Run With the Hunted (43 page)

“Yeah? Listen, thanks for breakfast.”

“It's all right. I had a partner in high school. We were the best dancers in school. He had three balls; I thought it was a sign of masculinity.”

“Three balls?”

“Yes, three balls. Anyhow, we really knew how to dance. I'd signal by touching him on the wrist, then we'd both leap and turn in the air, very high, and land on our feet. One time we were dancing, I touched his wrist and I made my leap and turn, but I didn't land on my feet. I landed on my ass. He put his hand over his mouth and stared down at me and said, ‘Oh, good heavens!' and he walked off. He didn't pick me up. He was a homosexual. We never danced again.”

“Do you have something against three-balled homosexuals?”

“No, but we never danced again.”

“Lita, she was really dance-obsessed. She'd go into strange bars and ask men to dance with her. Of course, they would. They thought she was an easy fuck. I don't know if she did or didn't. I suppose that sometimes she did. The trouble with men who dance or hang out in bars is that their perception is on a parallel with the tape worm.”

“How did you know that?”

“They're caught in the ritual.”

“What ritual?”

“The ritual of misdirected energy.”

Henry got up and began to dress. “Kid, I got to get going.”

“What is it?”

“I just have to get some work done. I'm supposed to be a writer.”

“There's a play by Ibsen on tv tonight. 8:30. Will you come over?”

“Sure. I left that pint of scotch. Don't drink it all.”

Henry got into his clothes and went down the stairway and got into his car and drove to his place and his typewriter. Second floor rear. Every day as he typed, the woman downstairs would beat on her ceiling with the broom. He wrote the hard way, it had always been the hard way:
The White Dog Hunch
…

Louise phoned at 5:30 p.m. She'd been at the scotch. She was drunk. She slurred her words. She rambled. The reader of Thomas Chatterton and D. H. Lawrence. The reader of nine of his books.

“Henry?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, something marvelous has happened!”

“Yes?”

“This black boy came to see me. He's
beautiful!
He's more beautiful than you …”

“Of course.”

“… more beautiful than you and I.”

“Yes.”

“He got me so excited! I'm about to go out of my mind!”

“Yes.”

“You don't mind?”

“No.”

“You know how we spent the afternoon?”

“No.”

“Reading
your poems!
”

“Oh?”

“And you know what he said?”

“No.”

“He said your poems were
great!
”

“That's O.K.”

“Listen, he got me so
excited
. I don't know how to handle it. Won't you come over? Now? I want to see you now …”

“Louise, I'm working …”

“Listen, you don't have anything against black men?”

“No.”

“I've known this boy for ten years. He used to work for me when I was rich.”

“You mean when you were still with your rich husband.”

“Will I see you later? Ibsen is on at 8:30.”

“I'll let you know.”

“Why did that bastard come around? I was all right and then he came around. Christ. I'm so excited, I've got to see you. I'm about to go crazy. He was so
beautiful.
”

“I'm working, Louise. The word around here is ‘Rent.' Try to understand.”

Louise hung up. She called again at 8:20 about Ibsen. Henry said he was still working. He was. Then he began to drink and just sat in a chair, he just sat in a chair. At 9:50 there was a knock on the door. It was Booboo Meltzer, the number one rock star of 1970, currently unemployed, still living off royalties. “Hello, kid,” said Henry.

Meltzer walked in and sat down.

“Man,” he said, “you're a beautiful old cat. I can't get over you.”

“Lay off, kid, cats are out of style, dogs are in now.”

“I got a hunch you need help, old man.”

“Kid, it's never been different.”

Henry walked into the kitchen, found two beers, cracked them and walked out.

“I'm out of cunt, kid, which to me is like being out of love. I can't separate them. I'm not that clever.”

“None of us are clever, Pops. We all need help.”

“Yeh.”

Meltzer had a small celluloid tube. Carefully he tapped out two little white spots on the coffee table.

“This is cocaine, Pops,
cocaine
…”

“Ah, hah.”

Meltzer reached into his pocket, pulled out a $50 bill, rolled the fifty tightly, then worked it up one nostril. Pressing a finger on the other nostril he bent over one of the white spots on the coffee table and inhaled it. Then he took the $50 bill, worked it up the other nostril and sniffed the second white spot.

“Snow,” said Meltzer.

“It's Christmas. Appropriate,” said Henry.

Meltzer tapped out two more white spots and passed the fifty. Henry said, “Hold it, I'll use my own,” and he found a one dollar bill and sniffed up. Once for each nostril.

“What do you think of
The White Dog Hunch?
” asked Henry.

“This is ‘The White Dog Hunch,'” said Meltzer, tapping out two more spots.

“God,” said Henry, “I don't think I'll ever be bored again. You're not bored with me, are you?”

“No way,” said Meltzer, sniffing it up through the fifty with all his might. “Pops, there's just no way …”

—
H
OT
W
ATER
M
USIC

is the slim tall

ear-ringed

bedroom damsel

dressed in a long

gown

she's always high

in heels

spirit

pills

booze

Sandra leans out of

her chair

leans
toward

Glendale

I wait for her head

to hit the closet

doorknob

as she attempts to

light

a new cigarette on an

almost burnt-out

one

at 32 she likes

young neat

unscratched boys

with faces like the bottoms

of new saucers

she has proclaimed as much

to me

has brought her prizes

over for me to view:

silent blonde zeros of young

flesh

who

a) sit

b) stand

c) talk

at her command

sometimes she brings one

sometimes two

sometimes three

for me to

view

Sandra looks very good in

long gowns

Sandra could probably break

a man's heart

I hope she finds

one.

 

 

I began receiving letters from a girl in New York City. Her name was Mindy. She had run across a couple of my books, but the best thing about her letters was that she seldom mentioned writing except to say that she was not a writer. She wrote about things in general and men and sex in particular. Mindy was 25, wrote in longhand, and the handwriting was stable, sensible, yet humorous. I answered her letters and was always glad to find one of hers in my mailbox. Most people are much better at saying things in letters than in conversation, and some people can write artistic, inventive letters, but when they try a poem or story or novel they become pretentious.

Then Mindy sent some photographs. If they were faithful she was quite beautiful. We wrote for several more weeks and then she mentioned that she had a two week vacation coming up.

Why don't you fly out? I suggested.

All right, she replied.

We began to phone one another. Finally she gave me her arrival date at L.A. International.

I'll be there, I told her, nothing will stop me.

I sat in the airport and waited. You never knew about photos. You could never tell. I was nervous. I felt like vomiting. I lit a cigarette and gagged. Why did I do these things? I didn't want her now. And Mindy was flying all the way from New York City. I knew plenty of women. Why always more women? What was I trying to do? New affairs were exciting but they were also hard work. The first kiss, the first fuck had some drama. People were interesting at first. Then later, slowly but surely, all the flaws and madness would manifest themselves. I would become less and less to them; they would mean less and less to me.

I was old and I was ugly. Maybe that's why it felt so good to stick it into young girls. I was King Kong and they were lithe and tender. Was I trying to screw my way past death? By being with young girls did I hope I wouldn't grow old, feel old? I just didn't want to age badly, simply quit, be dead before death itself arrived.

Mindy's plane landed and taxied in. I felt I was in danger. Women knew me beforehand because they had read my books. I had exposed myself. On the other hand, I knew nothing of them. I was the real gambler. I could get killed, I could get my balls cut off. Chinaski without balls.
Love Poems of a Eunuch
.

I stood waiting for Mindy. The passengers came out of the gate.

Oh, I hope
she's
not the one.

Or her.

Or especially her.

Now that one would be fine! Look at those legs, that behind, those eyes....

One of them moved towards me. I hoped it was her. She was the best of the whole damned lot. I couldn't be that lucky. She walked up to me and smiled. “I'm Mindy.”

“I'm glad you're Mindy.”

“I'm glad you're Chinaski.”

“Do you have to wait for your baggage?”

“Yes, I brought enough for a long stay!”

“Let's wait in the bar.”

We walked in and found a table. Mindy ordered a vodka and tonic. I ordered a vodka-7. Ah, almost in tune. I lit her cigarette. She looked fine. Almost virginal. It was difficult to believe. She was small, blond and perfectly put together. She was more natural than sophisticated. I found it easy to look at her eyes—blue-green. She wore two tiny earrings. And she wore high heels. I had told Mindy that high heels excited me.

“Well,” she said, “are you frightened?”

“Not so much anymore. I like you.”

“You look much better than your photos,” she said. “I don't think you're ugly at all.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, I don't mean you're handsome, not the way people think of handsome. Your face seems kind. But your eyes—they're beautiful. They're wild, crazy, like some animal peering out of a forest on fire. God, something like that. I'm not very good with words.”

“I think that you're beautiful,” I said. “And very nice. I feel good around you. I think it's good that we're together. Drink up. We need another. You're like your letters.”

We had the second drink and went down for the luggage. I was proud to be with Mindy. She walked with style. So many women with good bodies just slouched along like overloaded creatures. Mindy flowed.

I kept thinking, this is too good. This is simply not possible.

—
W
OMEN

I was shacked with a

24 year old girl from

New York City for

two weeks—about

the time of the garbage

strike out there, and

one night my 34 year

old woman arrived and

she said, “I want to see

my rival.” she did

and then she said, “o,

you're a cute little thing!”

next I knew there was a

screech of wildcats—

such screaming and scratching, wounded animal moans,

blood and piss …

I was drunk and in my

shorts. I tried to