City of Night by John Rechy Page B

Yes.... Fine, Larry, now, if youll excuse us—” The malenurse walks out, almost brushing my shoulder, without looking at me.
               “My dear youngman,” the old man announces, “you are about to join the ranks of: My Angels!”
     

          
             2
     
               “Now, sit near me,” he said. “Yes, do bring that chair over. Not that one: the other one, it’s more comfortable, and I want you to be Comfortable.... Careful, now—my manuscripts. Push them aside, child—neatly, neatly—I was looking through some things before you came.” Sighing deeply, he waves a chubby hand over the room, indicating the books and manuscripts littering the floor. “They are: Relics—from another life!... Now, first of all, let me explain some exterior situations: You see me here, now, in this hospital bed, where Ive been for months and months; Suffice it to say: an Eternity! An automobile struck me—and it would have been Poetic Justice, yes, if I could say I had been hit by a gigantic truck—driven by a young handsome truckdriver, who knelt to gather my shattered heap of flesh (you see: I say ‘shattered heap of flesh’—I am frank with myself: Life wrecks all illusions—but you will find that out later), and to whom—had it been just such a handsome young truckdriver, though the very instrument of my infirmity—I would owe my life: There would have been something extravagantly Sexual—” He affected a slight tremor. “—about being struck by a truck—ummm—Well!... But, oh, the perversity of life: no such magnificent luck. It was no such earthangel who ran into me: but—ah, perversity, dear boy, keep it in mind: Perversity!—I was hit by a nervous, high-strung, skinny, homely, ineffectual, simpering oldmaid from Oklahoma, vainly trying to compete with our own glorious system of cabs! Not that I have anything against Oklahoma. As you will learn, I have some fond memories of—But that comes later.... And so it has taken all those months. This frail mechanism (if I may be allowed the indiscretion of referring to myself as ‘frail’—ha, ha—but I speak only relatively)—this frail mechanism called the body has refused to heal. In other words, the hip bone is no longer connected to the—How does that song go?... Anyway, you see me now rigged up in a 20th-century torture—not entirely unlike those used by the Inquisitors of old.... But do bring your chair closer, youngman—I want to hear every word you say, every phrase.... You will notice I have a hearing aid—which at times I feel must indeed be connected to an electronic god, who whispers all kinds of naughty electronic gossip to me. And, sometimes, alas! falls deadly silent... But you see, I am a bit of a poet, and you will understand—later, because I hope you will become my angel. (Robbie, forgive me, forgive me! )” He entreated Heaven. He draped the tape-measure loosely about his chest, released it momentarily, and let it lie limp along his body. I noticed a little red wire clamp marking a certain spot on the measure. “My dear boy,” he explained, “Robbie is my Guardian Angel—about whom you must hear—but later—perhaps in another interview, a precious interview—because I am also a philosopher. The poet stands in awe of life, and the philosopher penetrates it—and I do both. And life, my dear, dear young angel, is a long series of Interviews. And so: On With The Terms, to plunge, as in epic poetry, in medias res .... Lets dispense with the—uh—matter of—funds. Larry, I can suppose—uh—met you on one of our numerous streets, and so I take it you are—uh—seeking—(how did one street angel put it to me not too long ago? Oh, yes:)—bread: a fitting designation for funds, reduced, in the manner of the streets, to The Essential:... bread. I will give you (this is always a rather touchy subject, and so I have established a fixed fee)—$7.50 an hour, and if a fraction of an