ASSIGNMENTS:
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"Write a short story involving George Plimpton."
Toby Barlow
Brooklyn, New York USA
Email Toby
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REPORTS:
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Example:
It was one of those summer nights where the sky grew rich and dark, heavy with the weight of rain. I thought I could make it home okay. I have a fear of droughts and as a result I never carry an umbrella, it's a long story. Just like any man, I've got my superstitions. In this particular case, my reasoning being that I'm inherently unlucky, so, being unlucky, it will inevitably rain on me when I'm out without an umbrella. If I had one, the rain would never fall, the drought I fear would ensue and the earth to dry up, with millions starving in agony. Children would become dust. It's megalomania, but a sort of inverted megalomania. So long as I have no umbrella, there's no problem. Like I said, I'm superstitious. So, I was mentally prepared when the clouds let loose that summer night, I just wasn't physically ready. I ran for cover. The nearest door was a bar on the corner of Downing.
This was 1991. I had a job doing some accounting and inventory for a type house. During the day I would sit with Nathan Walter, an old writer who had seen the money these type houses made and quit writing to become a sales-rep. In two years desktop publishing was going to completely eliminate hand-type altogether, but Nathan didn't see this coming. He drank and ate and drank and blew his bonuses on huge steak dinners for his clients that came in at four, five hundred dollars over his per diem. Then he would come back to the office drunk as hell and gargle on to me while I tried to get my work done.
What he barked about most was writing and writers and how writing was the best thing a human being could do and how if he had been published he would have had the reputation of being the best damn writer in the world, better than Hemingway. Then he would get started about Hemingway, how if his mother hadn't have dressed up as a sissy when he was little, he never would have grown up to be the man he was.
I hated Nathan, and because of how much I hated Nathan, I hated Hemingway. I would have loved to have carved his eyes out. I just ran the numbers in my column and tried to drown out Nathan.
But according to Nathan, there was never a man like Hemingway. Once he said, "If you spit every time Hemingway wrote a perfect sentence, you'd have an ocean full of spit."
I said,"Boy, Nathan, I'm surprised you never got published." And then he said something about "the jews." That's usually about the time I tuned him out.
The reason I mention Nathan is that I didn't know much of anything about literature or writing before I met him, but he gave me an earful each and every day, so I got familiar with some of the characters he talked about. So, when I was sitting in the bar that wet night, waiting for the storm to pass, I saw this guy down the bar sitting with two other fellows and I became fairly convinced that it was George Plimpton.
All I knew about Plimpton was that he published some magazine that never accepted any of Nathan's stories. I sort of liked Plimpton for that. I also knew him by sight because he also managed to get his picture in other magazines, at black tie parties and with his head next to other famous heads. Nathan would show me the Plimpton headshot in the gossip pages at some awards dinner and say "That guy is a real S.O.B."
So, as I say, Mr. George Plimpton himself was sitting down in a booth with two other characters, and they didn't look like him at all. One was wearing muddy work clothes, the other seemed like a maitre'd from some restaurant that had gone out of business. He was an Asian man a seedy tuxedo that was stained and had frayed at the edges. The only reason I noticed them was because they had a paper bag on the red formica table between them and they were looking around a lot. The first thing I thought was, my god, George Plimpton is buying an enormous quantity of heroin or cocaine. But that didn't make sense, it was too out in the open.
I generally don't like celebrity. I don't read any magazines with stars on the cover and if I'm in a restaurant or something and a celebrity walks in, I'd just as soon walk out. I remember being in a diner in the Southwest once and Buck Owens was in there and I couldn't even finish my cheeseburger. I just kept thinking about "Hee Haw". Those people should just stay on TV. So, in the bar there with Mr. Plimpton, I wasn't in any mood to go say "Hey, George, been to any fun parties lately?" or anything like that. If it hadn't been for the rain, I would have left that place too. But I ordered vodka on the rocks and stayed, minding my own business.
Then, of course, after some time had passed and I was maybe half way through my drink and preoccupied reading some copy of The Daily News left on the bar, the Asian man in the tuxedo came over and asked for a cigarette. You could still smoke back then without being considered a total asshole. When he asked I said, "Sure." And then that little weird thing happened. I don't know if you remember this from when you smoked, but when you give a smoke to someone, a door is opened, an intimacy is exchanged. A channel is there that wasn't there before. It only happens with smokes, it doesn't happen with, for instance, giving someone a quarter for a phone call. With a cigarette, the person receiving acknowledges that the person giving is an addict too. By sharing a cigarette, you're giving up something you really need. Just by having a pack you prove that. So, you're all in the same club together, you both share needs no man should share. And when I gave the man a cigarette something started.
"You from here?" said the man, beaming.
"Yeah, yeah." I murmured.
"You know George?" he said, pointing to Mr. Plimpton, who was looking in the paper bag and talking to the third man.
"Yeah, yeah." I said, meaning I knew "of" him, not knew him personally.
But of course, the Chinaman misunderstood me, thought from what I said it meant I knew George personally, so he jumps up and, suddenly, loudly, shouts "George! George! Friend!" pointing at me.
Then the barn door was open. George Plimpton, who probably goes to a thousand charity, cocktail, evening events a year and meets a thousand people, ambles over. I'm sort of half embarrassed and should have cleared it up right away but for some reason, with the Chinaman patting us both on the back while sort of laughing awkwardly, I didn't have the heart to correct it all. So as Mr. Plimpton ran through the inevitable list "Was it at Elaine's? Are you in the Racquet Club? The Harvard Club? Where was it?" I interrupted with "The Harvard Club, I met you there, last spring."
"Oh, yes. Sure." said Mr. Plimpton. He was pretty liquored up. So was my friend in the tuxedo. Mr. Plimpton went on, "I want to show you something." He waved over the man in the work clothes, who brought over the brown paper bag. "You have to see this.," said Mr. Plimpton. "It's something, I don't know how to put it, awe inspiring is, of course, what it is literally, but to such a degree that it would elude all known limits and parameters of the definition."
"Wow." I said. I've noticed that some people just need a good audience. In this particular situation, even though I was still relatively sober and these three were pretty far gone, it seemed easy to just to sit back and watch what happened.
"Demuéstrele el bolso." Mr. Plimpton snapped at the man in the old work clothes. I was sort of surprised at his tone, it was bordering on nasty. But almost immediately Mr. Plimpton leaned towards me in a conspiratorial manner and said, "He's a Marquino Indian, they worship the Anglo."
We looked at one another blankly for a beat, then Mr. Plimpton went on," I'll explain. You remember how the Incas believed that Cortez and the Spanish were actually gods? Well, they weren't the only ones. The Incas may have put up a rather perfunctory struggle, but tribes like the Marquino's fell for us just like the Aztecs did. And what's more, this man's tribe still believes it. To this day. To him, we are the physical embodiment of the heavens. And it doesn't help that he comes out of the Amazon and sees us with airplanes and intellivision computer games, right? I mean, as far as he's concerned, it all adds up."
"I suppose it must be pretty disorienting." I said.
Mr. Plimpton sat back and looked at me when I said that. "That is fascinating you should say that my friend."
I shrugged.
"No, no" Mr. Plimpton continued, "Because what you said relates directly to what's in the bag. What is it you just said? Exactly? Tell me exactly."
I had to admit at that point that though it had been only a moment ago, I really didn't know exactly what I had said.
"Hmmm, right, well, as I recall it, you said ÔI suppose it must be pretty disorienting.'"
I said now that he mentioned it, that was exactly what I said.
"Well, this bag, or the contents therein, will disorient you in a whole new way."
Now, I have never indulged too much in anything more mind altering than alcohol. In fact, alcohol always seemed like the right thing for a fellow like me. But Mr. Plimpton, looking for all the world like a great regal bird, stared down his nose and pushed the bag across so that it sat in front of me.
"Put your nose to that." He pronounced.
"Hey, I don't really do cocaine or anything like that." I said.
"No, no, it's fine, just smell it." he said, then paused and let out a great cackle. "Cocaine!" he laughed, "Han, can you believe this fellow! You went to Harvard? Honestly. Ha! Smell it! It is the scent of the soul of the earth."
Oh, well, I smiled to myself, here goes nothing, and poked my nose in the bag, which was not much bigger than an oversized lunch bag. The smell, in fact, was a little dirty with a slight hint of brine.
At this point, suddenly, a hand slapped my head from behind, hard. The Asian man was grabbing my face and holding it to the bag. The man in the work clothes grabbed my head too and held it to the bag. Struggling a bit with them, but not wanting to make too much of a scene, I pulled back hard. They were laughing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Plimpton laughing too, his hair flying back like a piano player's. In that moment I took a big nose full of the stuff. Just as quickly, the two men released me.
I pushed myself back from the bar. "What the hell, you mother-"
"Easy, easy," said Mr. Plimpton, "Watch." He held the bag to his nose and took a deep inhale. Putting the bag down "You see, you'll feel no effects to your consciousness. You head will remain perfectly clear." He put the bag down. "Actually, as far as I'm concerned, a perfectly clear head isn't altogether desirable at this time. Barkeep? Tony! Two Glenlivets, on the rocks." He nodded for me to sit down again.
Why did I stay? It's a fair question. I suppose you can chalk it up to celebrity. As much as I fight it, I realized at that time, we're all suckers for it. Or maybe it was just Mr. Plimpton's easy manner. Or the way he inhaled the bag as fearlessly as he did. Or the fact that the rain was coming down hard outside. Mostly though, I'd chalk it up to celebrity. If Humphrey Bogart told you to buy a house, you'd consider it. In any case, I warily sat down between the three of them again.
The bartender put the drinks in front of us. Mr. Plimpton leaned forward, "This dust, really, it's perfectly harmless. A slight realignment, really. Look, " he poured some of the dust from the bag into his drink. "Perfectly harmless." He sipped from the glass. "Would you like some?" he held his glass forward.
"No, that's fine, thanks." I said. I was getting ready to get out of there. Dirty whisky wasn't what I was up for.
"But you must." the Chinese man leaned forward. "You must drink it. If you don't drink his glass, you die."
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh, he's just joking. It's a joke. You see this powder, this dirt," Mr. Plimpton explained," This is Dream Oro, it's sort of a medicine that tribes use up the Amazon, or so I'm told."
"You no drink, you die." The Chinese man continued.
"Han, really, don't scare him." Mr. Plimpton said. "Anyway, according to the tribe, the patient is supposed to inhale it, then the shaman inhales it, then they are supposed to share it in an alcoholic drink. Like this one. Peter Matthiessen told me about it, but I didn't believe it."
"What happens if I don't share the drink?" I asked,
"Well, if you ask Han, you die. But obviously Han isn't from South America and only knows what he's talking about from being the leading supplier of exotic narcotics to the lower Manhattan for the last thirty years. I forget who introduced us, Han, either Hunter or Bill, which was it?"
"Burroughs." Han barked.
"Right then. Anyway, no, you won't die. As far as my research has led me to believe, you may have some seizures."
"But what if I drink it?" I asked. Like I said, I wasn't drunk, not by a long shot, but I was bewildered. All I could make of the situation was that Mr. Plimpton had decided to investigate this powder and Han, the mystery drug lord, had brought him this poor Indian and his bag of powder.
"If you drink it, according to Han, we will share dreams. When you close your eyes, you won't be sure if it's my subconscious or yours feeding your fantasy. That strange woman chasing you with a knife may be my wife or even my mother or just some figment of your imagination unrelated to me."
I looked at the whisky with the dirt in it. I thought of how the Scots called their whiskies "earthy" and "peaty" and wondered if they didn't share some past with this strange drug., as if all around the world the ancient man dug into the soil searching for some way he could bear his fellow man. Buy me a drink. Pass the joint. But I still wasn't satisfied, my blood was up from the whole bag incident.
"What if you have nightmares?" I asked.
"Please." Mr. Plimpton looked down on me. "Do I look like the sort of fellow who has nightmares?"
"And how do you know I don't have nightmares?" I asked.
"My friend, my college brother. "Mr Plimpton put his hand on my wrist, "I have faced the champion boxer Archie Moore in the ring. I have played football with the Detroit Lions and hockey with the Boston Bruins. I have trained for war. I have woken Hemingway from a drunken siesta. I have argued with Norman Mailer. I have watched the sunrise be drowned out by the furnace of a volcano. I have watched Ali beat a man to the earth. I have seen cities burn. Believe me, in my heart, I can handle whatever you have in your dreams. But I warn you, it's not entirely clear you can handle what's in mine."
It was a good point, a nice challenge. So I shrugged and I lifted the glass, drinking it down. Han, the Chinaman, stroked my back as the whisky went down. It tasted like it had some ground up fish bones it it.
"Okay, well, if it's all the same to you." I said, getting up. "I have to go." I headed to the door.
"Whoa, wait, leave me your number, I'd like to follow up on this, you know, for the story." Said Mr. Plimpton.
I turned and looked back at sitting there with Han and the other Indian fellow whose name I never learned. They appeared, one tall and gangly, one slight and stringy, the third short and stout, together the unlikeliest gang in the world, their lives emerging like rivers flowing out of three continents, or trees emerging out of different soil, all finding themselves planted together here, in a small bar on the island of Manhattan, their blood flowing with the mysteries of the Amazon.
"I'll see you at the Harvard Club." I said. And I went home to get some sleep.
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