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junkyard. My complicated life, man. There are so many things to handle at once when you are head of the Fourth Street Music Academy and must purchase a school bus to carry fifteen-year-old chicks around in, from state to state. We’re going to live in that school bus, man, and put beds in it and a washing machine.
    “Hello? … hello, Mr. Thorne, how are you doing, man … this is Horse Badorties in New York City … yes, man, right … I wanted to tell you I will be over tomorrow to purchase the school bus, so please don’t sell it to any other traveling artist. Yes, I’ll be there about noontime … right … so long, man… .”
    “Maybe if we go in the other room,” says the chick, “we could find a place to lay down.”
    Possibly she is right, man, and so we fight our way across the abominable sea of trash … abominable, man, wait a second. “Dig, baby, there is my rented typewriter, right there, under that pile of used noodles, and dig, baby, I am going to write an article IMMEDIATELY for
Argosy
magazine about an enormous footprint found in Central Asia.”
    “There’s even more junk in this room,” she says, looking into my Horse Badorties bedroom.
    “Right, baby, but if we crawled up on top of these boxes of sheet music we could perform a fugue, come on, baby, let’s try.”
    It is the perfect place to screw, man, because it is better than a music lesson, the chick will assimilate directly through her ass cheeks the music of the Love Chorus.
    “That’s it, baby, just crawl up there, I’m right behind you.”
    Crawling up from box to box, man, up to a platform of other boxes stuffed with sheet music, and now, man, NOW, high above the wet filthy floor, in our heavenly tower of sheet music, this fifteen-year-old Chinese chick is giving me her sweet little meatbun.
    Man, what is that ripping sound, that collapsing wet cardboard tearing sound, it is the boxes, man, falling apart below us, man, and down, man, down once again into the darkness we are falling with sheet music flying in all directions, hitting other boxes we go falling through them breaking them apart and falling further down, into the water, splash, here, man, come the roaches with a lifeboat.

    All right, man, we’ll just have to screw on the floor in a pile of old dishrags and a rubber overshoe. Now is the time, man, to give her the downbeat.
    “I have to go,” she says, standing up.
    “Go? Baby, we just got here. Come on, baby, there’s plenty of time.”
    “I have to be home by ten o’clock,” she says, putting on her skirt. Fifteen-year-old chicks, man, do anything, fuck anybody, and be home by ten o’clock. I don’t have the strength to protest, man, I’ve lost my suit jacket, I’ve wrecked fifteen boxes of sheet music, forgot to buy teaballs, and as a result am not getting balled. The gods, man, arrange everything. Maybe they will arrange for her to return tomorrow night, when I have my school bus and can drive her home. Man, I’m so tired from climbing up those boxes and falling down. I’ve got to find my bed, man, and get some
zzzzzzz’s
.

Chapter 7
Horse Badorties Dreams
    Horse Badorties having dream: Dream he is running around in a circle with elephants, hippopotamus. Teaching them to sing harmony. And here’s a bear, man, riding a tricycle, carrying a hot dog umbrella.
    Horse Badorties’ dream: Walking up great mountain of paper bags tin cans smoking bones walking up tremendous mountain of trash. The people of the village are afraid to climb the mountain of trash because no one has ever climbed it and lived to tell the tale. Impossible maze too much piles of junk everywhere you turn. Lose balance slip sink down through old eggshells, cardboard boxes, coffee grounds, melted plastic. Man went out there up to Great Trash Mountain and was never seen again. Thousand old sardine cans in a pile flashing blinding light. Stuff everywhere to confuse you and nobody ever found their way out of it.
    Horse Badorties walks up it