Do the Weird Crime, Serve the Weird Time

YOGA FOR BOLSHEVIKS

I believe that we need an aristocracy in which each person can be an aristocrat. That is to say every human being is entitled to a legitimate pride in his environment and antecedents. The Socialist vision is somewhat similar. However it insists too much on material values. Its appeal is to those people who cannot respect themselves without good clothes and well-filled tummies. That is a wrong assumption. An Indian no matter how dire his poverty can dispense hospitality with dignity. He is his own welcome. Roger W. Babson once asked me what I thought was the solution of the high cost of living. I answered, “The Indian system. Fewer wants.” He that knows he is as good a man as his neighbor does not need to impress by evidence of material wealth.

Professor Joe Gould

The New Atlantis Bookstore is a small oasis from downtown Austin, full of the delicious tang of yellowing paper and an astonishingly great number of used books crammed into its shelves. It is the last of a noble line fighting for life: Paperbacks Plus, Libby’s Used Books, Grok Books, Adventures in Crime and Space. The proprietor John Reynman sees the handwriting on the wall, but what kind of man derives truth from ectoplasmic graffiti?

John Reynman stood behind the counter thinking about how to tell Haidee about the day. All happily married couples give each other the gift of narration—a little story about their time apart polished with nice phrases, clever retorts and dramatic emphasis. He would sum up his current situation by saying that he had his best and his worst customers in at the same time. He sipped his coffee from a chipped white and blue coffee cup and smiled as the books piled up. It bore the phrase, “Think Big Be a Teacher Texas Teaching Fellows.” He had found it on the sidewalk four years ago. John is like that. He picks things up.

Jeff Williams stacked book after book on the counter. Jeff was a thin tall man with coarse black hair and the fevered brown bloodshot eyes of a Poe. He wore black denim pants and a black t-shirt proclaiming his loyalty to the Electric Luddites. His studied casualness was ruined only by the Rolex on his wrist. His stack of hardbacks would easily run seventy bucks and he kept going back for more. John was glad to see them go; Jeff was buying every book on yoga that John had. These books moved slowly, and occult titles tended to be stolen fairly often. Porn for the soul....

John began ringing Jeff’s purchases up so that he could get him out of the store quicker.

Frank Goldman claimed to have passed the century mark the year before. His head was almost without its white hair anymore, his wrinkles had wrinkles and his eyes had sunken so much that he looked like a revenant from a Poe story. Frank had very little money, and had never really had any. He had been beached like a whale in Austin during the Great Depression, when his cash ran out before he could make it to the fabled land of Hollywood, California. His life had been a series of questionable deals, dicey schemes and downright frauds. He had been on the fringes of oddball politics, music promotion, and other less identifiable industries for decades—which gave him a priceless commodity of stories. He could tell you about being an extra in Texas Chainsaw Massacre, or sleeping with Janis Joplin, or selling counterfeit ration stamps during the Second World War. He had great drinking bouts with governors, made love to congressmen’s wives, smoked dope with Willie Nelson, and been a UFO watcher for Project Starlight International. Each story that he gave from his word-horde was a spell that John could enchant his customers with for weeks. Sure Frank never paid for his books, and got many free coffees over at the Decline of the West, but nobody felt cheated. Frank had chosen one book Civilized Shamans, a hardback about Tibet and was shuffling forward. Jeff nearly ran him over, as he passed the old man to grab the bright yellow Yoga for Dummies.

“I think I got everything, Mr. Reynman.” Said Jeff.

“Looks like it. If I have any more titles that have wandered off I’ll let you know. I am going out to the warehouse this weekend and I’ll check to see if I can find anything more.” Said John. “It comes to $83.75.”

Jeff pulled a crumple of money out of his jeans, a twenty escaped and hit the floor. Frank stared at it. John nodded at it and Jeff picked up the money saying “Sorry.”

As John made change, Frank walked up to the counter.

“Young man, I see that you are interested in the study of yoga.” Said Frank.

“I saw this Discovery special on it last night, and I was thinking how little time any of us are in control of our thoughts, so I thought I would change that about myself.”

Frank nodded. “Yes, it was the secret of yoga that gave me my long life and all of my happiness despite the circumstances of my life.”

Jeff looked at Frank’s palsy, his liver spots, and his ancient eyes. Frank looked at the watch.

“You studied yoga?”

“Not in the east, but here in Austin in the Thirties from James Cassutto. He was a great Western master, who learned a mixture of Indian and Native American techniques.”

“I’ve never heard of him” said Jeff.

“There was some controversy about his teachings.” Said Frank playing his trump card. “I could tell you more but I need to sit a spell.”

“Would you like me to buy you coffee next door?” asked Jeff. “I know the staff there very well.”

“That would be very kind, but I can’t stand coffee, could you get me a tea?”

Jeff scooped up his books and took the old man’s hand. There was even the pretense of buying the book about Tibet. John put it on Jeff’s tab. As many books as he bought he would never notice.

John Reynman ran into Jeff and Frank a couple of days later. John had help on Wednesdays and was able to take a nice long lunch at Sanna’s, a downtown restaurant and tea-room, a few blocks from the New Atlantis He was midway though a tasty Cesar salad with chicken when he saw them across the crowded restaurant. Frank wore an old gray three-piece suit that swallowed his shrunken frame and Jeff was in shiny black shorts and a blue-and-white-stripped cotton shirt. Frank was making expansive gestures with his hands and Jeff was watching him like a bunny watches a rattlesnake. The check came and Jeff picked it up and dashed out of the restaurant. Frank slowly surveyed the restaurant as he made his way to the door and spotted John. He headed over and sat at John’s booth.

“Watching my show were ya?” asked Frank. “Don’t be afraid he’ll be back in your store in a few days, I figure I can dine out for a week on him.”

“Are you teaching him yoga?” asked John.

“Yoga my ass. I am selling a tall tale to him for a few meals. He comes out much the better on the deal if you ask me.”

The waiter had come over and asked if John needed anything. Frank ordered a hot tea and a slice of chess pie.

“What tale are you selling him?” asked John.

“I don’t guess it would hurt you to know. I know you despise him.” Said Frank.

“I have no such feelings. Jeff is one of my most loyal customers.”

“I’m sure that’s true. But I see you there looking at him with disguised hate behind your coffee cup. Did you know you only drink your wretched coffee when you’ve got a customer you don’t like? You’re thinking about the fact that the guy is nearly thirty and his folks send him money to keep him from coming home.”

“I didn’t know he was that old.”

“Faggots look much younger than their age. It’s why I’ve always thought there was a gay gene. His folks sent him off to Austin to go to college and never come back. They have trouble dealing with his sexual preference up in Shamrock. His partner wasted away and that’s a big deal in rural Texas. You and I don’t have any trouble with that, but we have trouble with someone that can lay in a soft bed with a nice comforter when our alarms are going off at 7:00 and our heads hurt and we don’t know if our checks might bounce and we have to figure how to pay for our medicine and so forth. How much does he drop in your store every month?”

John shrugged and then said, “I figure about eighty bucks a month. He’s always got something he’s interested in. One month he was going to write detective novels so he bought all my books on writing and a dozen classic detective novels. Another month he was going to be a fashion designer. So what is going to be now?”

“Most of us really don’t get to choose what we want to be when we grow up. I didn’t. My choice was to be a Hollywood star, the next Clark Gable. He doesn’t know who Clark Gable was.”

John nodded and then realized that at forty-eight, he had never actually seen a Clark Gable movie except clips from Gone with the Wind on YouTube.

The pie arrived and Frank dug in. Although he still had the gift of gab, John could see how frail he had become. His breathing was shallow and irregular; his hand shook.

Frank continued, “You know twenty, thirty years ago there were some great underground papers in this town. The Austin Free Voice asked me to write for them, tell them stories of being a Wobbly or romantic nonsense about the Depression. Yep, we were starving then, it was dang romantic. But I tried to get something going. I took a Left Wing agitator that I really knew named Cassutto, and said that he had learned a deep magical secret from an Indian shaman he had met in a chain gang. This old Indian had told him how to control his dreams. It was going to be the secret of communism. See at night you could be anything you wanted to be, dreams would no longer be a land without freedom of choice and absence of will. You could be the Emperor of China at night, and then you would be willing to be a hard struggling comrade during the day. The Castaneda books were coming out and Chief Gray Eagle, and I figured I could sell Yoga for Bolsheviks by Cassutto. Well nobody snapped at my little hoax then, but I’m selling it to wonder boy these days.”

Frank had a coughing fit. John waited till it was done, and then asked,” Are you OK? Should I help you home?”

Frank looked really angry, and shook his head no, but said, “Yes. That might not be a bad idea.”

John helped him up. The old man leaned heavily on John’s arm. He lived in a small apartment over a shop that sold cell phones. Frank had told him that he had lived there since 1950 “outlasting fourteen businesses.” John had to pause at every step.

“You got any family?” John asked..

“Buried ’em. Buried my youngest sister ten years ago. I’ve got some nephews, but I don’t how to get hold of them, and I’m sure they don’t want to get hold of me. I just get by being a son of a bitch.”

They reached the top of the stairs. Frank said, “Thank you for helping me home. I hate to be a burden to anyone.” He began fumbling for his keys. His palsy was worse than at the restaurant. John said, “I need to come in and use your facilities.”

“No you don’t. You just want to be sure that I don’t die here on the steps. Well that’s probably a good thing. I talked the landlord into giving me free rent fifteen years ago. I am an Austin institution like Leslie Cochran. The sucker that would be my last year. I want to keep annoying him for awhile.”

The apartment had a slanted ceiling and smelled like an old people’s home. The floor’s yellowish linoleum was worn through in a couple of places showing grime-blackened wood beneath. There was a bed with sheets that had not been washed in awhile with an army blanket on top of it. A roll-top desk was the single nice piece of furniture in the room contrasting with the two broken down orange plastic chairs clearly salvaged from some alley. A small nightstand had a hot plate on it with a rather disreputable looking copper teapot.. There was an open bottle of Benchmark bourbon and case of assorted can goods set next to the nightstand. Mixed veggies and Fancy Feast—so people really do eat cat food. Cheap overstuffed bookshelves covered the walls. There was no TV, no radio, and no phone. John went into the small bathroom, and closed the door behind him. The fifteen-watt bulb didn’t give much light, and given the filth inside John was glad of that. He heard Frank sit on the bed. He flushed and went back to the main room.

Frank said, “You can see that I don’t entertain much anymore.” He waved a shaky hand around the room. “Are you disappointed? Expected a pleasure palace after all of my stories?”

“I think wherever you live is a good place because it has a grand old man there.” said John.

“Oh Jesus save the mark!” said Frank. “I outlived everything and everybody. That’s why I can’t stand our young friend. He’ll miss all of his connections too. I am going to cure him of dreaming.”

“Did someone ever cure you of dreaming?” asked John.

“No. Dreaming’s all I got. At night I’m the emperor of China.” Frank stood up. His color grew paler and his steps were unsteady. He walked over to the roll top desk. He started to open it, and then said, “You’re a good man John. I think you’re good enough. I thought that when you let run-always live in your little shop and work the counter. You didn’t know I knew that, did you?”

“I try to keep it a secret so the shop won’t attract the wrong kind of people. One a year or so is all that Haidee and I can afford.”

“See? You are a good man. I wasn’t good enough, but I’m not bad man. I did one good thing in my life. I always kept ’em guessing—that’s the best thing you can do if you want to be a very old man.” Frank suddenly shook again and John helped him back to his bed.

“I think I should call someone.” said John.

“No, no I’ve got what I need here. I’ll take care of myself when you’ve left. You just remember what I said,” said Frank.

“Well, I’ll make you some tea at least.”

There was small box of Lipton’s Tea. John brewed Frank a cup. He spotted the tiny refrigerator by the bed and was gratified to find it clean on the inside and stocked with milk and margarine and a half a hamburger. John sat on one of the orange plastic chairs, and waited until Frank had drunk half of his tea. Frank’s breathing had become more regular and his color returned.

The afternoon was shot. He went home and waited for Haidee to get home from work.

He didn’t see Frank during the week. Jeff came in once, just at closing.

He didn’t seem himself at all. Rather than planting himself at the counter and telling John about his latest schemes, he moved quickly and quietly, picking up a couple books from the legal section. They were books on wills. He wouldn’t look John in the face.

“So you talked the old man into leaving you everything?” asked John. John couldn’t imagine there was anything, except the stories. You can’t leave anybody your stories.

Jeff looked up. “It’s not your business. Someone needs to take care of him. It should be someone that understands what he has to offer. I can do a very good job being a caretaker. My lover died of AIDS four years ago. I am very patient. I am very understanding.”

“You shouldn’t take care of someone unless you love them. Not because they can give you something.”

“Everyone eventually takes care of someone because of what someone gives them, even if it’s love, or just a few good stories.”

John said, “You better be sure that he has what you want.”

“He’s got this book called Yoga for Bolsheviks. This local Communist met a Mazatec shaman and learned the secret of dream control. You know the Mazatecs?”

John smiled, “Not personally, but they introduced the West to psilocybe mushrooms, morning glory seeds and salvia divinorum. Do I win the Oaxacan trivia contest?”

Jeff smiled. “You win. What no one knows is that they developed a practice similar to Tibetan dream yoga.”

This should be a good deal for Frank, hell maybe he could cure Jeff of dreaming. Poe and ghost should work, but John couldn’t stop himself. He poured himself a cup of coffee and asked Jeff, “Well here is your trivia, do you know Professor Joe Gould?”

“Is he an ethnologist?”

“He was a hobo panhandler, a Harvard graduate, a real character in the ’40s.”

Jeff made an attempt to look interested while putting a white and orange trade paperback of The Complete Book of Wills, Estates and Trusts by Alexander A. Bove Jr. Esq. on the worn wooden counter.

“The New Yorker ran a piece on him during World War II. ‘Professor Seagull’ He carried Big Chief tablets with him all the time—claimed to be writing The Oral History of Our Time—it was going to be a million word history of the people, the shirt sleeves multitude. He became enough of a legend that a New Yorker big shot followed him around. Turned out Professor Joe had both hypergraphia and writer’s block. He just kept rewriting some trivial incidents of his life.”

“Fascinating. What a deep parallel to my situation. I want to help an old man, and there have been other old men who are con artists. Why ‘Seagull’ anyway?”

“One of the ways Joe Gold earned money was making weird noises and dancing. He claimed to speak the language of the seagulls. He said he translated over ninety percent of Longfellow into sea gull. He said the poems sounded better in gull:

“All the wild-fowl sang them to him,

In the moorlands and the fen-lands,

In the melancholy marshes.

Chetowaik, the plover, sang them—my great aunt won a prize at the Texas State Fair for declaiming the Song of Hiawatha. I imagine it would sound pretty great in gull. Look you like Frank, he has told me that you have given him dozens of paperbacks over the years.”

“When the big shot wrote the article on Joe Gould, Joe became a caricature of himself. The big shot caught Joe’s writer’s block and then didn’t write for thirty years.”

Jeff said, “Just sell me the books. I’ve been a good customer. I won’t need you any more.”

John rang up the books.

“They’re $18.85.”

Jeff handed him a twenty and told him to keep the change.

Jeff did his best imitation of storming off.

When John told Haidee that night, she suggested that he was jealous,. Not many people adore Frank like you do. Maybe you want to be the only to do the good deeds for the old man. Maybe you think you are the only worthy of the stories.

After a week John decided to call on Frank. He went to the market and bought a selection of gourmet teas, five pounds of sugar and a fancy mug. He went up to Frank’s apartment and knocked.

There was no answer.

He came back a few times in the afternoon. About five he was worried. He asked the young Korean man, who sold the cell phones shop if he had seen Frank. The man said that he had not seen Frank in a couple of days, but that was nothing unusual. Frank often spent three or four days alone in his room. John said he was going in, and the man said OK.

The door was unlocked.

Frank lay on the floor near the bed. It looked like he might have fallen. There was some blood, sticking his few white hairs to the greasy yellow linoleum. His eyes were open. The police spent two hours talking to John and the shopkeeper.

Jeff had left town.

He apparently left the night after he spoke to John.

It wasn’t clear if violence was involved, and the police weren’t very interested. A small article graced the Austin American Statesman focusing on Frank’s involvement with the alternative press. John was surprised to find out that he had also ran a club in the seventies, which seemed to have been the high tide in his economic life. Club Zothique had burned to the ground in mysterious circumstances. Hints about organized crime were dropped in the article.

A week later the Korean man came to the New Atlantis shop.

“No one has come for his things. I asked the landlord and he said that you could have his things. I saw you cry when you found him, so I thought you were good enough.”

John borrowed the key. He went with Haidee that night. Downtown is fairly quiet at night. They parked their van in front of the cell phone store. John unlocked the door and they went upstairs. The apartment hadn’t been cleaned or organized in any way. No one had even washed away the small bloodstain, which seemed really sad. Haidee hugged him a moment and then they began putting books into a giant garbage bags. They would drop them off at the self-storage unit that John rented, on Sunday he would sort them out, and price the ones he thought he could sell. He’d give the rest to Goodwill.

Even though the little apartment had seemed full of books, certainly as crowded as the New Atlantis, it only filled two garbage sacks full. They were mainly old paperbacks—mysteries and SF. There was some hardback poetry and histories.

They were quiet during the sacking up of the books.

Haidee asked. “Would you like to be alone here for a while? I could go down the street to the Decline and have a cup.”

“Yeah. I would.”

She nodded and left.

He carried the two sacks full of books downstairs and then went and sat on the bed. It wasn’t a clear ending. Had Jeff killed him? Killed him for the book, or angry because there was no book? Had Jeff found him? Had Jeff just left his enthusiasm for Communist Yoga passed like all the others?

Had Frank had a good life?

He looked about the desk. He got up and opened it. Inside was a pile of mail. Junk mail and unpaid bills, and a big brown envelope with his name written on it in pencil. Inside was a small book, a cheaply made leather-bound book, and its title once golden had become verdigris-green. It was Yoga for Bolsheviks by James M. Cassutto.

Always leave ’em guessing.

John sat on the bed again, he would read for a few minutes and then join Haidee for a cup of tea and a slice of chess pie.