Free The Fan Man by William Kotzwinkle

of poisoned water, man. I’ve always wondered how deep this fucking lake is.
    And now I’ve got to walk across the bottom of it, man, to shore. Step out of the sunken boat, man. Commodore Schmuck’s flagship has been sunk from under him. Walking, man, I am walking once again through muck and slime, man, across the bottom of the Central Park lake, man, which is filled with bottles and tin cans and creeping death weeds, man. How hideous, my afternoon nap has been ruined, man, in a most fiendish way. This lake water, man, will finish me. This much of it, man, would kill anything.

    Once, man, I saw a crab crawl out of this pond, and he was covered, man, with oily slime. Crawling along dazed, as I am now. This crab, man, was walking along, and he was TRYING TO CLIMB A TREE. Trying to get away from this motherfucking polluted water, man, which I have just been completely submerged in, man, swallowing countless mouthfuls. You should have seen the crab, man, trying to make it up the roots of the tree. Grab hold with his claw and lift himself up. I watched him all day, man. By sundown, he was halfway up the tree.
    And I am halfway to shore, man, dripping wet, and I have apparently lost my hearing, man. The immersion in the horrible waters of this lake, man, has rendered me totally deaf. The effect has been immediate, man, the water must have gotten down into my eardrums. Perhaps I can shake some of it . . Man? I AM WEARING MY COMMODORE SCHMUCK HAT! I’M NOT DEAF?
    No, man, you can hear. You will not have to produce your symphonies in total silence, man. Thank goodness, man, that even though all other parts of my body, from asshole to elbow, were completely soaked with water, my alimentary ear canals remained sealed. In a few hours, man, there will be nothing left of me but two ears walking across Central Park.

Chapter 14
The Fan Man in the House of the Dead
    I am standing on the shore, dripping wet, man. I must therefore crawl up through these bushes, man, and disrobe. Off with my brand-new suit, man, which I am wringing out and hanging on a tree limb, man, in the sun.
    Here comes a cop, man, and he sees my suit hanging out to dry, and he is coming over to the bushes in which I am hiding my naked person.
    “What’s going on here?”
    “Look, man, I fell in the fucking lake with my new suit on, man, and I’m trying to dry it out.”
    “You fell in the lake? How did that happen?”
    “I slipped, man. I was standing on a rock looking at a fucking fish and I went down.”
    He feels my clothes, man, just to make sure. “Yeah, they’re wet all right, aren’t they?”
    “It’s a drip-dry suit, man, it’ll be dry in no time.”
    “Well, keep out of sight.”
    “Right, man, I’m hiding in these bushes, man, thanks.”
    Cop, man, walking off, twirling his Billy stick. Fortunately, man, he did not want to look inside my soaking wet satchel, man, wherein are traveling various organic health-food materials which do nor bear the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.
    My suit is hardly dry, man, but I cannot hang around in these bushes all day, man. I’ve got to put it on again, slightly damp. That’s how it goes, man. It’s what I get for coming to Central Park, man, instead of going to Van Cortlandt Park.
    All right, man, I am once again walking along in my soaking suit with my squeaking water-shoes, dragging my way across the park, toward NBC. There is a bird, man, hopping along, talking to himself. I will freak him out, man, make birdsong.
    “Criiiiiiiccccccckkkkkkk, criiiiicccck, tweeeeeeee,” says the bird, and Horse Badorties says
    “Criiiiccccccckkkkkkk, criiiiicccck, tweeeeeeee.”
    Bird turn around, look around, spooked, wondering where is that sound coming from, man. Is there some other bird around?
    It is only me, Horse Badorties, running through his bird-lifetimes. I must, man, get everyone in the Love Chorus to make flapping motions with their arms. To resurrect the bird memory. That is definite.
    Someday, man,