part of SLAUGHTER ON 14th STREET
--A NOVEL POEM--
Alice Olds-Ellingson
By this time you probably know I’m rather queer, but at least you’ll grant me I’m a woman. Yet I was fool enough to drink&even hang out at Mike’s Bar. Right next door to the Bristol. It’s heavy--duty--a hangout for Merchant Seamen--or any other seasick sailors who hate women to be aboard&ruin the comraderie (& get the low-down on how low down the guys all were). Harry was usually there to make the going a little easier for all of us. (I’d been grudgingly accepted because I could swear like the best of them&I could sometimes get out some mean one-liners or tell tall stories about my life with the Mafia. Plus, I could swill my booze without having to crawl under the bar. In fact, I did no crawling at all in front of these tough sailor men. I was no chicken shit lady&I was older than I looked--not just a schoolgirl on a spree.) Harry poured the troubled waters full of alcohol and other hair oil. He was called Harry the Hat (isn’t he famous somewhere?) and he talked
Brooklyn there in the Tenderloin of San Francisco. His last “living” memories were of the “tree trees on Toity-toid Avenue.”
He was a warm-hearted killer. He never, thank god, sent me roses, so I figure I had some time before my funeral. I was going to be immortal in his book. For me, this Bishop brought grass. We were both heads&punned each other like the Punic Wars of punishment. He was very funny. For me, anyway. One time, in a mental lapse brought on by his herb, I went up with him to his apartment on O’Farrell St. (Not far away.) He got me even more stoned at home. He pulled out his gun collection. I had been hoping to get LAID, not KILLED. Actually, he was gun-shy of women. Knew he’d be better at MURDER than orgasm. A sex pot, Harry was not.
Before I ran away from the guns, Harry took out another collection: gold chains. Each necklace had a small price-tag on it with the gold karats of the chain inscribed. He was testing me. Which chain did I want? I think I failed his test, because when I saw the price, I chose the most expensive. My chain had the price tag reading $425&was listed as being 14 Karats. I didn’t know hold or fools gold when I had it in my hands, so I guessed he realized I was not some rich girl in disguise. Knowing Harry, I should have realized he was pulling a dirty trick. You’re not supposed to get anything real off Harry; and this chain was not real. The gold gradually washed off in my bathtub. But it was a mad-hatter gift for Alice in Wonderland so I belonged to his illusioned&deluded group of criminal hangers-on. I belonged to Harry the Hat.
What was his function at the bar? He was a regular. He could fill in as bartender. He was eminently respected--even sought after. People would be in the dumps until he arrived with his wonderful cheer. Guess he mostly took bets; but that’s my own lay-person’s best bet. I’d never really caught Harry actually doing anything but talk. He was good at that. He’d make a good funeral arranger. Maybe he did work at the morgue on Sundays, he had such a dark sense of humor. He could probably have talked the corpses into reviving enough to place a bet or take a final shot of bourbon. Still, his vibes were always giving off the light. He was no necrophiliac. The Iceman Cometh almost always exactly when you most missed him and gave you exactly what you knew you needed. Which
was not necessarily what you deserved. But, he took even measures of all his bar-mates so they never went out looking to measure Harry’s last hat. You had to wonder, though, about the significance of each change of haberdashery style when Harry breezed in to color your life.
We’d all be the stooges wetting up for his killings. There was Fingers--who turned out to be a washed-up movie extra; there was Mike the owner&chief hand-holder when Harry was out of town. There was the other chief bartender who liked to sip his stingers&who could not control his temper. There was a man who I’d call Bing who only tended bar (for his thirst) between golf games. I forget most of the horse-betting crowd by name. They were not famous&they were very muttered into their beers.
Yes, we’d all be sitting there like nattering nuns until our High Priest Harry brought stories and games and wonderings and sympathy for every one of our alcoholic hearts. We were the vassals who were vessels. Harry was going to fill us up. But, he had to do a special treatment for each of us. We each had a different pathology--which this sorcerer would never insult.
Each sickness would stink like rotten fish to each of us (unless it was our own particular stink). In this babble saloon, we were challenges for Harry’s tricks or treats. He had ME figured as a sex-maniac. (Remember my trip to his apartment?) “Why do you always return every volley with a joke about your labia? Lady, you’re a nympho.” Now, that’s a compliment, you see. I, in fact, hadn’t been laid in months--Ashok was seldom around. In this high risk town, I didn’t even stick out my ample chests for a man to grab or drool upon--I’m so terrified of being raped or even to be caught acting sexy. I built castles with my pen&generally blocked out the sunshine of my libido. I’ll bet Harry had me sized up there, too. So, he was actually building my low self-esteem with his dastardly back-hand remark.
Well, come to think of it, I knew Harry’s game--maybe. He wanted to master psychology in Hell. He was the Iceman himself. With a twist. Not quite like that OTHER Iceman we’d met in a play about a saloon. Harry told us to go right on with our pipe dreams, our drinking, our hanging around. We were never to worry. Harry would take away the pain. But, there was the smell of fear when Harry was not there. What was Harry getting away with? We asked covertly in our stall at the
back of the bar. We asked even while we were smoking Harry’s pipe, reliving Harry’s pipe dreams for us. He was to save us, wasn’t he? But, he was also to tap our roots, tap our sub-conscious, tap our bogeymen. Harry wanted to put a half nelson on our soulders and take credit for giving us a bowl fulla whole pipe load. He offered himself the leading role. Grand games master with a Cribbage hand of 19. He knows our dreams about him make him wear all those hats or smoke dope with us or make fast racing bets. And he had a war on sex worse than St. Paul. We must be kind to Harry, though; he kept us there in Hades, feeling just like we always wanted to be here. So what if he made a living off us? Is that it? Is that it?
What is the Killer doing in this part of Hell? How can he kill you down here? Harry did it by giving you the ice cream--your favorite flavor--bourbon--and then licking it up himself to anoint all his own sore places. He took one man’s mania for the horses into his own pocket; he lived in no place. Another man had a wife who wouldn’t let him talk. Women, you see. The killer was the man who listened. The killer was the man with nothing, giving the gold of his chains, the gold of his heart. The killer was the knowledge that he is somewhere listening to
your pipedream and trying it on himself before he murders you with a present of it in twelve long stems. Harry didn’t have to attend too many funerals among his parishioners.
We all know who Harry is by now. This time around he is the guard and garden of the grand laugh and hail-fellow-well-met.
We know he removes our death. He is the final killer.
Of course, this doesn’t sound like ME talking. This is the writing Alice, the raconteur. I like to put on airs on Rue Morgue Avenue. I have a voice for talking about magicians&another one for talking about myself. Though I’m sure I am the Alpha to the Omega, I’m still not going to be pretentious when I talk about my own self. Harry the Hat is another story. He really WAS somebody.
Now, we’re up to the point where I could get no more lovers. Ashok had disappeared into the city of Moscow on some sort of trumped-up job to cleanse their chemical wastes from their nuclear plants. I had the crippling overdose of Lithium&the grand mal seizure, the Devil etc.,&nobody wanted me after I was crippled. How they all knew of my crippling must be attested to telepathy which I believe in. I’d had two lovers before the crippling&had no lovers immediately after from any phone calls in the world. My somewhat gay escort who had saved my ass one time I was out on the streets of S.F. in the nude: His name was Aldo&he was very concerned lest this beautiful naked woman get ruined. He was my faithful date afterwards&I thought he was obnoxious. He never used good smells on his oily body. He used snake-root oil or something. I liked Old Spice like my first boy friend wore--who was not at all gay! Anyway, I never heard from Ashok or Aldo after my “demise”&I thought it was a cruel dateless world.
I went to poetry readings both before&after my crippling. There I met this unbelievably poor man. He simply could not cope--any Jerry for me. He smelled of the streets&he stood in line for the soup kitchens. Wonderful stinky poet. Terrible lover. But, I took him into my heart&home on Bust St.&he was as good as a little dog. Once, he bought me some food at the grocery with my five bucks&was terrified at my door because someone told him it was after 10:00 P.M.&he could not get in past the security check. So, what did he do? He was so intimidated that he left the groceries on the stoop&fled. I
was furious. Since I had been robbed many times before, I thought he was making up the whole scenario. But, after I got to know him better, I realized he was the poorest specimen of a man I could ever want to get rid of. He begged for me to take him home after the readings at the Paradise Lounge in the Soma district of S.F. He never called me because he never had a quarter to his name. Here was a man who was a pretty good poet who could not even make a DOLLAR. EVERYone took advantage of him.His publisher simply took his mss.&never even gave him more than 2 copies of it. He ended up having to buy his own chapbook with the pittance he earned from God knew what. Later, he told me he got a job working as a librarian in the ghetto--for no bread. Nothing. He was dubbed Poet in Residence without any stipend at all. He is extremely schizophrenic&when he goes to bed with me he flexes his nice muscles with a narcissism you would not believe. Women don’t want to see the lover flexing his narcissistic muscles. They want petting&other foreplay. It’s the women who have to be aroused, afterall.
My life has been one of eviction notices. I was considered to be a nuisance wherever I went. Sure, I was a strong&wild
woman, could get no male managers&landlords to do me any favors. A wild woman does not get but shit from any authority figures. In the Bust St. apartment, I was considered to be a horror show. After I was crippled, I walked the halls in the building to practice my new gait. I had to scream to center myself or I’d fall down--fate worse than death. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to pick myself up off the floor. I was so weak&my balance was so off. So, the manager evicted me for urinating in the elevator, roaming around the halls&screaming “incoherently.” Alice Olds-Ellingson does ten things, said the eviction notice. I thought I did more than ten things.
At this time, I had a broken sacrum&there was nothing to be done but rest for 6 weeks. Why did I have to scurry about town to find a new apartment? I had a maid paid for by Medi-cal, but she could not go looking for another apt. for me. So, since the price of apts. in S.F. is so high--over 700 bucks a month--and all I had to my NAME was 700 bucks a month--I had to consider going back to OL’ Oregon to live with my aging parents. I gathered everything up as best I could&took out 600 bucks from the bank for the mover&was promptly robbed by a woman who was helping me with my packages (I
couldn’t carry much). 600 bucks she got off me. Taught me never to trust “helpful” strangers. Also, I foresaw that my driver (mover) was going to take my cash&leave me stranded in a motel on the highway, I changed plans&got a reputable moving firm to take my shit up to Oregon.
Anyway, leaving San Francisco&my autonomy was hard. At the airport, the attentive Skycaps pushed me all over for a small tip. Pushed me around in a smooth wheelchair, that is. The plane to Oregon was late&so I went to the lounge&got plowed on Bloody Marys. Eventually, the plane arrived&I had to say goodbye to luxury. When I walked (unsteadily) off the plane in Portland, poverty settled in. All the wheel chairs were piled in the corner of the airport doorway with their tall wires to prevent anybody from stealing them. Dad was there to meet me&he looked old beyond belief. He was 77. Then, I realized he was the BOSS in Oregon. Everything was very ruggedly individualistic enterprise. In other words, there were no skycaps&each passenger had to fend with their luggage&everything on their own. Dad, who was jerky&unsteady, dragged all my luggage plus me in the wheel chair far off to his car. I could see life in Oregon was not going to be “spoil city.” I was not even going to be considered very disabled. I would have to cook at my parents’ house because Mother was too far gone with his Alzeimer’s to be of any use whatsoever--except to be the only apple of Dad’s eye. I who should have a whole life ahead of me--was abjured&jeered. I was going to be the whipping girl for this odd couple if I wanted to live in their smelly house. (Mom was incontinent&
urinated&shat all over the house&Dad was addicted to cigars. When I asked him to stop smoking he said, “I should quit smoking just for YOU?” As if I were some sort of vermin. I’ve never known such torment kept up for a long time as the torment my father puts me through. The atmosphere of his house is thick with bad smells, but no smell worse than my father’s erratic behavior toward me. He was so charming to everyone else that it was like Jekyll&Hyde to me. He’d picked me good, all right.
In November of 1990 I still had enough S.F. Moxie not to stick around in my folk’s debilitating home for long. I got an apt. in Portland by November 15 without the manager giving me a reference check. You should know, if they don’t check your references, then you’re going to be living in a criminal’s building. Which this slum building was. There was not a single tenant in that building who came by anything honestly--except for me&I’m a little shaky in that department as I like to play my stereo loud at any hour. But, the OTHER tenants--they were prostitutes&pimps, thieves&ruffians who liked the sound of their gunshots&the looks of their arms severed off in the line of “duty.” They were drug addicts&alcoholics--but a singular case was one John Holstein or Porch-Monkey as he was
nicknamed. To me, he looked like a tiny Keith Richards, so that was half his battle in his hypnotism of my mind&carcass. I knew when his little hands touched mine I was going to surrender&be a total victim of his. I knew it at the outset, but I went back to him until he really had me totally mesmerized&could come up to my apartment&get me drunk, light my copious cigarettes&steal all my cash&my groceries out of the room without me being any the wiser. I always called the cops on him when he got drunk which was daily. He’d never leave my apt. when he got drunk. How could a disabled woman get rid of this pest? I was too weak to literally throw him out; we became known to 911&were considered to be a waste of time. I’d always let Porch-Monkey back in after the cops had escorted him out. He was not a stupid man but he was a depraved man. Anyone who steals mushrooms from your refrigerator could not be very well respected in the community. He got me so drunk with his ceremonies of waiting on me&then he’d badger me with “How can you be so helpless?” It was torture. When he drank he would THROW himself into my lounge chair&he could never get a hardon but he blamed me for our not having sex. “Alive (sic.) doesn’t fuck,” he’d complain. One night he got me to sleep&put his little pinky finger up into my vagina&woke me up feeling nightmares were reality. He said he’d never do that again&he didn’t. He didn’t ever touch me again.
I was none too popular in this tenement building. The whore who lived underneath me hounded me all the time because I called the police on her wild 2:00 A.M. fights with her pimp in which all her furniture was thrown out the window. She&the manager’s girl friend would make fun of the way I lurch right in front of me. Sort of like 8th grade all over again. Porch-Monkey was more sophisticated in his cruelty. When he stole 50 bucks out of my purse&I called the police about it, he told the cops who arrived that I was a whore&that I had such bad pussy he couldn’t even get an erection so that was why he took his 50 bucks back again. The cops must have been amused; a hooker has to be able to walk you know!
Porch-Monkey wasn’t all bad. He took pride in his 4 foot 10 inch frame when he’d escort me to the store or take me to the Gypsy, a rough bar&grill in the neighborhood (N.W. Portland). It must have been adorable to see this little guy sincerely holding hands with this tall blond obvious cripple! He was the only one who would escort me anywhere, so that had to be to his credit.
My drinking escalated to the point I had alcoholic hepatitis. My liver was shot&my life was a disaster, so I moved back to the folks’ house after the eviction notice. There was always an eviction notice. What happened at my folks’ home for the next eternity I must tell you. Right now, I want a drink. This has been a long row to hoe. I think I’ll let my poetry do the talking about my new&horrid life in Portland--with social outlets into my brother, Lewis, who hates me&the relief I have going to poetry open mikes in S.E. Portland at the Cafe Lena. Goodbye.
P.S. I don’t think I’ve damned my Napoleonic father enough in this book. He takes a whole section of the book to deal with his particular sadisms. How I think he “strings racquets” in the best Mafiosi sense. I don’t know if he’s Mafiosi. I don’t know if he’s FBI. He keeps me guessing. For many years, he has been “supporting” me to the tune of either 700 bucks a month when I’m living away from him or free room&board at his house where he’s got me under “control” like he likes to keep his whole griping GGGRRRRR! of a family. When I was first living in Oregon, he’d give me about 40 bucks a week which I was supposed to go down on my knees to him about. Mother constantly cut me completely off--even when all I had was five bucks in change--but then Daddy snuck over and gave me 40
bucks. I’d panicked. I’d turned a trick for 5 dollars to some lucky Mafiosi guy. Just so I could afford Tampons or Kotex or something. Who knew about paying the rent? (Why was I not working? I was too crazy to fit into an Oregon office pigeonhole. Besides, who wants to work in an office? I always wanted to do things quicker&for beauty. I wanted to strip on stage or strip for one man at a time. So far, so good. Men DID find me more attractive than the average hooker&infinitely more attractive than my father found me. So, five dollars was a masochistic price to charge some quickly over&done man. What a blow to a good whore’s self esteem. I thought somehow Dad would know how low I’d had to go&maybe he did--telepathically, don’t cha know. That’s why he came over&delivered me said 40 bucks. Oh, right, he’d told me ahead of time that if I needed Kotex I could just go ahead and use old newspapers. Would you believe that kind of wit? Another time, I’d been looking for a home for myself after I was released from a mental hospital which the parents had dutifully brought me to--all signed, sealed&delivered. They were wonderful social workers. But, terrible parents. Mother used to lock me in the basement in the dark for hours while she fumed around the house. Mother, when she was able, was the angriest disciplinarian of all time. She hated me.&yet stroked my back
in the most licentious manner for a mother to do to a daughter. Disgusting woman.
Well, after years of being a “CASE” for the family to do social work on, I got put forever on the Welfare rolls. This pleased both social workers, both parents. I wouldn’t have to take them to the cleaners anymore&I would obviously be inferior to their middle-class station in life. That satisfied the basest blood thirst in both folks. Remember, I was beautiful. They were both consummate gamesmen&were jealous so I should have run for my sweet life. But, instead I wanted to take them in. The time I got out of the insane asylum&needed a place to stay, one Peter Morin, sumo-wrestler alcoholic friend of mine, volunteered to take me in. Dad was prayerfully thankful. Peter said it was a thrill to put me up. That compliment was lost on my father, who thought I was some sort of a disenfranchised creep.
Peter ended up raping me and trying to beat me. In the middle of his first rape, I called dad to come&get me. It was midnight. Dad needed his beauty sleep. He hung up on me&I had to call the sheriff to be taken to a shelter for abused women. I’m sure--in fact, I know--the parents liked this for their
daughter. You see, I just can never think of my parents as child-haters or Alice-haters. I keep coming back for the love they cannot give me--even a false security they can’t give me.
Whenever I do something to get myself on my feet, Dad will tell me I should never get my hopes up. Even if all I want is a date with a reasonable handsome man. Dad did not think I was attractive&if he did, he would never tell me. That would swell my already too conceited head. I’m a depressive. How swelled a head has THAT?
When I was living in San Francisco, Dad gave me lots of money--wrote it off his books. In S.F., the only control he had over me was by telephone. He may--I say MAY not know about telepathy, air waves, mesmerization, hypnosis. But, I do. I hope no one tells that man ever how to do ANY magick.
When the sun was shining in Portland, you could always find my father up at Washington Park hunting up a game of tennis. He was blue-eyed. His eyes held cheer and the Boys (all over 65) of the Washington Park Hackers Club relied on him--even loved him. Occasionally, when I ran out of beer, I would run up to the Park to watch him play. The Boys always liked that. That was before my crippling, it was back in the late ‘70s so I was
pretty and 30 years younger than any of them. Of course, when I was watching, Dad played most gracefully. He was then only a little bow-legged and could still run pretty well. It was just this year (1993) that his game was so marred by his painful knees that he got a knee replacement&will get another knee replacement in September. I’ll have to take care of both Altzeimer Mom¶noid crippled Dad--you know, the dinner chores, the shopping--even though I am disabled, too. It ain’t fair, is it?
Back then, the Boys pretended to curse Dad’s great skill. They said he was “gumming them to death.” I didn’t immediately understand. I was full teethed at the age of 35. I suspected they meant what of course they DID mean. But Dad is probably not a homosexual. He doesn’t give literal blow jobs. He simply wore the other guys out by his English&his incredible placement accuracy. I think that is less mean. Than being a homosexual.
I had all the time in the world. Looking younger than my age, I could hook lots of customers and I ran an ad in the hip paper (The Willamette Week) about my EXOTIC HAPPENINGS in my apartment--alone, mister. Any ad which says “exotic” means
only one thing to a hip man. So, even though I did strip&read my poetry&danced&sang my songs, the men knew what they were actually going to get. I’d ask for a donation from the Johns. I had no set price. But, this was all ruined for me when some prudish guy called the paper&said he’d talked to me&I had a sliding scale. Which only means several things. The paper immediately pulled the ad out&I was out of a “job.”
Unfortunately, one of the Hackers got hold of the ad. Or else he just HEARD about it&he came over to find the “treasure” as well as the digging OF it. I went practically psycho. He was like my own father, but without Dad’s grace, without that blue-eyed cheer. Which he had back then in abundance. (Not so anymore.) He was also without Dad’s tender little cruelties--that I, a daughter, could even think I was sexy. Mr. Ed thought I was. I couldn’t stand it. Fellow TENNIS player of my own Dad’s! By the way, Dad saw me only as belligerent&money-weasling. Great compliments to a woman. Ed frankly wanted to sleep with me. No. We’d go out to lunch 70 miles away so he could have my company. Eventually, I did sleep with him after showing him my dancing&he never did pay me a dime. Cheap like the other Hackers. Cheap like my own Dad. So, it was a familiar theme. Not getting paid.
Well, Mr. Ed was a sordid beginning. Father figures started creeping up. They knew where to look in the classifieds for my ad, when it was still there, they also, when the ad was no longer there, they would somehow get a hold of an old issue&call with all sorts of glee. I got obscene phone calls, I got men promising to bring their dog who liked pussy, men who wanted me to pretend I was Mrs. Robinson--only it was the John, or the GRADUATE, who was the sadist. He put me on pot&proceeded to fuck me&in the middle of it quit because he said I was really a phony, I was actually a man.
The old men would come over&want me to sit in their laps&nurse their cocks. They wanted to drill me in my groin. They wanted to act like real he-men plowing machines. Because I could never envision my own Dad in such craze, and because some fatherly figure was also a bit of MY fantasy, I had to pack it up. I simply quit being an underground Exotic Happening. (One man called me to tell me this was the ‘80s. I should get out of the old ‘60s. Pretty hip but mean man.) I went downtown to the Lotus Card Room&picked up simple tricks. I was a true professional then. No more fathers. No twinkly blue eyes. Just wrists of self-deprecation and hearts of need. I did not want to see any more tennis players, either--all like relatives of my family.
This was just a phase. Like drinking beer. You got to give it up one day. You’re just living for this obsession. This obsession for hundred dollar bills. Now that I’m a poet&writer, I don’t see ANY money let alone hundred dollar bills. I need to get back a little of the obsession. I don’t need the obsession to knock myself out. Oh, the knock-out times with drinking&whoring!
