Clarence Major - My Amputations

Next, Brooklyn College: he was speaking in a sterile room in Whitehall. His host, a woman with red hair, had given him a modest, friendly introduction. There was wine and cheese for the students at the back of the room. They were sprawled in comfortable plush chairs and on puffy armless couches in a chaotic pattern before him. His “lecture” was about “a hypothetical situation — call it a sketch for the novel of my life” and the relation of “theme” to “form.” (He'd taken the BMT over here to Flatbush and written the talk on the subway.) Then, as was his pattern, he ended by reading from published works — this time, poetry, since his host'd told him these students were mostly interested in poetry. At the end one student wanted to know his position on liberation movements in South America, Africa, the Middle East, on “American aggression” in the world, on capitalism generally, on the rights of women. Before Mason could answer another student stood and confronted the string of questions. Would you ask Kinnell or Ashbery those questions?” The audience then broke into factions: about half of them on the side of the first questioner, the rest took the other side. And Mason was sort of left standing speechless before them for a moment. Then he ended the squabble by saying: “Listen: no one has the answer.” One of the two Black students in the room stood. “You notice there're no Black students — except Trixie and myself. It's because The Black Student Union here is staging a protest. We have a long list of objections to the way this university is run. Many Italian and Jewish students have also signed our petitions. We sent word to you last week asking you to join us by not speaking here. But I see you chose—” (Mason hadn't received the message). A thin Jewish girl leaped to her feet. She shook a finger at the black boy — who had a face as innocent as a frog's. “Just wait a minute!” the girl screamed, “I'm sick and tired of this! This man came here as a poet to read his poetry… ” and so it went. Finally, the host stopped them, and whispered to Mason, “Thank you for being patient… ” Trixie came up and introduced herself. Creamy tan with big dark brown-hazel eyes. “Need a lift back to Manhattan?” Yes and he was grateful. The host thanked her too. In the Renault beside the jean-clad girl, thin as a starving youth in a village in some remote part of India, he asked her if she'd like to stop at a bar he knew on Sheridan Square and have a drink with him. “Just like your generation.” Her tone was one of amused cynicism. She was lighting a joint while waiting for a light to change. Something in his marrow-bones jerked. She dragged then passed it to him. He pulled at it: his head was yanked through a knothole. Grass had never done much for him. She parked on Waverly Place and they walked to the Red Lion. She was tough: had a tomboy walk. On the back of her worn leather jacket this: Bed-Sty Hell Cats. When she saw Mason looking she laughed. “Oh, I've had this jacket since high school.” After the scotches they went over to Perry where her sister had an apartment. Trixie let herself in with her own key. “I stay here sometimes when I'm not getting along with my boyfriend. Right now he's a pain.” The place smelled of catshit. It was dark, even with all the lights on. They undressed without ceremony and got between the crisp greenblue sheets. She stroked his cock to an erection. “I thought you'd have a small one. Is your wife white?” “I'm not married.” She had a noble face, the yellow haze of her right eye was nice contrast to the cynical curve of her thin, smooth lips, the hard clean throat. She made him feel deeply uneasy: something was wrong. Why were they here like this? Inexpertly she sucked him awhile then straddled him, inserting his cock up into her dry, small quim. His vision improved. He decided to call all bets off: just surrender. Yet…? She rode his bone-hard penis with the kicking and yelping of a vaudeville queen in a cheap obscenario. She kept groaning and hissing, “… you like my pussy?” and when they exchanged positions — with him balanced on the balls of his feet, between the fork-spread of her slender thighs, he threw her long, smooth strokes, spiced, vulgar, smutty, sincere ones too. She grinned up at him with that toughness around the eyes and mouth. “Get that pussy, man!” When they finished she, yes, lighted a classic cigarette and turned toward him, resting on one elbow. He looked at her looking at him. He wanted to do the handsome thing. Be a hundred percent. Bed-Sty Hell Cats? Trixie said, “By the way, man, I peeped your act right away: you're an imposter.” She was grinning. “You see, I know because I fucked the real dude once: his cock is bigger. ”

Don't ask me why but it was time to approach the Magnan-Rockford Foundation. Mason wrote John Armegurn, Secretary: “… I am back from abroad and am staying at the Gramercy Park. Give me a call as soon as possible. I'm changing banks and want my monthly check to go to the new one, probably Chase-Manhattan. I hope we can make the necessary adjustments by phone. I won't be in New York long and my schedule is hectic.” He thought his own hokum pretty damn good. Maybe he wouldn't need any further eyewash, jive or stuffing for the goose. Armegurn had a sharp high-pitched voice and a dry chuckle. He clearly didn't know Mason's so-called Impostor too well because he didn't question Mason's voice. But he did insist that Mason come in. “It's easier.” A trap? Ambush? It was Wednesday at three. Mason pretended to check his hectic schedule. “I can see you between ten and eleven tomorrow. How's that for you?” Armegurn stood to shake his head as he approached the desk. His secretary was retreating. “You've changed a bit.” He was a handsome, big man, with ashy skin, ashy hair, freckles on his cheeks, even on his lips, thick red hair on the backs of his huge hands. His shake was more than firm: bone crushing. Armegurn's grin was plastic: fixed. “Yesterday, I didn't recognize your voice. But it happens all the time. People change so fast. Why, just yesterday, I walked by an old friend — I hadn't seen in two years — on Fifth Avenue. I looked right at him and he looked right at me. Of course, moments later, we turned and, well… Say, how was France?” And so Mason made small, awkward talk about a France he'd never known. Finally, after watching Mason frantically checking his watch every minute or so, Armegurn said, “I've had Jo Ann type up all the necessary papers for the transfer. All we'll need her to do is insert the bank of your choice and your account number. You sign it then take it out to one of our accounts clerks. They'll probably want to see some I.D. then you're set. Okay?” “Sounds fine.” Jo Ann came back when Armegurn buzzed for her then Mason gave her a piece of paper with his Chase account number and the branch address. He stood up and shook with Armegurn again then went out and had a seat while Jo Ann typed. Mason eyed a “battle axe”—his thought, folks, not mine — waiting to see Armegurn who momentarily came out. “Hi, Miss Bambosh — how are ya?” After she'd followed Armegurn into his office Jo Ann, fiftyish and square as a wooden door, said, “She's also a winner.” At that moment a trampy-looking young man shot into the office. He grabbed Jo Ann's arm and shouted insanely in her face: “Why is charity so fucking good but expecting mercy and begging are horrible?” then ran out before she could recover — let alone answer. Finally she said, “Every week he comes in here like that. He's a poet. Also one of our prize winners.” Her smile was glazed with the pain that comes from being hit below the belt. And she wasn't even an official entry.