The Fan Man Read Free

overcoat. Man, why did I bring this overcoat I must take it back to my Horse Badorties pad immediately.
    “This is Horse Badorties turning on the tape recorder, man, collecting more valuable sounds. Dig, man, the hum in the background. Horse Badorties is flaked out in the Clear White Grease, man, standing in front of the great Con Edison power transformer. Dig, man, the loud humming dragon, man, listen to it. I wish I could stay and listen to it, man, but I’ve got to recruit fifteen-year-old chicks for the Love Chorus, man, IMMEDIATELY!”
    Horse Badorties turning onto Avenue A, man, what a wonderful street. Look at the filth, man, everywhere. It’s my pad, man, Avenue A is merely an extension of my ever-shifting shitpile. Why, man, did I bring this overcoat with me? It must be ninety degrees in the shade of a New York TREE!
    “Tree, man … this is Horse Badorties, man, turning on the tape recorder, to announce The Plan, man. It is this, I am remembering a certain tree, man, in Van Cortlandt Park where I grew up as a child. And that, man, THAT is where we are going, man, on a holy pilgrimage to Van Cortlandt Park, where as a little kid, I spaced myself out. Let’s go, man, IMMEDIATELY!”
    The thought of this forgotten childhood park is now acting upon my Horse Badorties mind. There are some five hundred other things I must do in the meantime–hustle fans, hustle chicks, hustle music–and all these things are imperative and not to be set aside for a moment. But think of it, man, in spite of all the things you have to do, the trees of Van Cortlandt Park, growing free and green and covered with soot. I must go there at once.
    First, however, I must go to Tompkins Square Park, where run-away fifteen-year-old chicks are undoubtedly congregating. First, however, I must fan myself, cool myself with my hand-held battery-driven fan before I drop of heat prostration carrying this motherfucking overcoat. Cool breezes, man, across my brow.
    The reason I haven’t gone into Chinese paper fans, man, is because I haven’t been to Chinatown lately, but I must go there TONIGHT. Put it on tape, man, so you don’t forget it. “We’re going to Chinatown for dinner, man. It’s in The Plan. Don’t let me forget it, will you?” The Plan is now formulated on my Horse Badorties tape recorder. Later on, when I have forgotten who I am, I can always turn on the tape recorder and find out that I am Horse Badorties, going to Chinatown. And now man, I must get out of this doorway and walk along the street.
    There is a Horse Badorties footstep, man, and there is another one. I am crossing the street successfully, man, but hold everything, STOP! I hear Puerto Rican music, man.
    Quickly digging out of the Horse Badorties survival satchel the Commander Schmuck Imperial Red Chinese Army hat, man, I am putting it on my head, and lowering the thick pile-stuffed earflaps over my ears, man, closing off the sound of Puerto Rican gourd players singing
    muy bonita
    mi corazon
    I can still hear faint strains of it, man, but I am walking away fast. The Commander Schmuck hat has saved my eardrums again, man, from an onslaught worse than Ukrainian folk-songs. My Commander Schmuck hat is a winter hat, and though it is summertime, I am wearing it into Tompkins Square Park, and now, man, NOW I see why.
    At last, man, I know why I brought this overcoat with me. In order not to draw attention to the unusual presence of the Commander Schmuck Imperial Winter Hat with anti-Puerto-Rican-music earflaps, man, which might attract the eye of a wandering policeman, I am putting on the winter overcoat, man, so that the cop, seeing me in winter hat and overcoat will notice only that my wardrobe is complete. And by the time he realizes something is amiss, man, I will have completely melted out of sight into a small puddle of sweat on the sidewalk. And now, man, I see chicks walking around in Tompkins Square Park.
    “Hey, baby, here’s a piece of sheet music for you. Hang