The Adding Machine by William S. Burroughs

called the Thing. This reminded me of the Thing I knew in Mexico. He was nearly seven feet tall and had played the Thing in a horror movie of the same name, and everybody called him the Thing. I hadn’t thought about the Thing in twenty years, and would not have thought about him except walking on yellow at that particular moment.
    Immediately the story of a horrible Mexican weekend came back to me, as related by Kells Elvins. Kells, his wife, and the Thing had been invited to the country house of a rich Mexican, and looking forward to swimming pools, luxury, good food and drinks, they inadvisedly accepted They arrived at a barren stone castle with hardly a stick of furniture, where drunken-machos — muy macho much man, also much son-of-bitch — were blasting at terrified cats with pearl-handled. 45’s while the cats ran around and around trying to escape, which they couldn’t do because the doors were locked — bullets ricocheting all over the castle. Much more dangerous to the human spectators than to the cats, who were smaller and moving much fasten That, 45 is one of the most inaccurate handguns in circulation, and the machos were crazy drunk, so of course Kells and his wife and the Thing were in favor of an immediate withdrawal, but found they were locked in like the cats. The machos — five foot six in elevator shoes — hated the Thing because he was taller. So they held him at gunpoint and took turns spitting drinks in his face.
    This scene and many others from Mexico — 1950 Mexico City College — flashed through my mind like a film; some pictures dim and grainy, others in technicolor — all triggered by the amphibious yellow jeep.
    And I was reminded of a description I read of the old Tong Wars in New York’s Chinatown, where the Chinese gunmen would squat down in the Bloody Angle of Doyers Street in front of the Chinese Light Lutheran Church with their Colt. 45 revolvers, shut both eyes tight, and blast away until the gun was empty. So those old bullets were whistling all up and down the street.
    ‘Light Lutherans — for an instant I’m at the door of the Baptist Church on St John’s Island in the West Indies. White paint buckles and peels from the walls. I smell the fruit and the sugar and the heat, then a long tight funnel of New York wind sucks me back to today.’ (This is a quote from a student in my 1974 writing class at C.C.N.Y.) When you take these walks you are literally travelling in time along association lines.
    So late the next afternoon I took a walk in Chinatown, and here is what I saw... a whitish wash of winter sunlight afternoon pale through a slot in the buildings blood splotched on his white shirt and overalls he appears not to connect with the ground or anything else ... he shifts his eyes right and then left and suspicious yellow rays emanate from his too-old interior... cold and windy outside as I enter through the turnstile another guy exits his hair and jowly face a medium gray la via del tren subterraneo esta peligrosa obey the police I haven’t been in New York long don’t touch that cat you’ll catch something hey honey want to ditch your wife guess Chinese do like pork look at feet only a good way to travel he holds the images of sterility and puts himself outside of what he wants with a sharp knowing glance and surreptitious eyeballs — I can push him onto the tracks flirting around the homy bastard keeps staring at my face or hair or crotch diamonds are still a girl’s best friend can I have a quarter? the film had too much violence stand clear of the moving platform oh yes there’s so much to learn in Chinese kitchen next door last gravy running out look they died years ago the coats and people a blur the wind is slamming signs around clattering debris in an empty lot of dusty window pants for sale piss in a black puddle against a stone corner I was embarrassed what if someone sees me blue jeans leering at me intimately you wonder how I can know how you feel