And I had a boyfriend.
But now I'll tell the story for those of you
who are in the classes and I wouldn't mention it.
Well, he was just-- he was a gypsy, a European gypsy.
And it was his lifelong aim to become a South American
dictator.
And I suspect he's in Bolivia now working on it.
His last words were, you're too naive.
And he just laughed.
[LAUGHTER]
Anyway, so he was--
I don't know.
These were-- if they were lies, they were a good lies.
I appreciate a liar who can tell such fantastic ones that you
can't really dispute them.
[LAUGHTER]
He said he worked for the CIA and he'd
run guns between Cuba and South America.
But like when we broke up for a whole week,
I would hear footsteps outside my window.
But then I found out it was some ex Hell's Angel
guy who lived in the building.
And he just-- there was a pool.
He would take one, two, three, four, five,
six steps toward the pool one night
a week, every Wednesday night about 4:00 AM.
And I was always up then, see, because I write
from about 11:00 PM to 5:00 AM.
Those are my good work hours.
Six steps and then he'd stop, and he'd walk back.
And so then when I just told a manager and he said, oh, yeah,
Billy never quite makes it.
He just-- he never made it to the pool.
He said-- and he wore those heavy stomper boots.
Like the stomp the hell out of you those boots.
And I was convinced, though, that the mafia or somebody
was after me.
After the-- you should stay away from people like that gypsy.
He ran away with $300.
He was-- he managed the San Clemente Hotel.
President Roosevelt had once slept in his room.
[LAUGHTER]
It's occupied chiefly by Marines and hippies.
And the Marines actually, I think they wear long hair wigs.
A lot of the Marines did.
I'd see one one day with his skinhead, that's
what they called them out here.
And then he'd have hair--
it was down past his waist, headband and everything.
Hey, man.
Having a party tonight.
[LAUGHTER]
Anyway, we should get to the poem.
But anyway, he managed that hotel.
And they don't like it because it's the biggest
building in San Clemente.
It's very-- the tallest building and all those hippies
are there.
And they were trying to close it down when I left.
I don't know if they succeeded, but it's run,
owned by this queer who still lived with his mother who
is 45 named Bill Hossler.
And he was like a hippie hotel magnate.
He had couple in Hollywood, two in Laguna Beach,
and one in San Clemente.
But I lived in a real nice one.
See ours had a pool.
It was a little step up from the other ones.
It was-- they catered to Canadians.
After I got there, I found out if you were gay
or if you just didn't give a shit
and if you were a Canadian dealer, it was all right.
But then-- but then one of the managers,
he said, you can smoke a little grass.
It's all right.
But then he would bust people.
He would say-- [LAUGHS] he would say, look
where I found in that room.
And he'd show me what he'd found,
like maybe a spoon, some heroin, or like grass.
And he'd say, I don't know how the cops found out about it.
And he did-- he had no compunctions.
Like there was a Black guy who lived there
and I went to dinner with.
He was gay.
He and his wife, sort of, like his roommate.
I got trapped in a queer triangle for a while.
That's real-- it's really--
it's real sad.
It's heavier than anything.
It's really hard.
I had to go and help him--
help him leave George.
I had to help Fred leave George.
And I was so tired when Fred left, but anyway George--
I went to dinner with George though.
He took me out and he says, well, I'm
going to lower your rent.
George was English.
Then I found out that all along that Black--
he had been charging the Black guy more rent
than anybody else. $20 more.
Like he didn't care.
I can't be-- he'd be real nice to me and take me to dinner
and all along he'd been charging me
$20 more than other people paid for my rent.
It's incredible.
That's California.
Now I'm going to read.
Oh, boy, I'm really talking a lot.
Jesus!
This is called "Cuba, 1962."
"When the rooster jumps up on the windowsill
and spreads his red gold wings, I
wake thinking it is the sun and call Juanita.
Hearing her answer, but only in my mind.
I know she is already outside breaking the cane off
at ground level using only her big Indian hands.
I get the machete and walk among the cane
until I see her lying face down in the dirt.
Juanita dead in the morning like this.
I raise the machete.
What I take from the Earth, I give back,
and cut off her feet.
I lift the body and carry it to the wagon
where I load the cane to sell in the village.
Whoever taste my woman in his candy, his cake,
taste something sweeter than this sugar cane.
It is grief.
If you eat too much of it, you want more.
You can never get enough."