The Roominghouse Madrigals Read Online Free PDF Page A

brought it to me, I mean I sat waiting my turn in the
    chair and I found a magazine—the usual thing: women with their
    breasts hanging out, etc., and then I turned the page and here
    were photos of Orientals in a field, there was a big
    bastard with the sword—the caption said he had a very good
    swing, plenty of power and the picture showed him getting ready
    with the sword, and you saw an Oriental kneeling there with his
    eyes closed, then—ZIP!—he was kneeling there without a head
    and you could see the neck clean, not yet even
    spurting blood, the separation having been so astonishingly
    swift, and more photos of beheadings, and then a photo of these
    heads lolling in the weeds without bodies, the sun shining on
them.
    and the heads looking still almost alive as if they hadn’t
    accepted the death—and then the barber said
    next!
    and I walked over to the chair and my head was still on
    and his head said to my head,
            how do you want it?
            and I said, medium.
    and he seemed like a nice sensible fellow
    and it seemed nice to be near nice sensible fellows
    and I wanted to ask him about the heads
    but I thought it would upset him
    or maybe even give him ideas
    or he might say something that wouldn’t help at
    all
    so I kept quiet.
     
     
    I listened to him cut my hair
    and he began talking about his baby
    and I tried to concentrate on his
    baby, it seemed very sane and logical
    but I still kept thinking about the
    heads.
     
     
    when he finished the cutting
    he turned me in the chair so I could look into the
    mirror. my head was still on.
     
     
    fine, I told him, and I got out of the chair, paid, and
    gave him a good tip.
     
     
    I walked outside and a woman walked by and she had her
    head on and all the people driving cars had their heads
    on.
     
     
    I should have concentrated on the breasts, I thought,
    it’s so much better, all that hanging out, or
    the magic and beautiful legs, sex was a fine thing
    after all, but my day was spoiled, it would take a night’s sleep
    anyway, to get rid of the heads. it was terrible to be a human
    being: there was so much going
    on.
     
     
    I saw my head in a plateglass window
    I saw the reflection
    and my head had a cigarette in it
    my head looked tired and sad
    it was not smiling with its new
    haircut.
     
     
    then
    it disappeared
    and I walked on
    past the houses full of furniture and cats and
    dogs and people
    and they were lucky and I threw the cigarette
    into the gutter
    saw it burning on the asphalt
    red and white, a tender spit of smoke,
    and I decided that the sun
    felt good.

About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter
     
     
    he lives in a house with a swimming pool
    and says the job is
    killing him.
    he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem to
    get rid of
    him. his novel keeps coming
    back. “what do you expect me to do?” he screams
    “go to New York and pump the hands of the
    publishers?”
    “no,” I tell him, “but quit your job, go into a
    small room and do the
    thing.”
    “but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to
    go by, some word, some sign!”
    “some men did not think that way:
    Van Gogh, Wagner—”
    “oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him
    paints whenever he
    needed them!”
     
 
    “look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and
    this guy walks in. a salesman. you know
    how they talk. drove up in this new
    car. talked about his vacation. said he went to
    Frisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot who
    wrote it. now this guy is 54 years
    old. so I told him: ‘ Fidelio is Beethoven’s only
    opera.’ and then I told
    him: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ he
    asked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old and
    you don’t know anything!’”
     
 
    “what happened
    then?”
    “I walked out.”
    “you mean you left him there with
    her?”
    “yes.”
     
 
    “I can’t quit my job,” he said. “I always have trouble getting a
    job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me