Not an MF Journal Installment
So I end up offering Smith a hundred smackers in the form of a rolled note, legal tender, for the shots he took of me through my skylight dancing Argentine Tango with the devils, considering the trouble he went through getting on the roof at night.
I had had an inkling of Smith when I first started with this outfit some months ago – before I was really cognizant of The Hunched Cornish, who was dishing the dirt on me and I wasn’t even here yet.
Smith bugged me. I wanted to hurt him. It was maybe his association with The Cornish freak that had given me a bad picture of Smith – bad enough I had wanted to sweep the street clean with him – know what I mean? Come to think of it, maybe there’s a metaphorical truth in that. Because Smith, as soon as I seen him coming up with that large envelope, the shit falls from my heart, as one of my guiding mentors used to say, when I was still undergoing transitions a long, long time ago; yeah, the bad karma melts right away.
Smith winces when I initially offer him a score, but I done that mostly for laughs. I almost found it flattering when he first demanded a grand, approaching me all undercover and businesslike.
But who blackmails anyone with blown-up photos in unmarked envelopes these days?
Yeah, I wonder, knowing The Cornish is behind it, what age is he living in, and if he is getting instructions from somewhere, or if he is making this stuff up on his own.
But the photos are damn good. Smith got in real close with that camera into those demons’ black vacant depthless lunatic orbs, capturing their dumbfounded changes of expression every time I showed them something new, like a sacada or boleo.
Hell, maybe I could get together with Smith and talk – seems like a talented guy. Seems like we might have something to talk about – know what I mean?
So I know when Smith is blackmailing me that fucking Cornish disaster is shooting the transaction from across the street using a wide-angle zoom lens, so I had sent The Dancing Girl to the spot beforehand so that she could take pictures of The Cornish taking pictures.
When The Cornish went all satisfied with his undercover work, taking photos of me accepting photos of me from Smith for money, The Dancing Girl jumps out of hiding and says to The Cornish:
I thought you were better than that, O, The Hunched Cornish; I used to admire you; I never thought you’d drop this low.
But no sooner than The Cornish seemed all discomposed and heartbroken at The Dancing Girl, whom he’s in love with, getting his number, working for Manny Face, Tango Baby, who had been taking photos of The Dancing Girl taking photos of The Hunched Cornish taking photos of Smith blackmailing Face with photos, jumps out of her hiding and says to The Dancing Girl, all catty, as narrated by The Dancing Girl to Manny Face:
Well, Dancing Girl, not everyone can be a squeaky goody like you – and she told The Dancing Girl to beat it, and The Hunched Cornish and Tango Baby laugh sinister; Tango Baby wraps herself as far as her arms can reach around a Hunched Cornish arm and closes her eyes like she’s in a dream.
That’s Tango Baby – Manny Face’s favorite tango and after-hours tied-and-gagged plaything until The Cornish filth invaded my loft when I wasn’t there and sunk in his saucisson.
So the other day Manny Face was tailing The Cornish on Podil, who was using the cover of night to do his food shopping at the local Furshet. But then Manny Face saw The Half Guinea sitting on the summer terrace of the Piano Café with Steve Kowalski, and Face lost his nerve. I called it a night, turned around, and went home.
It had nothing to do with The Half Guinea. For Manny Face, there’s nothing there. What it is, see – it’s Kowalski.
It’s different for Manny Face with Kowalski than it is with Smith – a lot different. There was no change of feeling, no change of heart when I saw him – like there was with Smith. Something really bothers Face about Kowalski – I mean, really, really bothers him – that fucking poetry of his; but it’s not that; it’s something more; something much, much more – and that damn poetry, the agony of the noise, only points toward it without revealing what it is, but I can’t pin it down. I can’t pin it the fuck down – I go after it, and after it, but it escapes me; I chase it and it hurts – on the inside; like a dull, throbbing metaphysical longing on a concealed epistemological plane. And I don’t know if I ever will get it, because just thinking about it causes me too much pain.
Know what I mean?
Manny Face, June 23 2013