Technicolor Pulp by Arty Nelson Read Free Book Online

my new feline housemates would walk in on me. I must look kind of stud-like with my Popeye forearm and
     my flared nostrils. I could ask her to light me up a cigarette or something. If she really cared about me, she could hold
     the nozzle. My arm’sso cramped, I’m gonna need occupational therapy when it’s all over. It’s all just a little bit too weird for me, and it makes
     me think that either I overemphasize the importance of my morning shower, or I just don’t know where to beat off on THIS side
     of the Atlantic. It shouldn’t be so much work. I pulled a lot of muscles. I’m no Houdini! It’s finally over. I let out a raging
     whimper, jump up, grab my towel, make a quick sign of the cross, and take my chances in a dead run back down the hall.
    I look in Doobe’s drawer and find a nice stash of boxer shorts. The sock pickings are slim but they’ll do. I haven’t told
     Doobe that I forgot socks and underwear. It’s my little secret and the longer it stays that way the better. I brought two
     pairs of jeans: a black pair and my favorite old blues, like soft baby flannel. I put the blues on. My ass definitely looks
     better in the blues. I reach into my duffel and fish out a T-shirt. Black, perfect, always maintain the Johnny Cash color
     code, my sister says. I fell in love with a girl who worked for Chanel when I was 19, and I’ve been lookin’ like a lost episode
     of
Dark Shadows
ever since. I give myself a good dose of Vaseline on the hair and carve out a fresh pompadour. Yeah, I might look a touch
     green but it’s been working for Keith Richards for years. One last glance in the mirror, just long enough to catch the essence—a
     quick cut. Zip up the fake Beatle boots and I’m out the bedroom door.

PUIP 16
    “I was beginning to worry about you… Thought maybe you had extensive WRINKLE damage from the shower.”
    “From that shower? It was all I could do to hang in long enough for a little spank. No wonder everyone looks so greasy and
     tense around here.”
    “I don’t think they carry the guilt the way we do, Jimi.”
    Doobe hands me a nice, fat, burning, hash spliff. Its smokey plume is waltzing throughout the entire room. The smell is user-friendly
     and the feeling is ancient. Each taste of the sweet smoke washes away a little piece of my morning travails. The apartment
     has high, high ceilings. I hadn’t imagined the place would be so big. Most of the rooms have a vacant feel, except for the
     kitchen. A space filled with travelers. No one’s going out to buy curtains or a new couch. The kitchen has some nice italian
     crockery and a spice rack, all filled, but that’s about as homey as it gets. The rest of the pad is done in Mid-Eighties Crack
     Den.
    We sit in the kitchen smoking the spliff while Doobe makes tea. No better way to start the day.High. It makes the day, the world, glow with a lost promise. Something could happen that’s never happened before. A roller-coaster
     ride in the mind in exchange for a small chunk of the soul. We throw down our tea and Doobe puts out the spliff. “We’ll save
     it for late night. Let’s get outta here.”

PUIP 17
    We walk up to the Leland cafe—a generic little hole that somehow reeks of character, in spite of the fact that it looks like
     it coulda been decorated by monkeys on tranquilizers. This place gives new meaning to the word, “cardboard.” There’s a fat
     old lady named Lou who takes the orders and yells them through a window that looks into the kitchen. A table of locals drink
     tea, yell and eat. I don’t see ten teeth between the four of them. Pale as ghosts, with no saving grace other than cool flannel
     shirts.
    “Bloody Lane, I got the tab yesterday and I won’t have it again!”
    “You’re a bloody liar, Johnny… Come on now and pull out your end of the bill!”
    “Lou darling, could we settle up with you another day?”
    “You boys’ve been settling up tomorrow since you were ten, now come on with