by the woman-for more than twenty
years, and I still don't have any idea what goes on in her
mind. I wouldn't be surprised to discover that she had
hired you to have me shot in the ass."
"Pretty slick, the way I handled it, right?"
"Don't make jokes about Catherine," he said,
grinning, "she's great at arranging things. She arranged
my life for years." He was telling me something more
than I had asked, but I had no idea what. "You're not
married, are you?"
"Never have been."
"I thought not," he said. "You're not complex
enough to survive it."
"That's what I always said."
After a long pause as. he watched the frail monuments of apartment complexes soar past the moving freeway, he asked, "Do you mind if I ask you a
question?"
"Nope;"
"Where the hell are we going?" he asked, then
laughed wildly.
When he stopped, I told him what I had found out
about Betty Sue Flowers, what I planned to do, and
where I meant to look, shouting above the road noise
until we kicked off into the windy, blue space of the
Golden Gate. As I talked, Traheame drank, and as we
crossed the bridge, he stopped listening, thinking, I
suppose, of the young widow. He stared at the bottle,
clutched in his hand like a grenade; then frowned, the
feathers on his lark already saddly ruffled.
In the back seat, the bulldog hunkered like a heathen
idol, some magical toad with a ruby as large as a
clenched fist in his head, glowing through his stoic eyes,
an inscrutable snicker mystic upon his face.
82
7 ••••
THEY SAY THE GODS WATCH OVER FOOLS AND DRUNKssurely Trahearne and I qualified-and whoever they are, they're right too often for comfort.
Once we were downtown, we stopped at a quiet bar,
and I called every dope dealer, police officer, and old
girl friend I knew. They gave me some names and
numbers, all of them absolutely useless. How was I
supposed to know that every porno kingpin and czar in
the city spent Sunday afternoons in religious retreats,
consciousness-raising sessions, or est seminars? Out of
boredom and hoping to stay sober, I hit the bars and
theatres around Broadway and found a bored college
student taking tickets. He knew a sociology professor
who knew more about pornographic movies than either
the Legion of Decency or the Mafia.
The professor was home on Sunday afternoon like
any good citizen, watching an old silent porno flick
about a young fellow who is fooled by two young girls
at the beach into fucking a goat through a knothole in a
fence. Several mont-hs later, the girls con him out of his
walking-around money when one of them slips a pillow
under her old-fashioned bathing suit and accuses him of
having fathered it.
"I'll be damned," Trahearne whispered as he wrig-
83
gled on the hard metal folding chair. "That's almost
funny ."
"Almost?" Professor Richter said, glancing down his
sharp nose. "Almost?" he repeated with the proprietary air of someone who had written, directed, and starred in the movie. He did resemble the young
protagonist. "It's hilarious!" he screeched. "And that is
the major problem of modern pornography: it's too
serious. With minor exceptions, of course. Usually,
when it attempts humor the modern pornographic film
tries for the lowest level, and when it succeeds,
however slightly, as in the case of Deep Throat, they
have a national hit on their hands," he said gravely.
"It's the same in all the arts: as technology advances,
humor declines. The limits and definitions of art
disappear, then the art is forced to satirize itself too
earnestly, and the visual arts become literary, and that,
my friends, is the very first sign of cultural degeneracy." Then he slapped his slender, dusty hands together lightly, lifted the corners of his mouth, and added,
"Don't you agree?"
He had the glittering eyes and pained smile of a
fanatic, the long face unmarked by emotion, so Trahearne and I nodded quickly. His face wasn't unpleasant, just blandly, hysterically
years, and I still don't have any idea what goes on in her
mind. I wouldn't be surprised to discover that she had
hired you to have me shot in the ass."
"Pretty slick, the way I handled it, right?"
"Don't make jokes about Catherine," he said,
grinning, "she's great at arranging things. She arranged
my life for years." He was telling me something more
than I had asked, but I had no idea what. "You're not
married, are you?"
"Never have been."
"I thought not," he said. "You're not complex
enough to survive it."
"That's what I always said."
After a long pause as. he watched the frail monuments of apartment complexes soar past the moving freeway, he asked, "Do you mind if I ask you a
question?"
"Nope;"
"Where the hell are we going?" he asked, then
laughed wildly.
When he stopped, I told him what I had found out
about Betty Sue Flowers, what I planned to do, and
where I meant to look, shouting above the road noise
until we kicked off into the windy, blue space of the
Golden Gate. As I talked, Traheame drank, and as we
crossed the bridge, he stopped listening, thinking, I
suppose, of the young widow. He stared at the bottle,
clutched in his hand like a grenade; then frowned, the
feathers on his lark already saddly ruffled.
In the back seat, the bulldog hunkered like a heathen
idol, some magical toad with a ruby as large as a
clenched fist in his head, glowing through his stoic eyes,
an inscrutable snicker mystic upon his face.
82
7 ••••
THEY SAY THE GODS WATCH OVER FOOLS AND DRUNKssurely Trahearne and I qualified-and whoever they are, they're right too often for comfort.
Once we were downtown, we stopped at a quiet bar,
and I called every dope dealer, police officer, and old
girl friend I knew. They gave me some names and
numbers, all of them absolutely useless. How was I
supposed to know that every porno kingpin and czar in
the city spent Sunday afternoons in religious retreats,
consciousness-raising sessions, or est seminars? Out of
boredom and hoping to stay sober, I hit the bars and
theatres around Broadway and found a bored college
student taking tickets. He knew a sociology professor
who knew more about pornographic movies than either
the Legion of Decency or the Mafia.
The professor was home on Sunday afternoon like
any good citizen, watching an old silent porno flick
about a young fellow who is fooled by two young girls
at the beach into fucking a goat through a knothole in a
fence. Several mont-hs later, the girls con him out of his
walking-around money when one of them slips a pillow
under her old-fashioned bathing suit and accuses him of
having fathered it.
"I'll be damned," Trahearne whispered as he wrig-
83
gled on the hard metal folding chair. "That's almost
funny ."
"Almost?" Professor Richter said, glancing down his
sharp nose. "Almost?" he repeated with the proprietary air of someone who had written, directed, and starred in the movie. He did resemble the young
protagonist. "It's hilarious!" he screeched. "And that is
the major problem of modern pornography: it's too
serious. With minor exceptions, of course. Usually,
when it attempts humor the modern pornographic film
tries for the lowest level, and when it succeeds,
however slightly, as in the case of Deep Throat, they
have a national hit on their hands," he said gravely.
"It's the same in all the arts: as technology advances,
humor declines. The limits and definitions of art
disappear, then the art is forced to satirize itself too
earnestly, and the visual arts become literary, and that,
my friends, is the very first sign of cultural degeneracy." Then he slapped his slender, dusty hands together lightly, lifted the corners of his mouth, and added,
"Don't you agree?"
He had the glittering eyes and pained smile of a
fanatic, the long face unmarked by emotion, so Trahearne and I nodded quickly. His face wasn't unpleasant, just blandly, hysterically
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