Even in Beatsville the cry of the biter
bit can be heard
"One Wild Oat"
by Ort Louis
from
Adam Bedside Reader #6
1961
PAUL DANZIG
walked into the men's room at Grand Central Station wearing Madison Avenue
gray. Five minutes later, he emerged in beatnik black, complete with turtle-neck
sweater, tight levis and sneakers.
He boarded the subway and
tried not to think about his wife, but ten years of marriage were hard
to disregard. Minutes later, he smiled as he climbed the stairs to the
Union Square subway stop. Poor Jean. How devotedly faithful he'd been--until
tonight!
He glanced around the streets
to make certain his clothes were correct, but Greenwich Village seemed
void of beatniks. Maybe they didn't come out on Tuesdays--or maybe they
didn't come out before midnight and it was only 11:30.
In any case, the summer air
was sweet and he felt good. His wife with her "don't kiss me, darling,
you'll smear my lipstick" could go to hell.
He tried three bars before
he found what he'd expected from what he'd read about the beatniks. She
was gorgeous--maybe twenty-five or six with jet black hair that hung to
her shoulders in charming disarray. Her black dress was stretched tight
over full breasts and slightly plump thighs, leaving little to the imagination.
As he moved closer to the stool she was sitting on, he saw that she was
wearing sandals with red polish on her toenails.
The bar was noisy, but most
of the customers looked like college students, probably from NYU, and older
people in casual, but not beatnik clothes.
He parked next to the girl,
ordered a drink, then chose his words carefully. "Man, dig the square.."
She nodded.
"What's a hip chick like you
doing In a joint like this?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Then let's cut out"
She nodded and slid off the
stool with the sensual grace of a cat.
He paid for his drink and
followed.
They stepped onto the street.
"Your pad around here?" He was really quite proud of himself--he'd almost
said "apartment" Instead of "pad."
She nodded.
"Where?"
"Christopher Streett."
"Let's go." He moved his arm
around her waist and she didn't seem, to mind. It was all very exciting
to Paul Danzig an honest-to-Pete grass-roots beatnik. She was probably
in "orbit" at this very moment!
"We can't get in," she volunteered
abruptly.
"Huh?"
"Lost my key. Can't get in
until tomorrow morning when the super comes to clean the halls."
It was something he hadn't
anticipated. He stopped. "How about a hotel?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Your pad around here?"
"Well yes, but a friend of
mine is entertaining a--friend. Dig?"
She nodded.
They went to a hotel on Fourth
Street. He signed the register Mr. and Mrs. but the clerk didn't even look.
The sheets were clean, which
was all he could say for the room. He wasn't quite sure how beatniks made
love, and the challenge of maintaining his disguise in tensified his excitement.
He wasn't quite sure whether he should undress her caveman style or play
it cool.
She solved his problem.
She moved her hands to the
back of the dress and yanked on the zipper. The dress parted like a banana
peel, revealing a black bra and, pants. She lifted the dress from the floor
and tossed it onto a chair by the window, then unhooked the bra. The pants
came next, slow and easy like the whole thing was a drag--and Paul Danzig
played it that way although his palms were sweating, his temples pounding.
She was everything he'd imagined and more!
Afterward, he sat up and lit
a cigarette. The quick glow of the match outlined her naked body curled
up beside him, small and kittenlike. His hand moved to her breast and she
responded again with lazy sensuality.
He woke up around one thirty.
The girl was still asleep.
He kissed her cheek, 'non-beatnik
style, then dressed and left.
Greenwich Village; the night;
the people; even the subway--it was all fantastically full of wonder. Of
course he'd never see her again and his wife would never know, but any
time he read anything about beatniks, he'd remember--re-live! He changed
into the gray suit at Grand Central Station, then boarded the train back
to Connecticut.
The GIRL in the hotel on Fourth
Street woke up around two-thirty and realized that Paul had gone.
She dressed and left, her
face flushed and smiling for the first time since she'd seen him come into
the bar. Greenwich Village; the night; the people; even the subway--it
was all fantastically full of wonder. Of course she'd never see him again
and the principal of the school in New Jersey where she taught would never
know, but anytime she read anything about beat niks, she'd remember--and
re-live!
She changed into her gray
dress at the Port Authority Terminal, then boarded the bus back to New
Jersey.
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