part of SLAUGHTER ON 14th STREET
--A NOVEL POEM--
Alice Olds-Ellingson
I was so involved with sex in the seventies, that when I taught a 6th grade class some Sex Education, I didn’t think I was much remiss. Just as I launched into a harangue about the politics of tube-tying on Welfare recipients, the regular black teacher came into the room. I was crucified. All the bosses were frustrated old maids&would have none of this “sex education” stuff from Ellingson. Better they should learn it on the street. The 13-year-old drop-out in the class who had a changed voice&everything had been trying to look up my little skirt. He already knew more about sex than I did, I’m sure! Oh, well, I went to work at another grade school in Harlem (they’d all been in Harlem or the South Bronx)&the principal was a liberal. He’d heard of my infamous class on sex&was interested in hiring me! His brother was the weak sister principal at the sexually taboo school. Small world. The school was creative -- the second, that is. All the kids were learning, the other teachers were happy, the principal, too.
I taught dance at this second school. The kids were good little flowers&robots&trees or whatever else I could think of that they could dance out. Mr. Strell, the principal, would just take over my class happily whenever I wanted to go out on a cigarette break.
Speaking of cigarettes. I didn’t start smoking till I was 26 -- on that fateful acid trip. Tom, the Guru, had me light up in a BANK where he was cashing some of my hundred dollar bills. I was a terrible smoker, and coughed&coughed. But, the 86th St. East side neighborhood was forewarned. I had become a bra-less hippy&was out to blacken the scene of Yorkville. I didn’t realize this. I thought my life had always been private&that nobody’d ever really noticed me -- despite my flaming good looks&my flamboyant lifestyle.
Tom&I were starting the career of acid freaks&acid sellers on East 86th St. Probably I was singlehandedly starting the blacks moving into the neighborhood&fast food chains in this righteous area of NYC. After the acid trip was over, I lived with a black man as dark as coal who was crazy&hearing voices&getting drunk. I went shopping for groceries near the apartment where he was holding forth to prepare lunch for my return (sex),&a huge old German came up to me&threatened. “Why don’t you take pills to turn your skin black -- you might as well -- so good, you are!” he said. That was the first time I ever knew I was known. But, I’d always repress the information&live about the world like an unknown. Eventually, I guess, it became politic for everyone to treat me as the unknown which I was known to know. Once, in Washington D.C., some queers said to me -- and I was walking around with another breakdown in the fall -- said to me “Fall is ALWAYS your downfall.” I felt like a goldfish. So, on the weekend when my parents were running away from me (1976) to live on the West Coast, I took my first batch of suicide pills -- 400 Valiums&Stelazine --&just slept through the weekend. In fact, I even got up to deliver a speech at A.A.!
I’m afraid the boring times are ahead of us in this novel. Like my ridiculous move to Washington D.C. in 1975 to be near a Scientology Headquarters -- and my woeful parents, who lived near by Bethesda (Wheaton, Maryland). The Scientologists thought I had a MILLION DOLLAR case&were trying to get the money out of those clams, my parents. Good luck! They are PROS at keeping money out of their children’s hands. When the Registrar&her husband came to dinner at the Wheaton house, Susan (her name was Susan Kallman or something) played her trump card. “Alice will be a prostitute if you don’t pay for her therapy!” Mom, who didn’t have Alzeimer’s at this time, was perfectly glad of that news. “Alice would make a wonderful whore! What do you think we’ve carefully raised her to BE?” The Kallmans were shocked. Susan left Scientology immediately&became a stripper. Mother had done some tall convincing at that dinner party!
It’s hard to remember an entire life in chronological order. I’m just writing whatever comes to mind -- in any order which way. Though nothing happened in 1973 for example, I feel free to wander back to that time to pay a call. Like that was the year I was looking for a teacher&found one Ken Aaron, of the North Manhattan Scientology Mission. This was fun&games time for me. Both Jerry&I became interested in the classes across town&I was overjoyed to meet Nathan Hightower, a TRUE old fart Scientologist. He wasn’t interested in making any money. He was of the opinion Ron Hubbard had the goods about getting people well&in his quiet way, Nathan went about doing effective therapy -- with little remuneration for all his beautiful effort. It was Nathan who said I was Spontaneous&Creative&fun&I didn’t have to PAY him for the compliments. When he expressed concern about my wardrobe -- which was scanty -- I said I had WORKED for it. And, he said, yes, Alice you’ve REALLY worked for it! He considered being a whore a profession, if not a digression. He made me feel so good.
Not everyone was the artist of Scientology as NATHAN was (who I fantasized was actually another incarnation of Ron Hubbard himself -- they look so alike&were about the same age). I really got took in Washington. They “housed” me when I first came for their therapy. They housed me in the bed of their chief auditor (therapist). Then they wondered why I wasn’t well-slept for their therapy in the morning. They housed me again. They put me in a crowded apartment with several couples. One of the men who was married, grabbed me&pushed my head down on his penis -- in the same room with his sleeping wife. He complained to the Ethics Officer that I was at fault by being too sexy! I ended up paying the Organization 2000 bucks to have a major security check -- what kind of CRIMinal I was. IN this grueling setting, I was asked if I dealt in illicit diamonds, for one thing. It seemed to me that I WAS sexy but that should not be a crime. They STILL owe me the money. I had to declare personal bankruptcy the next year because I drank&drank&drank all the time&couldn’t work at anything. I had a little office job for awhile as an editorial secy., but when it came time to choose going left to the office or going right to pick up the morning’s beer, I usually chose RIGHT. The drinking is a whole book in itself. Very depressing. I would get fat&baggy in the eyes -- even slitty&ugly to MOM let alone to DAD. My depression was famous -- to me. Everything was dull&in slow motion. I lived in rooming houses. I remember one room where I drank&drank&drank, I could hear out the back window the constant buzz of refurbishing anOTHER drunk’s rooming house. I only wanted to pass out, a wish I’d had since Rudy Kurtz kept me in the sixties. Booze can really make life uninteresting, contrary to the beliefs of Charles Bukowski who never does seem to tire of his drinking monotony.
I had practically no live life in Washington. There were flirtations at offices, but boy was I a “woos.” A loser all the way. No one wanted my alcoholic antics or my insane “sobriety.” When I briefly joined A.A., I was sort of popular. I was considered by them to be wild, in Wonderland, a “Well-oiled sex machine.”
My body slipped from one “sober” man to the next in those days -- six months of 13-stepping -- as having sex with A.A. members was called -- and I felt I had about 250 automatic friends. My sponsors were always beautiful&young&they always “fired” me for acting out -- acting off the wall, I should say. One poor sponsor had the luck of helping me to rectify my over-spending of checks. I wrote a check for at least two hundred dollars for 61 stereo records at one time -- a listening pleasure I never would have gotten to the bottom of. Eventually, the sponsor was able to help me see I had to take the unused records back to the store. I was a fool. The store eventually made over 80 bucks for 5 albums -- what with paying everybody for the bounced check. At this time also I had profound delusions of persecution. Delusions, mind you! Like all the little winter whores were trying to make my acquaintance so they could say they had slept with Ellingson&Ellingson had to PAY for it. What a snapping mind I had.
My room at this time had evolved from a room to a room with kitchenette&half bath. The bed was unreal. It was a level higher than any bunk bed I’d ever seen&I had to climb a rickety ladder just to tuck in&pass the time on the telephone to all of my A.A. friends. Eventually, I drank gallons of wine up there near the ceiling&once fell from the ladder&gouged my head on the desk in the minute “living” room. This left a permanent “Beauty mark” on my forehead -- along with a later cancer scar. What my skin really needs now is a good tar papering -- with all my experiences so written out to read on my face. Over my right eyebrow is a liver spot I’d like to take care of, but Dad says this is ridiculous as you now know&so I just have to get old along with every other unfortunate. The other ugly thing I’m probably going to have to live with is dentures -- which I can’t afford. But, all my teeth are aching to come out now in 1993. But, see, I jump ahead too much. Evict me!
“In the dungeon the little fathers were squirreling their blue eyes to convince a lesser creature she was a lesser creature. No one stepped aside. One father in particular had to squirm for 48 trillion years in his thoughts. He was the snake his wife always thought she was. Together, the wife&the daughter writhed for 49 trillion years&finally convinced God Alice Olds-Ellingson was a person.”
Eventually, I went to Mars like my sister had. That was the only way to get away from the Creature called Dad, who was pleasant for four days before I actually made 100 bucks as a poet. First, though, the bastard had to bribe the judges of the poetry contest with 20,000 bucks not to let his daughter, who was a bitch, win the prize. Nothing good should happen to her, that she was a bitch who did not deserve winning anything -- let alone the Oregon Lottery of ArtQuake. Alice, who is me, knew it was a frame-up shit job, because everyone SHE knew had voted for her to win this contest -- she was good don cha know -- so it had to be one of Charlie Olds’ Charlie horses. Which it was. If only one would consult the airwaves&the airwaves only. Although many WOMEN poets in that same contest said they had all voted for me&that wasn’t enough? No, 20,000 bucks was enough. Now, that monster, with the blue eyes, wants to buy this book for 20,000 bucks to keep it off the market, I guess,&I told him I would take no less than a TRILLION dollars. I’m not easily bribed. Which life with Charlie Olds, worst monster of capitalism there ever was, had prepared me for. I see what capitalism does to a bad man like him. He never was a GOOD man but everyone else but bitch Alice is fooled. I’m the only one he persecutes the way he tortures me. See what this typewriter which belongs to Charlie Olds says. I would take not less than a trillion dollars is what I mean. But, he is on top of me. He thinks he can rewrite this book so that it will be terrible as only terrible he knows about and nobody will buy it. This man is Lucifer.
Anyway, when I left the East Coast to follow my parents to Beaverton, Oregon (whoopie) I was a full-fledged drunk. I moved into their house, but since Mom was FINE&didn’t have Alzeimer’s YET, I was soon given the eviction notice by this harridan I called Mom. Yes, my own mother actually gave me a written document evicting me, though I was not paying rent. (I had no job no income nothing.) It was sort of like getting another divorce. I moved into Portland into the SOLO CENTER ANNEX. This was owned by a Unitarian friend of the family, Betty Daggett. She was a nice lady&I lived in that house for a long time until she realized no one else would live with me because of my tricks&loud stereo&basically my lifestyle was too wild to attract OTHER would-be solos. The place WAS supposed to be for the newly divorced, so when it became MY house (four bedrooms huge living room huge kitchen&dining room all for 100 bucks a month), she realized she wasn’t going to make any money on the place, so she sold it. (It was turned into a massage parlor.) I moved from there to my boy friend’s tiny trailer&since he chain-smoked marijuana I couldn’t get a sane moment with him. I lasted one week. Then I up&got an apartment in North Portland. I was working then as a stripper as the Star&the Old Chelsea in Portland. Anything went on there. Total nudity. &I tricked with my audiences on my breaks. Took the Johns to my apartment. Which did not endear me to the manager of said apartment. I was brazen. Acted like tricking was a normal Girl thing.
I took acid again in 1980. Everything was funny. The ceiling falling down in the White Eagle Bar would have been funny. While watching with eyes that could build the place back just as fast as we all tore it down (with our eyes). I was at this time in with a clique of druggies&alcoholics&queers. Mt boy friend was not popular with this group -- he WAS an asshole who talked like a raving lunatic -- the one who chain-smoked marijuana. Anyway, the time we all took acid, my boy friend didn’t get any, so he hissed all night like a mongoose.
