hashish smoked in motels always seemed mean. I remember the feeling of something in the middle of my head trying to expand, to work itself outward, causing fearsome pressure. We were in motels between flights or performances, or between a flight and a performance, or the other way around. The motel was never quite the same but motel time was identical everywhere we stayed. There were no edges to the tensions of our waiting; it was one blank plane of unsegmented time. We were usually located somewhere on the outskirts1 of a vast population center (not necessarily a city) and we sat on the bed or floor, never in chairs, sucking up bad hash, waiting for the ever-rumored limousine2 to come slipping in out of the plastic glades3, a comically elegant hearse into which seven or eight bodies might eventually drop, musicians, road managers, long blond girls with perfect legs, most of us in soiled old clothes, mendicant's denim4 and mauled boots, all rank with weed, trying to encompass5 the range of inconsistencies and finding this an unworthwhile endeavor.
But it's the rooms we waited in that I recall. Their plainness had a center to it, a remote secret, something one might seek to reach only through the unbent energies of certain drugs. It was a strange thing about hashish used in this environment; it seemed a puppet drug of technology, made and marketed under government supervision6, a contingency7 weapon devised by some hobbyist of the nastier industrial echelons8. Nothing was safe and there was no sure way to the center. I became both frightened and totally immobile, distrustful of everyone in the room, growing heavier by the second. A grim organic motor pulsed against the walls of my head. Often I tried to reason my way out of this conjuncture of fear and stone-weight. But there were too many areas of concentrated pressure, there was too much gravity in the universe, and although I never reconciled myself to whatever horror was ultimate I could not resist the systematic10 truth that I was being subsumed into an even more immobile category, that of chair, bed, room or motel itself. (It was after one of these half-hours of pensive11 insanity12 that I came up with the name Trans-paranoia for our spreading inkblot of holding companies, trusts, acquisitions and cabals13.) In the plainest of rooms nothing was comprehensible. We waited to be taken to a sports arena14, convention center, theater or stadium, there to plug ourselves in, to run the lucky hum through our blood, to give them evil meat to eat, the blind maidens15 naked on Styrofoam pedestals, the sellers of ancient medicines, the masters of trance, the black stoics16 exhibiting their puncture17 marks, the knifemen and poisoners, every head melting in the warp18 of our sound, its deflected19 electric howl, ladies screaming from wheelchairs, children in drag, feeble-minded bankers, wine merchants and baby rapers, mystics in heat, translucent20 boys fondling the tits of missionaries21' wives. They pressed against each other, chained to their invisible history, the youngest among them knowing of all needs that one is uppermost, the need to be illiterate22 in the land of the self-erasing word. I
For the first time in weeks Fenig was sitting at the top of the landing. I paused at my door, feeling certain there was something he wanted to say.
"Every pornographic work brings us closer to fascism."
I went inside, not bothering to lock the door. In a little while he came in. It was a dark afternoon and I lit a candle. Fenig sat at the edge of a straight-backed chair, leaning well forward, easily able to put his fingers to the tips of his tennis sneakers.
"Many thanks," he said.
"What for?"
"For listening."
"I had to stop anyway to get the door opened. So it wasn't that much of an ordeal23. Haven't seen you, Eddie. Pounding away at the old machine. Is that what you've been doing?"
"You called me Eddie. That's a gracious gesture and I appreciate it. Coming from you, Bucky, tops in your trade, it's not the kind of thing I'm ever likely to forget. Is there some coffee you can give me?"
"I haven't been able to find the coffee."
"I'd be happy to consume the dregs from an old cup that's just lying around unwashed."
Sorry.
"I'm in the middle of a dark period, practically black. It's one of those times in a writer's life when he or she just wants to fall into bed and pull the covers over his or her head. I'm dropping all my genres24 and going into a new one completely. The kiddie filth25 didn't pan out. I can't sell a thing. I can't make anything happen. It's all going sour and I'm just beginning to suspect the reason. Maybe I'll have more on that next time we get together. But for now suffice it to say I'm in deep trouble."
"How deep?"
"How deep is deep, Bucky? The very depths. The place where no sunlight reaches. The pressure hole of the great ocean trench26. I'm surrounded by blind fish swimming all around me. It's colder than mountains."
"The pacing hasn't helped. Is that right?'
"There was a point there and I shouldn't admit this even to you, Bucky, but there was a point there when I actually did some running and jumping. I told myself it was exercise, exercise. But I knew deep down it was an extreme form of pacing, an attempt to reinvigorate the format27. Now I'm back to conventional pacing again so maybe all is not total blackness just yet. I've written in many styles and in great quantity. I used to turn out material by the yard and they used to pay me by the yard. I don't know what's happened. I know I haven't priced myself out of the market. I know I haven't lost my willingness to work. But the fact remains28 I can't sell a thing lately. Rejections29 every which way. It must be an inner failing. Pornography caused the original trouble. That much I know. I got lost in P-ville and I couldn't get out with my professionalism intact. I'm just now beginning to understand the factors and motivations behind my lack of inspiration, for lack of a better word, but that's another story for another season. If there's anything I am, it's professional. Take that away and I turn into an amorphous30 mass of undifferentiated matter. There's a cruel kind of poetry to the market. The big wheel spins and gyrates and makes firecracker noises, going faster and faster and throwing off anybody who can't hold on. The market is rejecting me but I'm not blind to the cruel poetry in it. The market is phenomenal, bright as a hundred cities, turning and turning, and there are little figures everywhere trying to hold on with one hand but they're getting thrown off into the surrounding night, the silence, the emptiness, the darkness, the basin, the crater31, the pit. But the son of a bitch won't get rid of me that easy. I'm a tenacious32 brute33 for my size. I'm an in-fighter who can hold his own, pound for pound. I know the ups and downs of this business like few men in my time. But I appreciate your calling me Eddie. This is a big thing to an emotional person like me, which is basically what I am, and I want you to know I'll remember. Everybody else forgets but I remember."
"I can't offer advice for your comeback."
"I'll tell you what you can do," he said. "You can find the coffee pot you used last time you made coffee and maybe there's some grounds left over in the ground holder34 and you can give me a paper napkin and I can saturate35 the napkin with soggy coffee grounds and just hold it under my nose and sniff36 it for a little while."
"Aside from everything else I don't think I have any napkins."
"The paper kind is what I need."
"Even if there are some, I haven't seen any coffee grounds lately."
"Fame, riches, greatness, immortality37."
We sat through a long period of silence. Fenig tugged38 on the laces used to tighten39 the hood40 of his sweatshirt. He took his own pulse, right thumb on left wrist. He ran his tongue over the hair on the back of his hand. Then he made an odd sound. Warp. I leaned toward him.
"What's wrong?"
"Sick to my stomach," he said. "It's a characteristic of every dark period I go through. This is the absolute middle of it. The cold ocean trench. Not being able to start something new. Warp. It's happened before but never this bad. Genetically41 blind fish."
"Some water maybe."
"I'll be all right in a minute."
"You don't look good."
"Warp."
"Something to drink, Eddie."
"I'd better get upstairs. I thought it was sinking back into my stomach but maybe it's not. Upstairs would be best. Warp. I don't like to inflict42 my creative tensions on other people. Best if I went upstairs."
"Yes," I said.
The bed was a vast welcoming organism, a sea culture or synthetic43 plant, enraptured44 by the object it absorbed. As I headed deeper into mists and old stories, into windy images poised45 on the rim9 of sleep, I began to feel that the bed was having a dream and that the dream was me. One candle burned, this light not quite eluding46 my awareness47. I was barely conscious, being dreamed by a preternatural entity48, taken for a mind's ride into the mystery of things. It was all a question of control. I was being dreamed-smoked-created. The dream took form as a man asleep in a bed situated49 in the middle of a room in which a lone50 candle burned. This was not real but a dream and I was no more than the stale chemical breath of the dreamer.
The essential question was one of control. I went deeper now, struggling to produce a dream of my own, to return from those dim midlands with the fire of legend and sex contained in a thimble, safe for men to use. I was suspended in a double moment, trying to free myself, when suddenly a fierce noise broke over the bed, a wild ringing that lifted me through levels of consciousness out into the cold open room. Telephone. It seemed incredible and I merely stared at the sucking black shape. Each note seemed louder and more shrill51, the protest cry of a thing that preferred its latent state. Telephone. I walked across the floor and picked up the receiver.
"What do you want? Who is this?"
"Bucky, how are you, Bucky?"
"Son of a bitch. Globke. Rat bastard52."
"Bucky, Bucky, Bucky."
"Who else but you. Money machine. Sitting behind your fat-ass desk."
"Bucky, Bucky."
"Why'd you turn this thing on? I don't want a telephone in here."
"Bucky, Bucky, Bucky."
"Shit machine. Rotten globke bastard. You globke son of a bitch. You're a fucking unspeakable adjective, you know that?"
"They can fix phones from the office. They did it from their office. The phone company. It wasn't broke, understand? It was just turned off. So we had them turn it on."
"Manager."
"You've suffered untold53 agony. You're distraught, you're bereaved54, your stomach is extra-acidic. It's only natural you fling out in all directions. I understand this. I wouldn't have it any other way. Yell at me. Exhaust your vocabulary of foul55 words. I said to Lepp before I got into the car and picked up the phone to call you, I said to Lepp I'd rather have Bucky unload all the verbal garbage on me, his personal manager, instead of on top of the media, where it could hurt us a little bit. But the point is I'm sitting right now in this automobile56 of mine and I'm looking at the lights of the George Washington Bridge as I make my approach from the West Side Highway and I'm thinking it all means nothing to him. I'm thinking he's sitting there in this dead person's apartment suffering untold agony and for what? On the other side of this bridge is America. Do you hear what I'm saying, Bucky, above the whiz-whiz of the cars going the other way? America is out there, just beyond this bridge, and it's full of people who are waiting to be told what to do. Here I am on my way to a high-powered business dinner at Irv Koslow's Steak Fantasia in Metuchen and there you are suffering untold agony and for what? They want your sound out there. They want your words. They want your arms and legs and unmentionables. That's what I'm thinking as I sit here in this twenty-two-thousand-dollar banana boat of mine. I'm thinking other things too. I frankly57 admit that. I'm thinking dollar volume. I'm thinking grosses. I'm thinking unit sales. You can sit there for just so long. The best thing for you is work. The tour. The road. The travel. The tour represents a survival all its own, Bucky, and I know you perceive that truth. They're waiting out there, just the other side of this bridge. It's America. The whole big thing. Popcorn58 and killer59 drugs. You can't just sit there."
"You haven't sent Hanes down with any money lately."
"At least I got you thinking about money with that little speech of mine. The trouble is it's hard to get at it. We've got so many interlocking operations it's hard to know where to take from and who to give to. It's not easy to get at the money, Bucky. I'm trying to get at it. But so far nothing but legal hurdles61. It's tied up, the money. It's being used to make more money. But I'm up on seven now and I've got the legal minds working on it. Our senior people. So maybe things might begin to loosen up and we can put you back on a cash-flow basis. Maybe not too. It's hard to get at. Everywhere I turn I run into a legal hurdle60 of one kind or another. Lepp meanwhile is running all over town planting trees to keep people happy because of all the demolitions62 he's got planned. There's real estate an J unreal estate. Whoever's unhappy, Lepp plants trees. He tells them look how nice, a tree, a shrub63, see how it makes up for the noise and monstrousness64 of tearing down an old building and putting up a new building. That's the whole secret of corporate65 structures, my friend. Tell the enemy you'll plant some trees."
"What do you want?" I said.
"It's not what I want, Bucky. It's what they want. The ones who buy what we sell. That's no life you're leading sitting in a dead person's room and I say these words as I cross the bridge right at this pivotal moment and prepare to go through the tollbooth to the first acre of real American soil where they're watching and waiting for either a return to your old self or the emergence66 of something new and chart-busting."
"I'm all through listening."
"Because this is a pivotal time in the music business and in the future of the country as a whole."
"Don't call back."
"Abuse me, I love it Spit on my clothes, I'll never get them martinized. Nobody's happier than I am to dine in four-star restaurants with the spittle of a genius on my hand-tailored polyester checks. But one thing you should know about, Bucky."
"What's that?" I said.
"You were seen stealing a can of pineapple chunks67 in a supermarket in Fresno."
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1
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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denim
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| n.斜纹棉布；斜纹棉布裤，牛仔裤 | |
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encompass
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| vt.围绕，包围；包含，包括；完成 | |
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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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echelons
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| n.（机构中的）等级，阶层( echelon的名词复数 )；（军舰、士兵、飞机等的）梯形编队 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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cabals
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| n.（政治）阴谋小集团，（尤指政治上的）阴谋( cabal的名词复数 ) | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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stoics
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| 禁欲主义者，恬淡寡欲的人，不以苦乐为意的人( stoic的名词复数 ) | |
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puncture
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| n.刺孔，穿孔；v.刺穿，刺破 | |
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warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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deflected
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| 偏离的 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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genres
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| （文学、艺术等的）类型，体裁，风格( genre的名词复数 ) | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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format
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| n.设计，版式；[计算机]格式，DOS命令:格式化(磁盘)，用于空盘或使用过的磁盘建立新空盘来存储数据；v.使格式化，设计，安排 | |
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28
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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rejections
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| 拒绝( rejection的名词复数 )； 摒弃； 剔除物； 排斥 | |
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amorphous
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| adj.无定形的 | |
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crater
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| n.火山口，弹坑 | |
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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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saturate
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| vt.使湿透，浸透；使充满，使饱和 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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genetically
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| adv.遗传上 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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55
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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56
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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popcorn
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| n.爆米花 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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hurdle
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| n.跳栏，栏架；障碍，困难；vi.进行跨栏赛 | |
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hurdles
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| n.障碍( hurdle的名词复数 )；跳栏；（供人或马跳跃的）栏架；跨栏赛 | |
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demolitions
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| n.毁坏，破坏，拆毁( demolition的名词复数 ) | |
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shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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64
monstrousness
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| 怪异 | |
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corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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emergence
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| n.浮现，显现，出现，（植物）突出体 | |
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chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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