old Yakker who’s been arguing with him all the time—His face is completely human but inhumanly pasty like uncooked pale pie dough with dull seamed buggy horror that he’s doomed to all this enough to make me shudder in sympathy, I even see her awful expression of middleaged pie dough tormentism—They’re so human!—But suddenly me and the two kid workers are taken to the Vulture People respectable quarter of town to our apartment where a Vulture Woman and her daughter show us our rooms—Their faces are leprous thick with softy yeast but painted with makeup to make them like thick Christmas dolls and dull and fuzzy but human expressions, like with thick lips of rubber muzz, fat expressions all crumbly like cracker meal, yellow pizza puke faces, disgusting us tho we say nothing—The apartment has dirty beatnik beds and mattresses everywhere but I walk thru the back looking for a sink—It’s huge—An endless walk thru long greasy pantries and vast washrooms a block long with single filthy little sink all dark and slimey like underground Lowell High School crumbling basements—Finally I come to the Kitchen where we “new workers” are s’posed to cook little meals all summer—It’s vast stone fireplaces and stone stoves all rancid and greasy from a month-old Vulture People Banquet Orgy with still dozens of uncooked chickens lying around on the floor, among garbage and bottles—Rancid stale grease everywhere, nobody’s ever cleaned it up or knew how and the place as big as a garage—I push my way out of there pushing a huge greasystink foodstained tray of some sort hurrying away from the big stinky emptiness and horror—The fat golden chickens lie rotten upsidedown on littered stone slabs—I hurry out never having seen such a dirty sight in my life. Meanwhile I learn the two boys are studying a hamper full of Vulture Food for us and one of them wisely says “Blisters in our sugar,” meaning the Vultures put their blisters in our sugar so we’ll “die” but instead of being really dead we’ll be taken to the Underground Slimes to walk neck deep in steaming mucks pulling huge groaning wheels (among small forked snakes) so
Page:Big Sur (1963).djvu/182
172BIG SUR
