look at a large, ugly scar that split the center of her
pudgy abdomen.
"That wasn't funny at all," Trahearne growled as the
film unthreaded itself and flapped like a broken shade.
86
"Don't blame me," Richter said as he began to
rewind it.
"Think I'll hobble outside for a breath of fresh air
and about a gallon of whiskey." Trahearne said as he
heaved his bulk out of the chair.
After he left, I asked Richter if he knew any of the
actors' names.
"Surely you jest," he said. "In this business, only the
creme de la creme have names, and usually they are
assumed. However, I did recognize the chap who
played the milkman-in another context, of course."
"What context?"
"He once ran a pornographic bookstore downtown,"
he said, "and I think his name was Randall something
. . . Randall Jackson. "
"Is he still in town?"
"No, he left after this film," he said, "which was his
single effort. I seem to remember someone telling me
that he was some sort of paperback distribution agent.
In Denver, I think. "
I asked if he knew anybody else or anything else
about the film, but he had never seen the girl again,
which meant that she had dropped out of the business. I
thanked him, then stood up to leave.
"Do you mind if I ask you a question?" I said.
"Of course not," he answered pleasantly.
"What are you doing with all these films?"
"Catalogue, classification, and cross-indexing. Pre-
paring for a scholarly study of the decline of American
pornographic film."
"Isn't all this expensive?"
"I have a grant," Richter said blithely. I didn't ask
from whom. I didn't want to know. As I left, he was
humming as he reloaded his projector.
Outside, Trahearne and Fireball were sitting back,
drinking and watching the Sunday traffic on Folsom
87
Street-two cabs, a babbling speed freak, and an
Oriental wino. I climbed into the car, wishing I had a
greater variety of drugs with me. Or less blind luck.
"Was that the girl you were looking for?" Trahearne
asked.
"No," I lied. "It looked something like her but it's
some chick named Wilhelmina Fairchild."
"Could be a stage name," Trahearne suggested.
"No," I said. "Richter knows the lady personally.
She's working in a massage parlor over in Richmond.
So unless she's developed a German accent since she
left horne, it wasn't Rosie's daughter. " I wasn't sure
why I lied to Trahearne. Maybe because I was embarrassed for Rosie. Or for myself. Whatever, I didn't want him to know that it had been Betty Sue on the
screen, flickering among so many hands.
"For Rosie's sake, I'm glad," Trahearne said. "I
stopped in her place by accident and drank there a
couple of days because I liked the place and her
bulldog. I didn't talk to her much, but I liked the way
she poured the beer and handled the bar, so I'm glad
her daughter didn't end up like that. Or worse. "
"Me too," I said.
"What now?"
"Palo Alto."
"Why?"
"To talk to Betty Sue's best girl friend from high
school," I said.
"Maybe she's out," he said. "Maybe you should call
first. Maybe we should hang around the city tonight.
Have a few drinks, you know, relax and rest a bit."
"No rest for the wicked," I said , then tucked the
Caddy between a taxi cab and a semi-truck, ripping off
two dollars' worth of Trahearne's tires. "It's a nice day
and a pretty drive," I added as soon as the truck driver
stopped blowing his horn.
88
"If we survive it," he said.
"You want to drive this fucking barge?" I asked
angrily, mad about my lie and the movie.
"You just drive it however you want to, son,"
Trahearne said, holding up his hands. "But don't get
mad at me. I'm not in charge of the world."
"Sometimes I can't tell if I'm crazy or the world's a
cesspool," I said.
"Both things are true," he said, "but your major
problem is that you're a moralist. Don't worry,
though."
"Why?"
"It'll pass with age," he said. "But talking about
crazy-what was that fellow doing with all those
films?"
"You wouldn't believe me
pudgy abdomen.
"That wasn't funny at all," Trahearne growled as the
film unthreaded itself and flapped like a broken shade.
86
"Don't blame me," Richter said as he began to
rewind it.
"Think I'll hobble outside for a breath of fresh air
and about a gallon of whiskey." Trahearne said as he
heaved his bulk out of the chair.
After he left, I asked Richter if he knew any of the
actors' names.
"Surely you jest," he said. "In this business, only the
creme de la creme have names, and usually they are
assumed. However, I did recognize the chap who
played the milkman-in another context, of course."
"What context?"
"He once ran a pornographic bookstore downtown,"
he said, "and I think his name was Randall something
. . . Randall Jackson. "
"Is he still in town?"
"No, he left after this film," he said, "which was his
single effort. I seem to remember someone telling me
that he was some sort of paperback distribution agent.
In Denver, I think. "
I asked if he knew anybody else or anything else
about the film, but he had never seen the girl again,
which meant that she had dropped out of the business. I
thanked him, then stood up to leave.
"Do you mind if I ask you a question?" I said.
"Of course not," he answered pleasantly.
"What are you doing with all these films?"
"Catalogue, classification, and cross-indexing. Pre-
paring for a scholarly study of the decline of American
pornographic film."
"Isn't all this expensive?"
"I have a grant," Richter said blithely. I didn't ask
from whom. I didn't want to know. As I left, he was
humming as he reloaded his projector.
Outside, Trahearne and Fireball were sitting back,
drinking and watching the Sunday traffic on Folsom
87
Street-two cabs, a babbling speed freak, and an
Oriental wino. I climbed into the car, wishing I had a
greater variety of drugs with me. Or less blind luck.
"Was that the girl you were looking for?" Trahearne
asked.
"No," I lied. "It looked something like her but it's
some chick named Wilhelmina Fairchild."
"Could be a stage name," Trahearne suggested.
"No," I said. "Richter knows the lady personally.
She's working in a massage parlor over in Richmond.
So unless she's developed a German accent since she
left horne, it wasn't Rosie's daughter. " I wasn't sure
why I lied to Trahearne. Maybe because I was embarrassed for Rosie. Or for myself. Whatever, I didn't want him to know that it had been Betty Sue on the
screen, flickering among so many hands.
"For Rosie's sake, I'm glad," Trahearne said. "I
stopped in her place by accident and drank there a
couple of days because I liked the place and her
bulldog. I didn't talk to her much, but I liked the way
she poured the beer and handled the bar, so I'm glad
her daughter didn't end up like that. Or worse. "
"Me too," I said.
"What now?"
"Palo Alto."
"Why?"
"To talk to Betty Sue's best girl friend from high
school," I said.
"Maybe she's out," he said. "Maybe you should call
first. Maybe we should hang around the city tonight.
Have a few drinks, you know, relax and rest a bit."
"No rest for the wicked," I said , then tucked the
Caddy between a taxi cab and a semi-truck, ripping off
two dollars' worth of Trahearne's tires. "It's a nice day
and a pretty drive," I added as soon as the truck driver
stopped blowing his horn.
88
"If we survive it," he said.
"You want to drive this fucking barge?" I asked
angrily, mad about my lie and the movie.
"You just drive it however you want to, son,"
Trahearne said, holding up his hands. "But don't get
mad at me. I'm not in charge of the world."
"Sometimes I can't tell if I'm crazy or the world's a
cesspool," I said.
"Both things are true," he said, "but your major
problem is that you're a moralist. Don't worry,
though."
"Why?"
"It'll pass with age," he said. "But talking about
crazy-what was that fellow doing with all those
films?"
"You wouldn't believe me
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