Harry´s Blog

a novel by Herbert Kuhner (excerpt)

                                         -34-

I got to the West Coast in one piece and cast anchor in San Francisco. That was in February of 1962. I exchanged my room in Harlem for a similar one near the waterfront. Another little hole in the wall. But waving was impossible since there was no window. The only illumination was a ten-watt bulb that hung over the bed. The super let me stay there for free. The landlord was on a trip and was going to throw him out when he got back from wherever he was. The super hated the landlord and didn’t charge rent to anyone he liked. The room wasn’t worth a nickel, but it was a room.

I lived from hand to mouth. I was letting blood at the blood bank again and swiping cans of food at the supermarket.. I bummed around, met people at Nick’s Pool Hall. Had a coffee here and a pie there.

I couldn’t work since I had a tourist visa and no working permit. I had applied for immigration papers in New York, but I had been too lazy to follow up. I didn’t want to work anyway.

In the room there was a spider web. The spider was about four inches long. I called him Oscar and we became the best of friends. I would catch flies and flick them into his web. It was a mystery how flies could exist in that room.

I never changed a sheet. The super didn’t care since he was going to get the sack anyway. The sheets turned from white to grey to black from not being washed.

Of course, being the prince that I am, I would bring chicks up to the room. One morning I woke up to find the bed in a horrible state. It looked like the Battle of Waterloo had been waged the preceding night. Oscar stared at me quizzically from his web on the ceiling. There had been a blood bath. It couldn’t, be mine since I had been sucked dry at the blood bank. The girl I’d been with hadn’t told me what was what. I almost fainted, being as undernourished as I was.

The sheets dried and became as rough as sandpaper. My nightly trysts with myself added to the stiffness. I didn’t mind sleeping in my crusty, cruddy bed. I even started to enjoy the situation. I had made up my mind never to clean the room. I let the dust settle there and I never used an ash tray. I threw the cigarette stubs on the floor until they formed huge mounds.

I’d pick up clean, decent American secretaries and take them there in the darkness. I’d lay them out on those sheets, and afterwards turn on the light. They’d scream when they saw where they were.

It was a Jekyll-Hyde existence. Every day I’d shower, put on a fresh shirt and a pressed suit and go out on the street, a blonde, clean-cut Aryan representative. All the while I was living like a pig.