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Even in Beatsville the cry of the biter bit can be heard 

"One Wild Oat"

by Ort Louis


Adam Bedside Reader #6


    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.
    "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.
    "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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