The Fan Man by William Kotzwinkle Page B

sir, and your change.”
    Out of the store, man, before I buy more. What a wonderful purchase. Little music box, you are my little orchestra of steel men, man. Play same notes over and over, perfect coordination. Let me now wind up the box with this Japanese key–seems to be stuck, man. The motherfucker is stuck already. I am not five yards away from the store and the music box is jammed. I cannot take it back, man, that would not be playing the game. This is my music box, man. It’s a good thing I have another one.
    This other one is working, man, the two little figures on top of the box are dancing around, round and round and the little steel musicians are playing, plinka-plinka. This toy, man, will afford me hours of musical pleasure.
    Booooooiiiiinnnnnnnnggggggggggg
    What is that sound, boooooiiiiiinnnnnnnggggg, man, like a broken spring. It is a broken spring, man. What a tremendous deal I just made, man. Two Japanese music boxes that don’t work. Four figures waiting for the music. A perfect moment, man. Everlasting No-Play.
Waiting for the dance
. It’s nirvana music, man. Complete silence.
    Here is the subway entrance again, man. So much of my life, rnan, is spent underground. “One token, pleak.” Give token-lady freak-face, see her eyes pop, and I am going through the turnstile and here comes the train and I am on it and going all the way back to the Lower East Side.
    Here I am, man, getting out of the subway on the Lower East Side, man, climbing the steps, hitting the street once again, man, at Cooper Union and St. Mark’s Place, back to my people, man. Feel the filth and dust, man, blowing into my eyes and the stench of piss and shit and vomit and old beer cans, man, up my nose. We’re back, man, where we belong.
    St. Mark’s Place, man, with one headshop after another, man, where I will SELL A FEW FANS! Go into this weird psychedelic emporium, man, with rotating lights give me a headache and incense make my eyes water, how wonderful, man. Over to the counter, man, where the manager is sitting in a high silk hat.
    “Listen, man, what you need to stimulate sales is one of these fans, man, dig.”
    Hauling out fan, clicking the switch, nothing happens. “The batteries are dead at the moment, man, and it is filled with water, but anyway, man, you get the idea–for heads to cool themselves.”
    “How much you want for the thing?”
    “I buy them for one dollar and ninety-five cents and I sell them for one dollar and ninety-five cents. People ask me why. I’ll tell you why, man–they are holy objects, which make music, a little humming note, and that is why I cannot allow myself any profit on them.”
    “I’ll give you a buck and a half.”
    “Terrific, man, that’s even better for my soul, I’ll be losing money on the deal.”
    “How many you got with you?”
    “Just this one, man, and I’d leave it with you, but it’s my only sample. However, I have a tremendous shipment coming in any moment, man.”
    “I’ll take a dozen.”
    “Groovy, man. How much do you want for this special battery-powered back-scratcher in the showcase, man?”
    “Cost you one dollar and ninety-five cents.”
    “A necessary item, man, haul it out.”
    And now I have made another purchase and filled my already incredibly heavy satchel with yet another precious valuable object, a battery-powered back-scratcher with a long handle, man, and a little plastic hand on the end of it, which vibrates back and forth. Apply to third eye, stimulate visions. I will sell it as a chakra-massager, man, and that way it will be a holy object for which I will not be able to charge more than one dollar and ninety-five cents. Another Horse Badorties scheme, man, by which I can’t make any money. Get out of this store, man, before you turn into a saint.
    Across Second Avenue, man, and down the street to First Avenue, and further down–to Tompkins Square Park, man. And dig, man, there is the saxophone player blowing some notes on a park