standing on the rail of a bridge in the middle of an amsterdam winter waiting to jump
They found poor Andy Lowther swinging from a tree
a wine cask sat below him
a death mask on his knee.
THE LONG PART
Frank gets crazy at me whenever I take a drink. Frank is always getting crazy. He is security for the drunks whenever it gets night and late down at the park. He protects them in case they get beat from some bastard. They are real bastards and real drunks and they go about their lives like professionals. Not everyone is a bastard and not everyone a drunk. There are nobodies. And when they cut that rope and pulled Andy Lowther from that tree, and after they finished choking from the smell, Andy Lowther was a nobody.
Frank says:
what do you do with love and what do you do with hate? And when do you find them together, and how do they relate? And when and where and how and when. Do you fight them and do you ramble on and on, ramble on and on, do you ramble on and on?
I first met Frank in the cellar of a wine bar late one evening. You could tell straight away that life had not been kind to him. You could always see about Frank when you looked in his face. Life had not been kind to him, but he was kind. Frank is the gentle type. He looks after people even if they don’t look after him.
You see, I was in this wine cellar, in this wine bar, and that’s where I met with Frank, the gentle one; like a child, like a friendly dog. We were just there drinking Schnapps and talking about prizes that we had won and the things we’d lost (without a mention of love), when in walked Frank, all tumbling clothes and tumbling hair. He knew one of my party. By the time he left he knew our entire party.
We were always a party. Especially in the middle of the day when it was cold and we had money. That’s the way things are when you are a whore, and I am a whore. I was back then and I still am now. Frank looked after the whores the way he looked after the drunks; always there, standing by in case of some bastard. There are always bastards, especially in the whore business. O, I’ve met some bastards. Those professional types. But this party was at night. It was really late one evening.
I’m not usually one for these wine bars and things. I am more one for noise and a bit of culture, a bit of life. Frank gave me a wink and sat down and asked for service, and after the service he took a small drink. Frank’s not really one for drinking.
Frank says:
and what is your name?
I told him my name (which is Josie). He was smiling, always smiling, like a little boy with his crocked yellow teeth and his hair hiding his eyes. He sat with his shoulders pulled tight and his little head hanging over his chest. He has a head for security does Frank.
The whole night is a story, and you know about stories and the time it takes to tell them, and I do not like to bother too much with those things, but when Frank left he left a small drink and a new friend.
You live with all your love when it becomes cold
you live your love down the telephone
Love is pretty,
cold and remote.
THE PART THAT FRANK WROTE
Splash about
or trickle water down my side
I know where the lake is
and I will take you there.
And while you are sleeping I will run around the paths.
The hills are all up and down
up and down.
If strangers whistle
we can go to the beach,
where it is only the sea,
only the sea.
Then she says, “Don’t sing those songs to me.”
(the night)
You had your lot
as ugly as you are;
filled and formed and fancy and free
heading straight to zero
and down, down.
You take them about
tripping on your little steps (your measured regrets)
your sweethearts, you sleepy little sweethearts.
Your womb is fresh
and filled with him
and you work it into love
my little sweetheart, my sweet princess.
(and here we are again with the rain as you get wet)
Here is your life
so dance with all the seconds you have left.
Dance to chimes and clarinets.
“Don’t sing these songs to me.”
But follow me
off the cliff, into the sea.
“Don’t sing that song to me.”
But I loved you
& I saw you
and…did I ever feel your warmth?
There is nothing, my sweet,
which contaminates love like wanting,
like love, like hate.
And, if you must know
then, ‘Josie was a little difficult (and the way she scratched her skin).
She was perfect
She always sat with me
and I always sat alone.
Then there were the drinks;
and there was nothing my words could tell her.
I do not miss her,
she was perfect in her time.’
Why love her now?
(with instinct)
I have loved her before
I loved her then
I love her now.
And what of all the bastards you have left?
‘Let them go and do their best.’
And the crashing and bashing in your head?
‘I will let it go, and do my best.’
And what do you remember?
‘I and she, pathetic in my bed.’
And have you taken another?
‘She is nice with her kisses; much more gentle.
She is only the sea, only the sea.’
O, my dear baby.
My dear sweet dilapidated Josie
with your lousy friends and your lousy times.
I do love you
as dear as the sea.
But there is no more you and no more me.
And I do not love you
and I do not fight.
And never, when I get down to it
when I am at it
never do I see,
that I always sat alone
nor that you were me.
And now we are too old and bitter and old.
You love with all your love when it becomes cold
you live your love down the telephone
you get bitter and old.
Frank gets crazy at me whenever I take a drink. Frank is use to getting crazy. And fuck him for all his niceties, all his sweetness. I am a whore and I will always be a whore.
Frank is always singing songs at me. And I loved Frank before I loved Andy Lowther (swinging from a tree).
When the sun was shining Frank would come, always walking, always tumbling, always free, with his hair hiding his eyes, smiling and free, and his hands in his pockets, and he would take me to the park and point out the birds and dry swans in the lake and he would say, ‘one day you will write for me’. But I don’t go much for writing. It takes too much, much too much time. The whoring business is all about time. Frank would hold my hand, stretched out with a flower, and say, ‘talk to me.’ I would say, ‘but first, let me take in a drink’.
I drink too much; too many times I’ve been drinking. Frank wants to talk and wear his smoking jacket.
Frank says:
calling all the true men
come into the tune
come your
wives
and
daughters,
come them all.
Tell the fields to stop waving there, and waving here
and call all the true men home.
Franks says that every man wants to love, that every man wants love, and then we take a little sleep. Frank is light and dizzy in bed. Franks is a good man, a gentle man; like drizzles of rain, like comfort. In his smoking jacket he looks a little like Fred Astaire. And early – when we were younger, when we had hunger – I asked that Frank if he could dance. He dances a little, he always pauses. He is a moviemaker is Frank.
And then there were the days. The days we met in the park when he was light and deft. There were the days when Frank was thinking of the things that made him sing and that made him smiling. He was always smiling; that’s how the story is. We would sleep a slender sleep, a slender hour. He would hold my wrists as if I were the gentlest thing; as if I was not a whore (when we were sleeping, when I was dreaming – lying on his chest and dreaming – I was always a whore, always a whore) and his fingers traced the lines below my eyes and I would dream while Frank softly snored. And I wondered about love and the songs, and I would close my eyes and sleep a little more. Frank has had a hard life. Life has been crashing and bashing in his head.
(and what do you do with love, and what do you do with hate)
It was a Saturday. I mustn’t talk about it. It was a Saturday and I woke and felt sleepy and noticed the rain. It all happened before I knew that it would thunder. It was something that happened that made you feel you should care more and that you should do more. You only think these things after the thunder and not with the rain.
‘You love with all your love when it becomes cold.’
I had never met with Andy lowther before. No one had ever met with Andy Lowther before (poor Andy Lowther swinging from a tree). Frank had met with some bastards the night before and he hadn’t called. These things with Frank when he doesn’t call are all about wounds. He says they are all about war.
Andy Lowther has a broken heart.
There are not so many times when you sit and wait for Andy Lowther. There are not so many times when you sit. White Shiraz at night-time – when it is dark and you feel drunk and delicate is not it. It is not it. It is not when you are waiting; and when you start waiting you are no longer a whore, no longer a whore. It is when you close your eyes and let a finger caress itself across your lips. And what Andy Lowther means he does not mean at all.
There was the rain, tumbling down and falling out of the sky. There was the money I made from whoring in my dresser draw. There was the bottle empty, and the glass leaning against the floor.
THE PART ABOUT ANDY LOWTHER
It was a Saturday. I dressed and thought and decided it was a drink I was after. I am a drinking girl, a drinking girl. I like to take a drink in Doctor John Stones. It is not far from my room, and there are awnings along the way which keep me from the rain. At night it is a noisy place, a crowded place, but in the day it is a place where you can hide. Doctor John Stones is an underground bar; dark and miserable, which only attracts the down at heart and out of luck during the day. For all I know, I am the only whore who drinks there. The Doctor is a nice man. He is a quiet man.
“How’s business, Josie?”
“Up and down.”
It is always the same with the Doctor. I take my seat, which is at the corner of the bar. I can look along the bench top and watch the men fumble with their thoughts and lose their pride. Next to me is poor Andy Lowther. His hair is greasy and hanging over his face. His clothes have been worn for days. They are walking shoes and the best men are the ones who walk.
Andy Lowther is knocking back whiskey. Throwing them down one after another. After each one he looks like he is going to be sick. Then he stares into the bench top and goes on to pour another glass.
“You’re drinking kind of heavy.”
“Sure,” he says, without looking up.
“Why you drinking so heavy?”
And Andy Lowther is heavy. Sitting there like he’s been slung over the chair and left to rot, waiting for the world to end.
“I got a broken heart, lady.”
Then I’m in love with Andy Lowther, who never looks up and keeps drinking those drinks, those whiskeys, while he waits for the world to end. And now I’m in love with Andy Lowther.
So, I just sit, drinking my Pernod and being the only girl in the bar. I know there is a girl behind every man in Doctor John Stones, and that each of those men are loving and hating all at once.
“So, you want to talk, lady? You came here to talk?”
“We can talk, honey. Sure.”
“What you wanna talk about, lady?”
“I think it is you that wants to do the talking, sugar.”
And Andy Lowther tells me he is a writer, writing the novel of his life. He says he ain’t been published yet. He tells me his name is Andy Lowther.
“Nice to meet with you, Andy Lowther. What do you write about?”
“My life. And some things that I am not good enough to write about.”
That’s the thing when you are a girl and you look the way I look and you go about to seedy bars at the start of the day, drinking and talking to lonely men, men who can see when they look at you that you were once young and hard and that that’s what makes you pretty now. That’s the thing at Doctor John Stones, where you can drink heavy and stare at the bench top and be the misery that you feel without ever looking up. Frank knows about Doctor John Stones and gets crazy whenever I take in a drink there.
“Do you want a little whisky, girl?”
It is early but I take a little whisky and decide that on this day I will take Andy Lowther for free.
“Who broke your heart Andy Lowther?”
“No.”
There are men in the bar who regret their drinks. Men who are waiting for time to move backwards so they don’t have to be brave and face the world alone. The only drunk in Doctor John Stones who lives like a professional, drinking just for the drink, is the Doctor himself.
I take a couple of whisky’s get a little shiver and start to feel like I want to talk.
“Can you pour me one? I cannot pour.”
The whisky is making my eyes go wide. In Doctor John Stones you cannot see the sunshine and you cannot feel the rain. You only feel the liquor, burning you and hurting you until you hurt no more. I pour Andy Lowther, who cannot pour, another.
“So you wanna talk some, Andy Lowther?”
“I want. I want.”
“Who broke your heart, Andy Lowther?”
“Ahh, it is boring. It is not part of the story. It is just a part of me.”
“Did she love you and leave you, Andy Lowther?”
“No, she did not love me at all. And if you want to talk and want to know, I was not so good at loving her.”
And then we talked about the things we didn’t know and as each sentence went by we became more confused and our relationship became more crowded and broke. The whisky ended and Andy Lowther asked if I had money.
“It is in my dresser draw.”
(love with Andy Lowther is not part of the story because he did not want it)
Then Andy Lowther looks up. He has this big mark on his face. “I fell over,” he says. We were in my bed and the telephone had sounded three times while we were there.
Andy Lowther only did the things he had to do. I knew this, it saddened me, but I loved Andy Lowther and I loved him for free.
Andy Lowther slept heavy and loud. I left him to go back to being a whore.
The storm wore on for two days with the rain falling and throwing itself from the sky, and the people became bored and stopped saying ‘it’s still raining’ unless they could not think of anything else to say. This was all before the thunder, the thunder that changed everything, the thunder that hadn’t been thought of before. And I sat in my room and watched the rain and the deserted streets, talking to the odd bastard, taking their money. Frank came back to life. He had a swollen face from some fight and a smile all the way across his cheeks. He was always winning fights that Frank. That’s what got him started in the first place. It was only two days, but with the rain falling and the puddles in the street looking like they were there to stay, it felt like two years, two lifetimes. On the day before the thunder, as the rain swelled again and began to flop harder into the ground, Frank asked, “Are you in pain?”
“Yes,” I said.
You are always in pain if you are a whore and I have been a whore for many years. Frank knew that pain. Frank was a whore to pain. The worst pain a whore can feel is love.
L O V E.
Love is a worse pain that grief or breaking a nail or losing a dollar. I should have been a stripper. Strippers have love thrown at them every night, love that does not hurt, but whores get bastards and cheats and liars and gamblers and thieves. I should have been a stripper, but now my body is wasted from the whoring and the drinking and the cash.
It had only been two days, two long days, waiting for Andy Lowther. Waiting for nothing. Sitting in my room waiting for soft love to come knocking at my door. But Andy Lowther did not come, only Frank (and only after I had pulled the curtains closed). And because of Frank I could not go drinking, could not go looking in Doctor John Stones.
It becomes enough, eventually.
On the third morning, the day of the thunder, I asked Frank to leave. Frank is a gentle guy, a cool guy, and Frank plays the fall-guy as if he were in the movies.
“You want me to leave?”
“It is enough for me now.”
“You are asking me to leave?”
“I have had enough.”
That is the thing with women when they are in love with something, some other thing, some other man. Women don’t bleed and don’t kill things the way men do. Men sit and wait and whine and moan, men who have never cared before, when it becomes time. And men talk and moan and whine until they kill something, some woman, some love, and they end up in Doctor John Stones waiting for the world to end. Women feel when it is enough.
“Why?”
So I tell Frank about Andy Lowther, but I make him out to be more than a writer and more like a genius. Frank didn’t speak and didn’t get mad. He listened. He likes a good story does Frank.
“You want to go and have a drink, Josie? You want to come and talk some more?”
“I have to go to Doctor John Stones.”
When Frank left he wanted to say something. He was at the door, the heavy door, the door he had never cared much for and would never touch again, and he looked back like he wanted to say something. I supposed I could have guessed what it was. I suppose if I had have thought about it I would have known what it was. But the time had come and the thing I worried about most, the thing I thought about as Frank held the knob of the door, was the rain and Andy Lowther sitting in Doctor John Stones.
Frank wanted to talk about all the things he had missed and the things he hadn’t said and the things he hadn’t been. I knew what Frank had been. And that was enough.
A woman, a whore, when she is wanting, when she is nervous and ready, when she is dancing and glory, when she is breathing and delighted, holds the quiver down her spine until there is no-one around. The door closed and Frank was gone. The rain was pouring like pale white vodka and Frank was gone. Frank is a gentle guy, a cool guy, a mothers’ dream. Life makes you wait a second; makes you feel, makes you breathe in deep, then you go straight back to Andy Lowther (who they found swinging from a tree). Frank was shielding himself from the rain and he was gone from me.
I didn’t feel much for drinking but for Andy Lowther I would sit on a cup or two and watch the disenchanted fumble with themselves in Doctor John Stones.
So the whore who had always been a whore who was in love with poor Andy Lowther took a long shower and made everything right, everything feel nice and did her hair and wore her pretty clothes and thought, ‘he can have the best of me’ and walked under the awning to Doctor John Stones.
“How’s business, Josie?”
“I think it could be finished, Doctor.”
Andy Lowther was not in the bar.
“Where is that Andy Lowther who I took a drink with?”
“The writer?”
“The writer Andy Lowther.”
“He is taking a piss. That’s his beer over there.”
The Doctor asked if I had read any of Andy Lowther’s stuff and I told him ‘no’. He said, “He’s not much of a conversationalist so I don’t see how he could be a good writer.”
The Doctor can be boring sometimes. Just run your bar, you old fuck, I thought. Andy Lowther was more like a genius to me.
“What’s it today, old girl?”
“Give me a Swiss Brandy and a Panama Killer. And another beer for the writer.”
I am a smart girl. A simple, smart girl. I know all about men. Cowboys, rent-boys, man-boys; I’ve known them all. I took my seat, the one at the corner of the bar, and waited for Andy Lowther. For me, Panama Killers sit perfectly with Swiss Brandy’s. I ordered another, another two. To hell with Frank and to hell with it all. When a woman is wanting and waiting there is nothing else. There were some men, some broken hearts in the bar. The Doctor was never busy and never worked at night. At night the Doctor would be in his room, sleeping off the day’s profit. Then there was Andy Lowther, slinging himself onto the seat, the barstool, the love nest, next to me. He looked up. Poor Andy Lowther. The one who fell down and had a bruise on his face.
“Hello, Andy Lowther.”
“I was about to say that. How is the cooking?”
“And today you are a funny boy.”
(he was about to say that. these things with writers!)
We talk. The truth is, we talk and we drink. We drink and drink. Andy Lowther has money and is holding it close to his chest. Maybe he really is a drunk, a drunk before his broken heart, because only drunks are afraid to spend. We talk. Andy Lowther is not loud. He mumbles, but not intentionally. Like all the rest of them, Andy Lowther fumbles. We talk about little things and all the time I am listening, but Andy Lowther is bored with little and he is only mumbling and rambling on and on. We spend the money. First we spend my money, then we spend his money.
All the time the bar is filling. Each one who walks in looks a little less desperate and orders something lighter. Soon we have a tab running. Andy Lowther is laughing at all the wet people walking in the door, promising the Doctor, who is drunk and wanting to finish, that he will sell a novel and buy the bar. Andy Lowther is a funny boy. His head is up and he is drinking; drinking and talking about things and being a writer.
When you sit in Doctor John Stones, sit there all day, all day drinking, you cannot help but look each time the door opens. Each new face gets better. There is no love on their shoulders. The Doctor is ready to go. I am talking to the writer Andy Lowther, who is wearing the same clothes and the same walking shoes.
Then the door opened and in walked some man. Some young man, some cool cat.
“Give me something that hurts me. Give me something that will make me go blind,” says Andy Lowther.
The cool cat, the young man, who looks like he has lived a life, walks the length of the bar and orders a hard one right next to us. The Doctor gives Andy Lowther a Demons Spirit. It’s a tall drink, it’s a long drink, it’s a drink that hurts and makes you go blind.
“It’s on the house,” slurs the Doctor.
“Fuck it,” says Andy Lowther.
The cool cat can knock them back. He has the gravel-voice, the rock singer’s voice, and as he drinks and knocks them back, he looks happy and comfortable. Andy Lowther has his head pointed down towards his drink, looking sick and pathetic. Still, I am in love with Andy Lowther. He is a writer, he is a rock singer.
“Why don’t you go over there and drink somewhere else,” says Andy Lowther. “Why don’t you fuck off somewhere else?”
That’s when the door opened and I heard the thunder. The thunder came right in through the door. On the bench top the beer glasses shook and all went quiet in the thunder. Andy Lowther had his head down, down to his shoes. He shivered and began to weep. He looked like he was pondering something. ‘Poor Andy Lowther,’ I thought.
Then he roared, loud and brave like the thunder, and he lurched up and stung a right on the cool cat’s chin. Then a left to the ear and the cat fell back. But there would be more. More thunder, more rights and lefts and hooks and crosses. Then Andy Lowther went down. Then the kicking began and the Doctor peered over the bar to watch Andy Lowther get beat. They didn’t mind shows like this in Doctor John Stones. It took away the pain. Some would try to stand, cheering on the victor, as if the punches that hurt and the kicks that burnt were the punches and kicks that would end their pain. Some would sit and bow their heads and know that this was why life was bad. I didn’t do much. Women should not get involved and although I am a whore, I am still a woman. Anyway, Andy Lowther had enough liquor in him that nothing could hurt so much and the kicking was short and not overly vicious.
In the end, a couple of the sober men pulled the rocker away and Andy Lowther got some help and got back on his seat. The weeping stopped and the bleeding began. I have seen them all bleed, my men. Some have been bleeding when I met with them. For some it took longer. Some bled good and others bad. I could see that Andy Lowther did not bleed so often, but he bled ok. The Doctor handed him a bar towel and Andy Lowther bled quietly into it while I drank.
Andy Lowther took in one last drink, one last dance with the Devil, mumbled that he was leaving and left.
(a poem)
They ordered wine and beer,
three whites and a whisky.
It’s a little dance with the Devil
a little dance with the Devil,
a little dance with the Devil.
Have you danced with the Devil?
Go on; dance with the Devil,
dance with the Devil,
dance to death.
They ordered more wine, more beer, more whites and whisky.
Then it is vodka and rum, and then the shots.
Everything is flowing, the dancing has begun.
You thought the thunder would be bigger? You thought it was going somewhere? Nothing heads anywhere. They come through the door and it is all by chance. Things begin and things end. In Doctor John Stones there is pain everywhere. Pain in every glass and every mind. There is doubt and hate and ego. And after Andy Lowther left I took in a drink with the rock singer. I gave him one for free.
I am not so many things. I am not free and happy and I am not dead and buried. I want, I want. This was the conversation I had with Andy Lowther. All the time I listened.
“What’s wrong with you, Andy Lowther? Why’d this girl go and break your heart?”
Andy Lowther just sat there, wearing a broken heart and a bruise on his face.
Whisky and cola, whisky and cola. Again and over again.
“She showed me the light.”
“Why’d she go and break your heart, Andy Lowther?”
“I gave it to her, lady.”
And I know men, I know them all. And you can’t be the same forever.
(and now it’s over)
There was Andy Lowther, dressed down, wearing his broken heart and stinking from his clothes.
“Life is a clitoris.”
“Are you gunna hurt forever, Andy Lowther?”
“As pathetic as she and I in my bed.”
“I am use to emptiness, Andy Lowther. You are a writer. Surely you need emptiness too.”
And Andy Lowther spoke and rambled on and on, on and on, and he found himself and brightened his eyes until he lost himself in thought. He was a writer. He was Beethoven, he was love, he was the mother, he was me. He talked. He was silly. I wanted to see him sober.
“It would disappoint you, lady.”
“Why?”
“No.”
“Who broke your heart, Andy Lowther?”
“No. It is nothing. It is nothing at all.”
The days went on and I made money and I was a whore. I made money. I made all my money and nobody gave it to me. I earned it all. Sometimes I thought; about flying to Paris, about black umbrellas beneath a black sky, about poor Andy Lowther. I wondered about the bleeding and the bruise on his face. I was in love with Andy Lowther, as sure is sure. If I had diamonds, then I would give him my diamonds. And gold. And more.
The days went and went and went. There is always time, especially when you are a whore. I felt like a whore. I was a whore in love and there is nothing worse. There is nothing worse than distance and love. Frank called. I told him not to call. I told him I was in love with Andy Lowther. I told him I was going to write about Andy Lowther some day.
“What you gunna say?”
Whisky and Scotch and black and blue…
So then I knew. I was in love with Andy Lowther. If I had diamonds, he could have my diamonds. If gold, then the gold was his. If I had more…
Frank talked to me with his smile of all the things he knew I loved, without ever saying the things he wanted to say or wanted to do. And all I thought about was Andy Lowther and getting off that phone. It is hard to be hard. It is easier if you are a woman.
Andy Lowther wasn’t anywhere. And, I suppose, wherever he was he did not want to be there either. I went into Doctor John Stones and he wasn’t there. I took in a few drinks and waited, but he never showed. The Doctor said he’d have him back, said a bit of anger was good for business. The Doctor asked me if I had a broken heart.
“No. Nothing much, Doctor. I got nothing much.”
“Why don’t you go and find the girls and have a little party, Josie?”
“I have not had a party in some time.”
“Go on then. Go and find the girls and have a little midday party.”
So that’s what I did. It was always a party with the girls. It is nice for a woman to party. It takes your mind off things. When you go out drinking as a woman with a whole lot of other women and you really slap it up, you are bound to have a time. A real good time. You meet with men who want to love you and men who want to bed you and men who want to blame you. You forget things and you remember some and laugh and forget.
I got to talking to my friend Mary who was once a whore but gave it up for love. Her husband was in prison and she was waiting for him to get out. I didn’t tell her about Andy Lowther. All men are in some sort of prison. We had a few drinks and then I said I had to go.
“Stay a while, Josie. Have another one. It’s turning out to be some sort of party.”
“No,” I said. “I have to go. I have a client.”
It was dark and it started raining again. The streets, the bars and restaurants were filling with people and cheer.
It turned out that Andy Lowther hadn’t been anywhere, except swinging from a tree. The newspaper said they found him long dead with a bruise on his face and some blood around his nose that appeared suspicious. The police were investigating. A few days later the paper told the story of how Andy Lowther died of a broken heart. They didn’t mention his writing.
Frank didn’t call. I re-read the story about Andy Lowther’s broken heart and pulled the curtains closed and walked under the awnings to take in a drink at Doctor John Stones.
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