432
MAUREEN HOWARD
They argued for a while in front of May's and she started to
walk east on the long block toward Third Avenue with Jim at her
heels. Having seen her, he wanted her. A soft breeze billowed the
white stuff of her garment and he saw, or thought he saw, that she
was naked underneath. One more time to be with her in a dim
back room at Clauson's or in the dirty forgotten park near her
house and then no more. To impress her Jim told the story of
Hi-Marx Llewelyn: in one manly act he had finished with the
poodle parlor that she hated.
"You're so involved with all that," Shelley said.
"I'm
through
with it!"
"It's the same thing," she turned on him, "look at you - just
look !"
It was true, he did look a sight in his chinos and sweater when
he finally trailed her into Clauson's place where a crowd of squat–
ting white-robed figures murmured in the candlelight. From a dark
corner a woman with gray hair and big pearl earrings came forth
clacking finger cymbals while she sang a song without words. The
man next to Jim passed him a joint and they shared while Jim
heard his long story, this man with orange sideburns and extremely
yellow teeth, how he had done something holy that day.
As
par–
ticipation in Creative Love he had felt the entire side of the office
building he worked in with his eyes closed. He felt the oppressive
regularity of the cement and the hard cold surface of the aluminum
panels, the inhuman scale of the whole, the mass, the enormity of
structure that made him into a wincing midget each day as he went
through the great arcaded entrance. Now that he had felt, the man
said, it could never frighten him again. Now that he had charged
himself with negative waves from the monster he could meet the
beast in battle every day and stand like a giant in his new power.
He could re-create the touch of cement and glass.
If
you know
with your body you do not fear, the guy said. After a while Jim
felt obligated to say he had felt the flesh of a dog that day, the
soft close curls, the nearly hairless underbelly. Some people sang
together. Patrick James Clauson, their leader, sat by himself facing
the group on a leather hassock, wrapped in white, of course.
A
plump faggy Irishman, he might have been a priest in the Archdio–
cese of New York. From time to time his voice rang out in maxims:
