Soul of a Whore and Purvis Read Free Page A

                Huh-uh,
    It ain’t what you imagine. It’s much weirder,
    Wilder— unnatural —and no, no, no,
    It still ain’t what you’re thinking. It’s not sex.
    â€¦You mentioned a wife.
    BILL JENKS :                             O! Yeah. I probly did.
    And did I mention that her lawyers mentioned
    A divorce?
    MASHA :                It wasn’t really necessary.
    BILL JENKS : You turn me on. I think you make me wild.
    Smart women get me going. Thus my downfall.
    MASHA : Step right up and blame it on a woman…
    How long did Texas guard your purity?
    BILL JENKS : One and one-sixth years. That’s fourteen months.
    â€”And I went in there in a monastic spirit:
    I’ve been voluntarily celibate,
    And celibate, God willing, I’ll remain.
    MASHA : Well, you’ve been talking like your holy vow
    Escaped your mind and pulled your trousers down.
    BILL JENKS : Matter of fact it did. Wow. Fourteen months.
    â€¦I like the way your heel’s a little dirty.
    I like the way you point your toes. I like
    That silvery sort of robot-colored sort of
    Sequined toenail polish.
    MASHA :                                  You are sick!
    BILL JENKS : Wow. Just the sight of your foot makes me drool.
    Your human foot. Wow. Fourteen months locked up.
    MASHA : Aren’t there any humans with feet in there?
    BILL JENKS : Humans? Yeah. Humans too goddamn human:
    Misused and violent Negroes, and abused
    And violent Texas crackers, and confused
    Bilingual Meskin desperados—also
    Violent—and sweet, retarded boys
    Who can’t recall the violence they’ve done…
    Deranged mulattos, and mestizos scrambled
    In their natural brains…
    Saints and suckers stirring in a stew
    Of HIV and hepatitis C and walls
    And years. And, yes: I guess they’ve all got feet.
    But none of them ever dreamed of a foot like yours.
    MASHA : You’re not a lover, are you…You’re a preacher…
    BILL JENKS : Fourteen months exactly to the minute,
    The same as Elvis did in Jailhouse Rock.
    [ He goes to the counter. ]
    Got me a voucher for the Dallas bus.
    CLERK : Dallas’ll be along behind the Houston.
    BILL JENKS : The Houston bus came not an hour ago.
    CLERK : The Dallas end of things is crumbling.
    While Texas undertakes repairs, there’s just
    This formless ooze of throbbing vehicles
    From here to there and back that never moves…
    (I would love to strafe those motherfuckers…)
    BILL JENKS : That lady got a pulse?
    CLERK :                                         That’s Granny Black,
    Mourning her man who died in the electric chair.
    Yeah, she was young and wild. And he was wilder.
    Crazy little gambler with a temper.
    Shot four niggers in a poker game,
    Killed ’em all though he held the winning hand.
    Well, you could get away with shooting one
    Or two along back then around these parts,
    But even colored you can’t slaughter by
    The dozens and not expect to meet Joe Byrd.
    MASHA : Joe Byrd?
    CLERK :                    The man with the electric chair.
    BILL JENKS : The executioner for fifty years
    Or something like that.
    CLERK :                                  Captain Joseph Byrd—
    The guy they named the cemetery after,
    The resting place for prisoners, I mean.
    He executed seven hundred men.
    BILL JENKS : Well—not quite seven hundred.
    CLERK :                                                          It was plenty—
    You want facts and figures, read a book.
    She walks among the graves up there all night.
    Yeah. She’s a cheerful, harmless thing in daylight.
    Always