whoa, read slowly for a bit and have
patience with my verbosity. There are two things I’ve got to say here, one is a
sidepoint and it’ll come second, the first is essential to the understanding of
this story; so, I gotta give you one of my Hollywood flashbacks.
I’ll leave out the most of it and be
as brief as possible to make it tight, although, by the nature or it, this’ll
be hard—especially since I’m tired.
Number 1: On June 23, 1945 I was
released from New Mexico State Reformatory, after doing eleven months and 10
days (know the song?) of hard labor. Soon after returning to Denver I had the
rare luck to meet a 16-year-old East Hi beauty who had well-to-do parents; a
mother and a pretty older sister to be exact. Cherry Mary was her name because
she lived on Cherry Street and was a cherry when I met her. That condition
didn’t last long. I ripped into her like a maniac and she loved it. A
tremendous affair, countless things to be said about it—I can hardly help from
blurting out twenty or thirty statements right now despite resolution to
condense. I’m firm (ha) and won’t tell the story of our five months’
intercourse—with its many incidents that are percolating this moment in my
brain; about carnival-night we met (Elitch’s), the hundreds of mountain trips
in her new Mercury, rented trucks with mattresses in back, at her cabin, cabins
I broke into, day I got her to bang Hal Chase, time I gave her clap after
momentous meeting between her and mother of my second child (only boy before
Diana’s), time I knocked her up; and knocked it, mad nights and early A.M.’s at
Goodyear factory I worked alone in front from 4 P.M. to anytime I wanted to go
home, doing it on golfcourses, roofs, parks, cemeteries (you know, dead
peoples’ homes) snowbanks, schools and schoolyards, hotel bathrooms, her
mother’s vacant houses (she was a realtor), doing it every way we could think
of any-old-place we happened to be, in fact, we did it in so many places that
Denver was covered with our peckertracks; so many different ones that I can’t
possibly remember, often we’d treck clear from one side of town to another just
to find a spot to drop to it, on ordinary occasions, however, I’d just pull it
out and shove to her bottom if we were secluded, to her mouth if not, the
greatest most humorous incident of the lot: to please her mother she’d often
babysit for some of their socially prominent and wealthy friends several times
a week, I drove out to that particular evening’s assignment, after she called
to let me know the coast was clear, (funny English joke; man and wife in living
room, phone rings, man answers and says he wouldn’t know, better call the coast
guard, and hangs up, wife says, “Who was it, dear?” and man says, “I don’t
know, some damn fool who wanted to know if the coast was clear,” har-har-har)
and we quickly tear-off several goodies, then, I go back to work; in Goodyear
truck, don’t you know. We’d done this numerous times when the “most humorous”
evening came up. It was a Sunday night, so no work, I waited outside 16th and
High Street apartment till parents left and then went in and fell to it. I had
all my clothes off and in livingroom as she was washing my cock in bathroom,
(let this be a lesson to you, men, never become separated from your clothes, at
least keep your trousers handy, when doing this sort of thing in a strange
house—oops, my goodness, I forgot for a second that some of you are out of
circulation and certainly not in need of “Lord Chesterfield’s” counseling—don’t
show this to your wives, or tell them that I only offer this advice to pass on
to your sons, or, if that’s too harsh, to your dilettante friends, whew! Got
out of that) there’s a rattling of the apartment door and into the front room
walks the mother of one of the parents of the baby Cherry Mary is watching, so
fast did this old bat come in that we barely had time to shut the bathroom door
before she saw us. Here I was, nude, no clothes, and all exits blocked. I
couldn’t stay there for what if the old gal wanted to pee, and most old women’s
bladders and kidneys are not the best in the world. There was no place in the
bathroom to hide, nor could I sneak out due to the layout of the apartment.
Worse, Mary suddenly remembered the fact that this intruder was expected to
stay the night. We consulted in whispers, laughing and giggling despite all,
and it was decided Mary would leave the bathroom and keep the old lady busy
while suggesting a walk or coffee down the street and still try to collect my
clothes and get them to me; no mean feat. My task was to, as quietly as a
mouse, remove all the years-long collection of rich peoples’ bath knick-knacks
that blocked the room’s only window, then, impossible though it looked, I must
climb up the tub to it and with a fingernail file pry loose the outside screen.
Now, look at this window, it had four panels of glass 6” long and 4” wide, it
formed a rectangle of about 12 or 13” high and 8 or 9” across, difficult to
squeeze through at best, but, being modern as hell, the way it was hooked to
its frame was by a single metal bar in direct center! which when opened split
the panes of glass down the middle and made two windows.
I could hardly reach outside to work
on the screen—since the window opened outward—but I pushed and making a helluva
noise, split the screen enough to open the window. Now the impossible
compressing of my frame for the squeeze. I thought if I could get my head
through I could make it; I just was able to, by bending the tough metal bar the
slightest cunthair (in those days I cleaned and jerked 220 lbs.) and of course,
I almost tore off my pride-and-joy as I wiggled out into the cold November air.
I was damn glad I was only on the second floor, if I’d been higher I would have
been hungup in space for sure. So I dropped into the bushes bordering the walk
along the side of the building, and hid there shivering and gloating with glee.
There was a film of snow on the ground, but this didn’t bother anything except
my feet until some man parked his car in the alley garage and came walking past
my hideaway, then, much of my naked body got wet as I pressed against the icy
ground so he wouldn’t see me. This made me seek better shelter sine it was
about 9 P.M.—I’d been in the cold an hour—and a whole string of rich bastards
with cars might be putting them away. I waited until no one was in sight then
dashed down the walk to the alley and leaped up and grabbed the handy drainpipe
of a garage and pulled myself up. The window I’d broken out of overlooked my
new refuge and if anyone went in that bathroom they’d see the havoc wrought the
place and be looking out to see me. This fear had just formed—I was too cold to
be jolly now—when I saw Mary at last come into view. She had my pants, shoes,
and coat, but not my T-shirt and socks, having skipped those small items as she
bustled about in front of the cause of my predicament “straightening up.” The
woman had only noticed my belt and Mary had said she had a leather class in
school and was engraving it. When I’d bashed out the window Mary had heard the
crashing about, (the old lady must have been deaf; while I was escaping kept
talking about Thanksgiving turkey!) ***and had come in the bathroom to clean
up, close the window and otherwise coverup. I out on my clothes and chattering
uncontrollably from my freezeout walked with Mary to the Oasis Café for some
hot coffee. And so it goes, tale after tale revolving around this Cherry Mary period;
here’s just a couple more:
At first the mother of this frantic
fucking filly confided in me and, to get me on her side, asked me to take care
of Mary, watch her and so forth. After awhile, as Mary got wilder, the old
bitch decided to give me a dressing down, (I can’t remember the exact little
thing that led up to this, offhand anyhow) and since she wasn’t the type to do
it herself—and to impress me, I guess—she got the pastor of the parish to give
me a lecture. Now, her home was in one of the elite parishes and so she got the
monsignor—it was a Catholic church—to come over for dinner the same evening she
invited me. I arrived a little before him and could at once smell something was
cooking. The slut just couldn’t hold back her little scheme, told Mary to
listen closely and began preaching a little of her own gospel to warm me up for
the main event. The doorbell rang and her eyes sparkled with anticipation as
she sallied forth from the kitchen to answer it. The priest was a middlesized
middleaged pink featured man with extremely thick glasses covering such poor
eyes he couldn’t see me until our noses almost touched. Coming toward me across
the palatial livingroom he had his handshake extended and was in the midst of a
normal greeting, the mother escorting him by elbow all the while and gushing
introduction. Then it happened, he saw me; what an expression! I’ve never seen
a chin drop so far so fast, it literally banged his breastbone. “Neal!! Neal!,
my boy!, at last I’ve found my boy!” his voice broke as he said the last word
and his Adam’s apple refused to articulate further because all it gave out was
a strangled blubber. Choked with emotion, he violently clasped me to him and
flung his eyes to heaven fervently thanking his God. Tremendous tears rolled down
his cheeks, poured over his upthrust jaw, and disappeared inside his tight
clerical collar. I had trouble deciding whether to leave my arms hanging limp
or throw them around him and try to return the depth of his goodness by turning
to it. Golly and whooooeee!, what a sight!! The priest’s emotion had been one
of incredulous joyous recognition, Mary’s mother’s emotion was a gem of
frustrated surprise; startled wonder at such an unimaginable happening left her
gaping at us with the most foolish looking face I’ve ever seen. She didn’t know
whether to faint or flee, never had she been so taken aback, and, I’m sure,
didn’t think she ever would be, it was really a perfect farce. Mary and her
sister—who was there to lend dignity to her mother’s idea—were as slackjawed as
any of us. Depend on sweet Mary to recover fast, she did, with a giggle; which
her sister took as a cue to frown upon, thereby regaining her senses. The
mother’s composure came with a gasp of artificial goo, “Well! what a pleasant
surprise!!” she gurgled with strained smile, feeling lucky she’d snuck out from
under so easily. Oho! But wait, aha! She’d made a mistake! Her tension was so
unbearable—and she had succeeded so well with her first words—that she decided
to speak again, “let’s all go into supper, shall we?” she said in a
high-pitched nervous urge. The false earnestness of her tone struck us all as a
most incongruous concern and she’d given herself away by being too quick—since
her guest was still holding me tightly.
The ecstatic priest was Harlan
Fischer, my Godfather when I was baptized at age 10 in 1936. He had also taught
me Latin for some months and saw me occasionally during the following three
years I served at Holy Ghost Church as altar boy. At our last meeting I was
engrossed in the lives of Saints and determined to become a priest or Christian
brother, then, I abruptly disappear down the pleasanter path of evil. Now, six
and a half years later, he met me again in Mary’s house as a youth he’s come to
lecture. Well, he didn’t get around to the lecture, it never seemed to enter
his head because it was too full of blissful joy at finding his lost son. He
told me how he’d never had another Godson—it just happened that way—and how
he’d prayed every night and day for my soul and to see me again. He could
hardly contain himself at the dinner-table, fidgeted and twittered and didn’t
touch his food. He dragged the whole story of the long wait for this moment out
into the open and before the sullen-hearted (she gave me piercing glances of pure
hate when Father Fischer wasn’t looking) mother actually waxed moistly
eloquent. When the meal was over the dirty old bitch knew her sweet little
scheme had backfired completely for Fischer at once excused himself, saying he
was sure everyone understood, because he wanted to talk to me alone, and we
left. We drove to his church and then sat in his car for two hours before I got
out and walked away, never to see him to this very day, now five years since.
He started in with the old stuff, and I, knowing there could be no agreement
and not wanting to use him unfairly, came down right away and for once I didn’t
hesitate as I told him not to bother; I was sorry for it, but we were worlds
apart and it would do no good for him to try and come closer. Oh we did a lot
of talking, it wasn’t quite that short and simple, but as I say, I finally left
him when he realized there was nothing more to be said, and that was that.
The other incident I wanted to tell
you about can wait, I must cut this to the bone from here on out because I
haven’t the money for paper. Anyhow, the reason for this little glimpse into
the months just prior to meeting Joan was to show there was some cause for what
happened to me in the bar with my younger blood brother. Mind you, I haven’t
seen Mary’s mother for at least a month before this night in the bar, although
I’d seen Mary about two weeks earlier. Ah, what’s another few lines, I gotta
break in here and tell you that other funny little thing about C. Mary. It is
this; she was such a hypochondriac that she often played at Blindness. Now wait
a minute, this was unusual, because she never complained of illness or anything
else, in fact, she didn’t complain about her eyes either, just the opposite,
she played at having a true martyr complex toward them. Often we’d spend 12-16
hours in a hotel room while she was “blind.” I’d wait on her hand and foot (and
cock) during these times. They’d begin casually enough, she’d simply announce
that she couldn’t see and that would go on until she’d just as quietly say she
could see again. This happened while she was driving- I’d grab the wheel—while
we were walking—I’d lead her—while we were loving—I’d finish anyhow—in fact,
this happened any old place she felt like it happening. It was a great little
game, she didn’t have to worry, if she smacked up the car, or anything, the old
lady would come to the rescue with lots of dough, wouldn’t she? Oh enough!
Continuing then, from about 1,500
words ago, as to why Joan and I didn’t live Happily Ever After; Very simple, we
were given no chance.
You see, as I drank the last
Blood-Brother beer—I remember deciding in all seriousness that it was
definitely the last one—2 plainclothesmen approached, asked if I was Neal C and
promptly hauled me away! It seems Cherry Mary’s Mother, listening on the phone
extension to my friend give my whereabouts, had called the police—and she was
politically powerful! Why, why, after release on statutory rape with testifying
flatly refused by panicky Mary and not a shred of evidence otherwise—flatly
panicky, I continued to be held in jail charged with suspicion of Burglary! Of
my pool hall hangout yet. Because the charge had a superficial plausibility,
since I racked balls there a couple of times and knew the layout—I knew a lot
of fearful moments before Capt. of Dicks admitted he knew I was clear all
along, and released me finally weeks later.
Joan had disappeared completely
By Neal Leon Cassady
(1926 – 1968) written on the 17 Dec 1950
