I went into the kitchen where Art Penny and his current wench Vania were on-lap enjoying each other’s affections. “Beg pardon,” I mumbled and helped myself to a beer from the sink. It wasn’t quite cold, having been left on top of the cracked ice mound. But it was better than “Puke.”
When I went back in, having heard applause, Scat was introducing Jathrath Hamutt, the Negro with the wartcheek. His first poem was “Essence of Peaceful Non-Existence” and it began:
“When I am young, and the flesh-eating oldsters
“Cry for my humanity … then do I suck dry the
“Marrow of aggression with a carbine in my
“Anointed fist and the blind upstaring eyes
“Of my designated victims bright as stars in
“A field of slime …”
I had another beer.
When I came back in, I noticed that everyone was in a state of great anxiety, and I supposed it was because The Hooded One was now about to regale us with his efforts. I imagined they’d be called “Upchuck” or “Garbage” or something equally as charming, but when he came forward and began to speak in a quiet, dark voice, there was meter and rhythm and sensitivity in his work.
“The Opening” was his first poem, and it was a solemn, honest tribute to virginity, and the morality of innocence. It made some of the more loose types in the room look uncomfortable.
His second was “Respite” and it effectively damned the uselessness of war without being vitriolic. As a poet myself, I had immense respect for this hooded man, whoever he was.
We listened to them, and for a few moments after he had finished them, I leaned against the bookshelf with growing awareness that this was a major talent. How ugly he must be, under that hood, to be able to write such gutty, such effective stuff. He was the essence of what has been misnamed “beat,” for there was a strength in defeat in him.
I had completely forgotten my scintillant ruse to find out if anyone was a doctor in disguise. I had planned to cut my finger and see who knew the most about first aid. Now it didn’t seem like such a good idea. I was enjoying myself immensely.
Then Aggie got up from where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, and she threw herself at The Hooded One.
“You’re cool!” she squeaked, and her arms went around his neck. Aggie is a nice kid, a real sweet girl, well brought-up and that sort of thing, but she has one small character flaw: she’s a nympho.
And the slightest little thing can set her off.
The next thing we knew, she was smothering his hood with kisses, and he was trying to break away from her. His poems fluttered all around his feet as he flailed at her, and Bernie Katz was starting to get up, muttering, “Aw, c’mon, Aggie, knock it off …”
When a peculiar thing happened.
Aggie tried to get his hood off, and he straight-armed her as best he could. It only served to help her cause, and as she fell on her back, half of us were watching her thighs, and the other half were looking at The Hooded One.
A seismic gasp made the length of the room. And then The Hooded One had a knife in his hand, a switchblade, and he pressed the stud, with aphwip! the blade came up, and he screamed;
“You! You’re all alike! All of you! All you rotten women! You can’t let a man have his art! You’ve got to ruin him! I wanted my art, but she gave me this … this! ” And he plucked at his face. Then he jumped for the white-faced, terrified Aggie.
I don’t know what happened, how I managed it, but I grabbed a book from the bookshelf at my shoulder, and brought it across in a wide sweep, catching him full on the nose. He went down like the Andrea Doria .
Later, I saw it was a copy of Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas. For a poet as beat as The Hooded One, it somehow seemed apropos.
Kroll showed up at the party, the following week, of all people. He mentioned something about a public citation, but I poo-poohed it; I had my reward; Aggie was back in the fold. Of my arm.
“The funny thing about it,” I said to him as we sipped beer in the kitchen, “is that Sally wasn’t a prostitute at all.”
“Mmm,” he agreed, slurping, “but who’d ever think a female plastic surgeon would be living in McMurdo Alley? And a renegade at that.”
“We always thought the guys who came to visit her were clients. I guess they were, but of a different kind.”
Kroll finished the beer and squashed the can with one hand. “This Hooded creep was really buggy,” he admitted, watching Scat and Weep For Me. Scat was trying to stuff a dirty sink sponge in Weep For Me’s mouth to stop her protestations of love. “He went for plastic surgery, and she misunderstood. Did it just the opposite of what he wanted.”
“Yeah,” I mused, “pretty weird. You’d think the guy would be happy to look like that. But he wanted to be ugly, so he could commune with God, or whatever it is these beatniks want to do. Couldn’t stand being a good-looker. Said it destroyed his work, his recognition with his art. Pretty bad.”
Kroll nodded. “Well, I got to go. Just wanted to stop over and thank you for your help.”
“Any time, Lieutenant,” I waved as he went out the door.
Fattest man I ever saw.
I sat there a few minutes, hearing the sound of the party in the other room. What a weird world it was. A female plastic surgeon, carrying on illegal operations in McMurdo Alley, everyone thinking she was a whore, and when a screwball slices her up, they find her operating equipment, and think someone came to perform an abort on her. How weird.
The weirdest part of all, though, was the cuckaboo with the hood. He wore it because he detested what he looked like. She probably hadn’t done too much to him, only shaved and altered select parts of his kisser, but what kind of a nut is it that gets sore when he turns out to look like Rock Hudson.
I mean, how beat can you get?