And crystal meth. And methadone. And Malomars. And porn featuring road kill— prominently featuring road kill—because until you’ve shoved your dick into a flattened raccoons corpse during the height of summer, when it’s especially fragrant and draws a sweet cloud of flies—slide it right into that rotting asshole, amidst internal bleeding and the compacted turds that were part of its last bowel movement, but didn’t quite make it out, because its death was so sudden and violent—you haven’t lived, buddy.
And smack. And PCP. And nicotine gum. And chewing gum. And bubble gum. And spirit gum. And the mysteries of Agatha Christie. And chocolate. And dangerous sex with complete strangers. (Last night, sans DentalDam, I sucked a Hassidic rabbi’s cock in the middle of a blizzard in front of the American Nazi Part HQ, here in Chicago. But no one noticed, so all I got out of it was a mouthful of semen and braided pubic hair.)
And Valium. And Librium. And laudanum. And alcohol. And earwax. And CNN’s election coverage. And collecting stuff from the Franklin Mint. And hashish. And shopping (at stores, off television or online). And gambling. And skiing. And belching. In fact, the only thing I don’t feel a compelling need to compulsively immerse myself in and/or take into my body is cigarettes. That habit, I’ve finally kicked. Unfortunately, with all the other habits I’ve added in kicking cigarettes, the doctor’s only giving me 6 more hours to live.
Which reminds me of this dream I had about actor Jean-Paul Belmondo, star of, among other things, the classic French New Wave film, Breathless (of which there is also a shitty American remake, BTW). I’d been thinking about Belmondo a lot lately—mostly flashing on Pierrot le Fou—I kept finding myself quoting his line about how “There are days, it seems, when one meets nothing but squares.”
So then I had this bizarre dream, in which fascinatingly ugly Belmondo was leering at me without a cigarette protruding from one corner of his mouth. It was ridiculous! But see, there was the doctor, telling Belmondo he’s gotta quit smoking, or, you know, Belmondo’ll die. And macho as he is, Belmondo’s a little squeamish about cancer. See, he’s known a person or 2 who’ve clamped their lips to that fetid monster’s in a long, agonizing kiss of death, and, well, he’s not so sure he’s up to that. So he decides he’s gotta quit.
Now this is no small thing—not nearly as light a decision as it was or would be for you or me. Nope. This Jean-Paul Belmondo. Smoking isn’t just what this motherfucker does; it’s what he is. And he’s not just a man, he’s an icon of cool—almost godlike, in spite of or because of his awkward widow’s peak, his sad sack demeanor, and the fact that he’s French and about as suave as Al Bundy. (Well, OK, a little more suave than that.) And in my dream here, Belmondo’s he’s still youngish. It’s not like his iconic days are over. (Wonder if ol’ Belmondo really has quit by this time.)
Anyhoo… There’s our Belmondo, and he knows it’s over either way. If he goes on smoking, he won’t even enjoy what time he has left before he gets sick. He’ll be too busy anticipating the end—too busy living with the fear of death. And if he quits—well, he can’t live with the world watching him become uncool. He doesn’t wanna go out like Marcello Marcello Mastroianni, who was less cool to begin with, (though maybe more suave,) and who, by the end, was often reduced to these cuddly teddy bearish old man parts, and that’s, like, pretty degrading. Besides which, though he’s cooler, Belmondo just isn’t as cute and/or handsome as Mastroianni, which would be kinda important as he aged and made his transition to the lovable old fart roles, so his career would doubtlessly founder anyway. I mean, again, who the fuck wants to look at a smokeless Belmondo? It’d be like looking at a Jimmy Durante without a huge nose or an Aquaman without his bumpy orange, skintight shirt, black trunks, and finned yellow boots (which, come on, you gotta admit, is pretty hot. I know it gets me goin’). It’s an abomination—or worse, it’s an act of anemia. (And yeah, Steve Forceman knows that anemia is not active at all, but OK, it could be the result of an act of vampirism, say, and that’s pretty active. So fuck off.)
So Belmondo knows what he has to do. He packs up a few things, and without a word to anyone, he hops in his corvette and drives to the airport. He charters a plane to America—Phoenix—and here, he rents a car. Not a convertible, though he woulda preferred it. It wouldn’t do him much good in the desert. Without a map, he just drives—eventually moving from freeway to two-lane highway to small rural route to unmarked dirt road. As he moves. In the rearview mirror, his eyes channel back a deeper desolation—needs that will never again be filled.
Then he sees it: a roadside diner. There are no signs outside, but when he pulls up outside, he can see a large piece of cardboard in the window. It’s black and bears a bright orange legend: NO SMOKING.
Belmondo sighs and gets out of the car, reflexively reaching to his breast pocket, where his cigarettes aren’t. He walks up to the place, opens the door, and from the cool, shady interior, they greet him in a depressed chorus: Bogie, Jackie Gleason, Lucille Ball, The Duke and so many others, their sallow skin almost glowing in the shadows. A heavy, dark eyed waitress with orange hair steps forward, chewing on a piece of gum, to take Belmondo’s order. Behind him, the door closes. Forever.
