Arthur Nersesian - The Fuck-Up

“One second,” she said and addressing the intercom had Owensfield paged. In a tux and with a longstem goblet of sparkling apple cider, Owensfield eventually arrived.

“What the hell happened to you?” He sounded so paternal.

“Well, Pop, I crashed the car on the way to the prom. I hope you don’t mind driving Mom’s car awhile.”

He led me in past the bored beauty. I could hear the music upstairs. It sounded like a live salsa band, but he led me to a side room downstairs. Flipping on a light switch, a bathroom was revealed.

“There’s a razor and a lot of nice-smelling things in the medicine chest. And also take a shower. If you need anything else …”

“Actually, if you can spare a shirt …”

He said he’d be back in a minute. Taking my coat off was like wrestling a cougar from my back. It was too painful to undress, and since my shirt was already shredded up, it was easier to tear it off. The shower curtains had an I Love New York motif, the temperature of water obeyed the commands of the knobs, and there were no sailors scrubbing their uniforms. But all the old pains were still in effect, and there was the same runoff of blood and filth. Owensfield knocked at the door and swiftly put some clothes on a hook. He told me to try them on after I was well cleaned.

“I’ll come down and check on you in a while.”

I thanked him and made use of all the hospitalities. A half hour later I was ready, but no matter how hard I washed I couldn’t wash away bruises. I was still stuck in the same battered body. I sat on the toilet seat and tried to control the pain until Owensfield appeared and looked me over. He applied some medication and some cosmetics and when he could do no more he said, “Okay, let’s go.”

He led me upstairs to a large open area, which was an office space during the day. It was filled with cavorting, money-heavy people who didn’t limp, and had a place to go afterwards, people who had never been wanted by the police and always had a destination when they got into a cab.

I felt immensely self-conscious, a beetle in a beehive, only these drones had no stingers so I just kept to myself. To combat all the nervousness and irritations, I quickly located the bar. The bartender, some little preppie trying to make points in the real world, gave me one measured shot of vodka. When I asked him for a second, he gave me a nasty look. When I asked for a third, he took his time about it, and when I swallowed that and asked for a fourth, he said no.

I went behind the bar and poured myself a generous glass of vodka. He tried grabbing the bottle out of my hand, but I yanked it away.

“You are not permitted behind the bar,” he declared. In reply I downed the glass and opened a virgin bottle of Glenlivet. “You’re not permitted here. What are you, stupid?”

I was in one of those shit-faced moods that drunks get into when they suddenly see everyone equal in the eyes of God, and they realize that they were sent to distribute His wealth. I decided that the only way I was leaving from behind the bar was by being physically removed. Considering the condition that I was in, that wouldn’t have taken much. The novice bartender, though, approached Owensfield, who, in the middle of a conversation, swatted him away I stayed put, and soon the kid realized that there was no one else to appeal to. He returned, pissed and silent. I started drinking more heavily just to spite him.

After about twenty minutes, I could no longer keep balance, so with the use of the cane I tried balancing myself. But a cane is only as sober as its master. I flopped down on some people sitting on the couch. One lady got indignant and threw her booze on me. As I hobbled away a young lady with a beautiful face mumbled to me, “Good for you, serves the bitch right.” I nodded in agreement, but I didn’t want to talk to anybody.

“What’s your name anyway?” she asked.

“Je ne parle pas anglais.”

“Je parle français.”

“Je ne parle anything.”

“Fuck you, too,” the beautiful face said. Now she could link up with the first bitch, and they could both discuss what a bastard I was. I drank more alcohol. The figurative seems to become the literal when drunk. My sails swelled, my keel rose and dipped, the winds blew, and the waves pounded over my decks. A drunken vertigo spun me, the booze was a typhoon, a whirlpool, and ultimately a tidal wave. Drinking more and more and more, I vomited in an ice bucket behind the bar and drank more. I could batten my hatches no longer and tried to go to the bathroom. I stumbled through the party to a smaller room in the back, which seemed to have a haystack of coats. Upon them I collapsed, forgot about the toilet and dug a foxhole in the cloth and furs and fell deep asleep.

“Where’s my coat? Where’s my wrap? Where’s my jacket?” Questions bombarded my little sleep, but the drunkenness provided extra cover. Slowly people plucked at the haystack of clothes. Gradually I got cold and began to shiver.

“Where the hell is my boa?” I heard some whiny Queens accent screaming. “Where’s my boa … where’s my coat … where’s my …”

“Fuck your where!” I mumbled.

“Who is that!” she hollered. “Irving, there’s a human being under that stole.”

Someone removed the thing above me and my face was exposed. Through squinty eyes I saw a blurry Helmsley. “Helmsley? Is that really you?”

“You know this guy?” Helmsley asked Owensfield.

“Helmsley?” Owensfield asked. “You mean Helmsley Micinski? I heard he committed suicide.”

“You know Helmsley?”

“I knew of him. We published some translations of his. He was a good translator.”

“Why didn’t you publish any of his poetry?”

“Get off the lady’s wrap,” the guy who looked like Helmsley said. Helmsley was dead.

“Please get off the lady’s wrap,” Owensfield corrected the fellow.

“Why didn’t you publish any of his poetry?” I asked Owensfield.

“What poetry?”

“Get the hell off the coat,” the Helmsley look-alike said. This time he grabbed me by my shoulder and wheeled me around onto my feet.

“Helmsley was constantly sending out poetry. He had a file full of form rejections from the Harrington.”

“I never saw one poem from Helmsley Micinski.”

“He wrote more than anyone I knew.”

“Well, he never sent me a thing. I heard he wrote some decent poems back in the sixties, when he was just a kid in his teens. Word was that he was finished. Now please, the party’s winding down, try sobering up a bit.”

I slowly made my way over to the bathroom and peed my guts out while wondering whether Helmsley had lied to me. Maybe lie is a harsh word since he was his own victim. Writing was everything to him and maybe he couldn’t write. He was always preparing, making notes, making tedious outlines, doing subtle character studies, forever sharpening the knife that, if he never truly used, he would one day have to turn on himself. To come to terms with the fact that he was burnt out at thirty would be devastating. As I drunkenly thought this, the squawking lady’s words were still echoing in my ears, Where’s this, where’s that? I sat on the toilet seat and murmured, “Where?” The word seemed to be a philosophy unto itself, and all the implications right down to the homonyms seemed to embrace Helmsley:

When your ware

wear

where

from there?

I then pulled my pants up and did the buckle and belt and rejoined the party. Lying on the bar was a pen and napkin. I scribbled down the little poem and stuck it in my pocket. Retreating back to the couch, I reclined in a pain-minimizing posture and napped a bit until I started feeling the earth rumbling. I awoke to a bunch of people hauling the couch I was on. They were clearing the room to dance. I rolled off the moving couch and landed on the floor: pain. Owensfield came over and after he helped me to my feet, I asked him, “When is my poem being published?”