Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man

29

Mr. Laurence Clarke

c/o Gumbino

311½ West 20^th Street

New York, New York

Dear Larry—

Greetings from the biggest horse’s ass in Mexico.

You guessed it. Fran took off and left me, and I’ve spent the past few days in a drunken stupor. Tequila can really wipe a person out.

Now that she’s gone and it’s all over, I can see what a complete bastard I was. I went and fucked up the greatest friendship of my life for one month of kinging it in Mexico, and now where the hell am I?

Larry, I can’t undo what I did, and what the hell is the point of saying I’m sorry? Especially when you already went ahead and forgave me. The best I can do is plead temporary insanity. That’s what it was. I was literally out of my mind.

And so was Fran. I’m not putting any blame on her. We both managed to convince ourselves and each other that we were Romeo and Juliet all over again. Everything was at such a constant fever peak that of course it was all artificial and we couldn’t stay at the peak all the time and when we fell it took forever to touch bottom because we started so high off the ground.

What I regret most of all is the things I wrote to you and the way I misinterpreted what you wrote to me.

What’s really ironic is that the thing that finally killed our relationship was me trying to take your advice. I mean the advice in your last letter about doing it to her the way you did to Rozanne Gumbino. I mean, in the ass. Of course things had slipped to a pretty low state by then and maybe the end was inevitable, but taking your advice certainly brought things to a head.

The hell of it is that I honestly think your advice would have worked if I just could have brought it off properly. You just may have come up with the greatest discovery since the wheel. But I couldn’t hang in there long enough. I gave her about a half a dozen strokes and shot my bolt, and at that stage all she was doing was screaming and trying to get away.

Well, that sure as hell tore it, fella. She lashed into me like I was the Markee de Sade, what a horrible man I was, how my true nature was now emerging, and all that crap. I didn’t even try to explain. I thought, well, that’s the end of it, and I guess deep down inside I was relieved. At least there would be no more of that off-again-on-again shit. At least it was over and done with and I could go out and get drunk, which is what I did. That tequila gives you a hangover that doesn’t quit, and the only thing to do is go out and get drunk again.

I’m sober now, and I guess I’ll stay that way because I can’t afford much heavy drinking, even at Mexican prices. Wouldn’t you know that she took every centavo with her, except for what I had in my wallet. Which is enough for me to live on, but for how long is anybody’s guess. I can’t afford to buy film, and if I don’t have film I can’t do any magazine assignments, so I may be stuck in this fucking hole for the rest of my life, and I guess I don’t deserve much better than that.

Damn it all, it would have worked. What I’m going to do is wait here until I find a nice rich girl with big tits who’s really looking for it, and then I’m going to fuck her in the ass until she can’t see straight. No more six strokes and over. If it takes self-hypnosis, I’ll try that.

Well, now you know how things are with your old pal. For what it’s worth, thanks for trying to help. It’s not your fault things went the way they did.