The Bell Tolls for No One (21 page)

Then she picked up Dewey, she lifted him up off the ground and as she did one of his eyes opened—the left eye. Angela began to laugh.

Then the right eye opened. Angela began to laugh and to cry. She carried him slowly to the house. She opened the door, closed it, and they were inside. I walked back and sat under the tree.

An Affair of Very Little Importance

I
met her like this, something like this: I was giving a poetry reading down in Venice, some flea-dive on the shore, but I packed them in and I read it out; and I was drunk during the reading and much drunker afterward, I got my money and then got in my car, and drove all through Venice at a high rate of speed with 3 or 4 carloads of people chasing me. There was to be a party, but I told them, “First I need a little fresh-air drive.” And off I went with them after me.

On the last roll-around I took my car and drove it onto a residential sidewalk and pushed the gas pedal down. They followed in the street, honking and hollering. Where the police were, I don't know. Then I backed up into the street and followed the other cars to the party. She was driving one of the cars and her name was Mercedes, but she wasn't driving one.

The party wasn't exceptional; even meeting Mercedes wasn't exceptional. There were more interesting women there. She was about 28, dressed in a green miniskirt, fair body, fair legs, a blond about 5'5”, a blue-eyed blond; her hair was long, though, slightly wavy, and she smoked continuously. At the party she seemed almost always at my side, but she spoke very little, and when she did speak, it seemed bland, even dull, and her laugh was too loud and too false.

I didn't particularly like Mercedes, but I liked the party less. She was able to guess about the party.

“Let's get out of here and go to my place,” she said to me.

“I'll follow your car.”

I told the people I was going. We walked out the door.

“Fuck her good, Chinaski!”

“Eat her cunt!”

It wasn't too long a drive. Mercedes lived in an apartment off the Venice boardwalk. I followed her up. As she unlocked the door, I said, “Hey, what about drinks? We need something to drink.”

“I have something.”

I followed her in. It was a large apartment. There was a piano and some bongo drums. Mercedes had a jug of Red Mountain wine. I followed her into the kitchen as she got ready to pour the drinks.

I grabbed her from behind, turned her around and kissed her—a long, slow kiss. I pulled her head back by the hair and held one hand there and put the other on her ass. I moved my mouth slowly around hers, tasting her, dominating. She gave me the slightest tongue flick. I hardened and pushed against her, then broke off.

We took our drinks into the other room. I sat down at the piano and began pounding the keys. I don't know how to play the piano. I played it then like a percussion instrument, searching for the beat. I stayed way up on the right-hand side, getting the icy, high sounds. Mercedes put the bongos between her thighs and we got it off together. Not bad.

Then we sat down on her sleeping bag, our backs to the wall, and drank the wine. Mercedes got the jug out of the refrigerator and brought it back to the sleeping bag. She had some joints already rolled and lit one for us. I could hear the ocean out there, but Venice was depressing to me.

It had gone from the Timothy Leary dropout syndrome to free love to drugs. The Timothy Learys had grown old or OD'd. The dream had drowned. Religion came along and picked up what was left in and out of the madhouses, on the park benches and in the tiny rooms.

Mercedes and I kissed again. She kissed well. I felt her breasts: fair. She lit another joint, and we had some more to drink.

“I work for a marriage-counseling outfit,” she said. “We're all divorced.”

“What do you tell them?”

“We go by the book. It's funniest when they both come in together.”

“Human relationships don't work,” I said. “There's nothing you can tell them.”

“I know it.”

“Why do you live down here?”

“I like it. We've got a group. I've got a guitar.”

“You have!”

“Yes, it's in the closet. We get together sometimes on a Friday or Saturday night in front of this guy's house, in his yard, and we play. People come by and listen. We get some good crowds.”

I pulled Mercedes down on the sleeping bag, rolled on top of her, grabbed her head with both hands, got inside her lips with mine; mashed them open and crushed her with a kiss, getting down on her teeth, her mouth ripped open like a flower. I held inside of her; her tongue came up, and I sucked on it, then flicked mine underneath hers. I hardened again and rubbed my cock at her center. Then I pulled off, sat up; we had another joint, and we sat there and finished the jug.

I awakened in the morning, sick, without having had sex. Mercedes was in the bathroom. I stood up, straightened my clothes and put my shoes on. She came out.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning. I'm sick”

“I don't feel too well either.”

“I've got to get back to L.A.”

I went to the bathroom to clean up. When I came out, she handed me a slip of paper. It was her phone number. I kissed her with a very light kiss.

Outside it was hot. The flies whirled around the garbage cans that were up against the apartment-house walls. I got in my car and drove off, deciding not to see her again.

The phone rang on a Thursday night at my place. I answered. It was Mercedes. “I see that your number is listed . . . .”

“Yes.”

“Well, listen, I work right in your neighborhood. I thought I might come by to see you.”

“All right.”

Twenty minutes later she was there. She had on another miniskirt, but this time she looked a little better. She had on high-heeled shoes, a low-cut blouse, and small blue earrings.

“You got any grass?”

“Sure.” I brought out the grass and the papers, and she started rolling some joints. I broke out the beer, and we sat on the couch and smoked and drank. With beer you had a chance. I sat there and drank and kissed her and played with her legs. We didn't talk much. But we drank and smoked quite a long time.

We undressed and went to bed, first Mercedes, then me. We began kissing, and I rubbed her cunt, then her clit. She grabbed my cock. Finally, I mounted. Mercedes guided it in. It entered and forced forward, my mouth on hers as it did. She had a good grip, she wasn't loose, and I began.

After a few strokes I teased her awhile, pulling it out almost all the way out and just moving the head back and forth at the very opening of the cunt. Then I slid it in a few strokes, slowly, in lazy fashion. Then suddenly I rammed her 4 or 5 times, brutally. Her head rocked: “Arrrgggg. . . .” She made a sound. Then I relented and stroked, then I rotated, side to side, swinging it, then straightened and rammed.

It was a very hot night, and we both sweated. Mercedes had gotten quite high on the beer and joints. I decided to finish her off. I blasted it in and out, in and out; I ripped her with kisses; and her head rocked under the thrusts. I pumped on and on, 10 minutes, 15 minutes more. I was hard, I couldn't climax. The fucking beer, too much fucking beer.

“Make it,” she said, “oh,
make
it, baby!”

I rolled off. Christ, it was a hot night. I took the sheet and wiped the sweat off. I could hear my heart as I lay there. My cock went down. Mercedes turned her head to me. I kissed her. My cock began to rise again.

I rolled on top of her, kissing her as if it were my last time on earth to do so. My cock slid in. I began again, but this time I knew I was going to make it. I could feel the mounting miracle of it moving toward the final point. I was going to come inside of her cunt, the bitch. I was going to pour the juices into her, and there was nothing she could do, the cunt. She was mine. I was the conquering army, I was the rapist, I was dominance, I was death.

She was helpless under me, her head rolling, rocking, as she made sounds: “Arrrggghh! . . . uggg! . . . oh . . . oh . . . oofff! . . . ooooh!” My cock sensed it all, fed on it. I made a strange sound, then I spurted. I spurted right into her center, and she took it, all of it. I rolled off.

I wiped off on the sheet. In 5 minutes she was snoring. I too was soon asleep.

In the morning we both showered and dressed. “I'll take you to breakfast.”

“All right,” Mercedes said. “By the way, did we fuck last night?”

“My God, don't you remember? We must have fucked for 45 minutes!”

“I
do
feel like I've been fucked.”

We went out to a place around the corner. I ordered eggs over easy with bacon and coffee, what toast. Mercedes ordered hotcakes and ham, coffee. We sat by the window and watched the traffic and drank our coffee. The waitress brought our orders. I took a bite of egg. Mercedes poured syrup over her hotcakes.

“My God,” she said, “you must have
really
fucked me! I can feel the semen running down my leg.”

I decided not to see her again.

She phoned me 2 or 3 weeks later. “I got married,” she said, “to Little Jack. You met him at the party. He has a short, fat dick. I like his short, fat dick. And he's a nice guy and he's got money. We're moving to the Valley.”

“All right, Mercedes. Luck with all.”

A couple of weeks later it was Mercedes on the phone again: “I miss those nights of drinking and talking with you; suppose I come over tonight?”

“All right.”

She was there in 15 minutes, rolling joints and drinking beer. “Little Jack is a nice guy. We're happy together.”

I sucked at my beer.

“I don't want to fuck,” she went on. “I'm tired of abortions. I'm really tired of abortions.”

“We'll figure something out.”

“I just want to smoke and talk and drink.”

“That's not enough for me.”

“All you guys want to do is fuck.”

“I like it.”

“Well, I can't fuck. I don't want to fuck.”

“Relax.”

We sat on the couch. We didn't kiss. Mercedes was not a good conversationalist, and her laugh was still coarse and high and not true. But she had her legs and her ass and her hair. I had found some interesting women, God knows, but Mercedes just wasn't one. I had intended to write a dirty story for one of the magazines that night, and here she was fucking up my night, or
not
fucking it up.

The beer kept coming and the joints went around. She still had the same job. She was having trouble with her car. Little Jack was going to buy her a new one, or maybe she'd get a Yamaha. Little Jack had a short, fat dick. She was reading
Grapefruit
by Yoko Ono. She was still tired of abortions. The Valley was nice, but she missed Venice, the group. And she used to ride her bicycle along the walk.

I don't know how long we talked or
she
talked, but much beer went down, and she said she was too drunk to drive home.

“Take your clothes off and go to bed,” I told her.

“But no fucking,” she said.

“I won't use your cunt.”

She undressed and went to bed. I undressed and went into the bathroom. She saw me come walking out with a jar of Vaseline.

“What are you going to do?”

“Just take it easy, baby, take it easy.”

I took the Vaseline out and rubbed it over my cock. Then I turned out the light and got into bed.

“Turn your back to me,” I said.

I reached one arm under her and played with her bottom breast, and with my top hand I played with the top breast. It felt good with my face in her hair. I hardened and slipped it into her ass. I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her ass in toward me, sliding it in.

“Oooooh . . . ,” she moaned.

I began working. I dug it in deeper and slammed and slammed. The cheeks of her ass were very big and soft; they felt like pillows full of air. I ripped and ripped and began to sweat. Then I rolled her onto her stomach and sunk it deeper. It was getting tighter. I got into the end of her colon, and she screamed.

“Shut up, goddamn you. You want the cops?”

It was tight in the colon. I slipped it in farther. The grip was enormous. I felt as if I were fucking the inside of a rubber hose; the friction was immense. I rammed it in and in, got a hitch in my side, a burning pain, but continued. I was slicing her in half, right up the backbone. I roared it in like a madman, and then I began to climax. I pumped the juices into her intestine; they kept coming. Then I lay there. She was crying.

“Goddammit,” I told her, “I didn't use your cunt. I told you I wouldn't use your cunt.” I rolled off.

In the morning Mercedes said very little, got dressed, and left for work.
This
, I thought,
is
it.

It was a good 6 to 8 weeks when I answered the phone and it was Mercedes: “Hank, I'd like to come by. But just for talk and beer and a few joints. Nothing else.”

“Come by if you wish.”

Mercedes was there in 15 minutes. She looked very good. I'd never seen a miniskirt that short, and her legs looked fine. I kissed her a long one right off. She broke off.

“I couldn't walk for two days after that last one. Don't rip my butt open again.”

“All right, honest Injun, I won't.”

It was about the same. We sat on the couch with the radio on, talked, drank beer, smoked. I kissed her again and again. I couldn't stop. She looked steaming that night, yet she insisted that she couldn't. Little Jack loved her; love meant a lot in this world.

“It sure does,” I said.

“You don't love me.”

“You're a married woman.”

“I don't love Little Jack, but I care for him very much, and he loves me.”

“It sounds fine to me.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Yes, a couple of times.”

“Where are they tonight?”

“I don't know. Probably with other men. I don't care.”

We talked a long time that night and drank a long time and smoked any number of joints. Around 2 a.m. Mercedes said, “I'm too high to drive home. I'll total the car.”

“Take your clothes off and go to bed.”