The Most Beautiful Woman in Town (7 page)

love, Linda.”

I drank the drink, got out of the way, tried the Roach Hotel at midnight the desk clerk said, “nothing doing. no room 12 reserved for a Bukowski.” I came at one a.m. I'd been in the park all day, all night, sitting. same thing. “no room 12 reserved for you, sir.”

“any room reserved for me under that name or under the name of Linda Bryan?”

he checked his books.

“nothing sir.”

“do you mind if I look into room 12?”

“there's nobody there, sir. I told you, sir.”

“I'm in love, man. I'm sorry. please let me have a look!”

he gave me one of those looks reserved for 4th class idiots, tossed me the doorkey.

“be back within 5 minutes or you're in trouble.”

I opened the door, switched on the lights — “Linda!” — the roaches, seeing the light, all ran back under the wallpaper. there were thousands of them. when I put out the light you could hear them all crawling back out. the wallpaper, itself, seemed to be just a large roachskin.

I took the elevator back down to the desk clerk.

“thanks,” I said, “you were right. nobody in room 12.”

for the first time his voice seemed to take on some kind of kindness.

“I'm sorry, man.”

“thanks,” I said.

when I got outside the hotel I turned left, which is east, which was skidrow, and as my feet moved me slowly toward there I wondered, why do people lie? now I no longer wonder but I still remember, and now when they lie I almost know about it while they are doing it, but I'm still not as wise as that desk clerk in the roach hotel who knew that the lie was everywhere, or the people who dove past my window while I was drinking port on warm afternoons in Los Angeles across from McArthur park, where they still catch, kill, eat the ducks, and, the people.

the hotel is still there and the room we stayed in and if you care to come by some day I will show it to you. but there's hardly sense in that, is there? let's just say that one night I fucked or got fucked by 3 women. and let that be story enough.

3 CHICKENS

Vicki was all right. but we had our troubles. we were on the wine. port. that woman would get drunk and get to talking and she would make up some of the vilest imaginable stuff about me. and that tone of voice: shoddy and lisping and grating and insane. it would get to any man. it got to me.

once she was screaming these insanities from the fold-down bed in our apartment. I begged her to stop. but she wouldn't. finally, I just walked over, lifted up the bed with her in it and folded everything into the wall.

then I went over and sat down and listened to her scream.

but she kept screaming so I walked over and pulled the bed out of the wall again there she lay, holding her arm, claiming it was broken.

“your arm can't be broken,” I said.

“it is, it is. oh, you slimy jackoff bastard, you've broken my arm!”

I had some more drinks but she just kept holding her arm and whining. I finally had enough and telling her I'd be right back I went downstairs and outside and found some old wooden boxes behind a grocery store. I found good sturdy slats, ripped them off, pulled out the nails, got back on the elevator and rode back to our apartment.

it took about 4 slats. I bound them around her arm with rippings from one of her dresses. she quieted down for a couple of hours. then she started in again. I couldn't take it anymore. so I called a taxi. we went to the General Hospital. as soon as the taxi left I took the boards off and threw them into the street. then they x-rayed her CHEST and put her arm in a cast. can you imagine that? I suppose if she broke her head they'd x-ray her ass.

anyhow, she used to sit in the bars after that and say, “I am the only woman who has been folded into a wall in a wall bed.”

and I wasn't so sure of THAT either, but I let her go on saying it.

now, another time she angered me and I slapped her but it was across the mouth and it broke her false teeth.

I was surprised that it broke her false teeth. and I went out and got this super cement glue and I glued her teeth together for her. it worked for a while and then one night as she sat there drinking her wine she suddenly had a mouthful of broken teeth.

that wine was so strong it undid the glue. it was disgusting. we had to get her some new teeth. how we did it, I don't quite remember, but she claimed they made her look like a horse.

we'd usually always have these arguments after we drank awhile, and Vicki claimed I'd get very mean when I was drunk but I think that she was the one who was mean. anyhow, sometime during the argument she'd get up, slam the door and run outside to some bar. “looking for a live one,” as the girls would say.

it always made me feel bad when she left. I've got to admit it. sometimes she wouldn't come back for 2 or 3 days. and nights. it wasn't a very nice thing to do.

one time she ran out and I sat there drinking the wine, thinking about it. then I got up and found the elevator and rode on down to the streets too. I found her in her favorite bar. she sat there holding a kind of purple scarf. I'd never seen the purple scarf before. holding out on me. I walked up to her and said quite loudly:

“I've tried to make a woman out of you but you're nothing but a god damned whore!”

the bar was full. every seat taken. I lifted my hand. I swung. I backhanded her off that god damned stool. she fell to the floor and screamed.

this was at the back end of the bar. I didn't even turn to look at her. I walked the length of the bar to the exit. then I turned and faced the crowd. it was very quiet.

“now,” I said to them, “if there's anybody here who doesn't LIKE what I just did, just SAY something .. .”

it was quieter than quiet.

I turned around and walked out the doorway. the moment I hit the street I could hear them babbling and buzzing in there, buzzing and babbling.

the SHITS! not a man in the boatload!

— but, of course, she came back. and, well, anyhow to get on, this one night lately we are sitting around drinking the wine and the same old arguments started. this time I decided to go.

“I'M GONNA GET THE FUCK OUTA THIS HOLE!” I yelled at Vicki. “I CAN'T STAND NO MORE OF YOUR GOD DAMNED ABUSE!”

she jumped in front of the door.

“over my dead body, that's the only way you are getting out of here!”

“o.k., if that's the way it's gotta be.”

I slammed her a good one and she fell down in front of the doorway. I had to move her body to get out.

I took the elevator down. feeling rather good. a good jaunty 4-floor ride down. the elevator was kind of a cage-like contraption and smelled like old stockings, old gloves, old dustmops, but it gave me a feeling of security and power — somehow — and the wine rode all through me.

but then I got outside and had a change of mind. I went to the liquor store. bought 4 more bottles of wine and went back to my place and rode the elevator back up. the same feeling of security and power. I walked into my place. Vicki was sitting in a chair crying.

“I've come back to you, you lucky darling,” I told her.

“you bastard, you hit me. YOU HIT ME!”

“umm,” I said, opening a new bottle. “and you give me any more shit and I'll hit you again.”

“YEAH!” she screamed, “YOU'D HIT ME BUT YOU WOULDN'T HAVE ENOUGH GUTS TO HIT A MAN!”

“HELL NO!” I screamed back, “I WOULDN'T HIT A MAN! YOU THINK I'M CRAZY? WHAT'S THAT GOT TO DO WITH IT?”

that settled her for a bit and we sat for a bit and we sat drinking down the waterglassfuls of wine, port.

then she started in on her abusive stuff again, mostly claiming I jacked off while she was asleep.

well, even if it were true I figured that was my business and if it wasn't, then she was REALLY crazy. she claimed I jacked off in the bathtub, in the closet, in the elevator, everywhere.

everytime I got out of the tub she'd run into the bathroom, like:

“there! I SEE IT! LOOK AT IT!”

“you crazy bat, that's just a dirt-ring.”

“no, that's COME! that's COME!”

or she'd run in while I was bathing under the arms or between the legs and say, “see, see, SEE! you're DOING IT!”

“doing WHAT? can't a man wash his BALLS? those are MY balls, god damn you! can't a man wash his own balls?”

“what's that thing sticking up there?”

“my left index finger. now get the HELL OUT OF HERE!!!”

or in bed, I'd be sound asleep and all of a sudden this hand grabbing my string and nuggets, man, sound asleep in the middle of the night, these FINGERNAILS!

“AH HA! I CAUGHT YOU! I CAUGHT YOU!”

“you crazy bat, the next time you do that I SWEAR I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!”

“I CAUGHT YOU, I CAUGHT YOU, I CAUGHT YOU!”

“for Christ's sake, go to sleep … .”

so this night she just sat there screaming her jackoff accusations. I just sat there and drank my wine and didn't deny anything. this made her angry, angrier.

and angrier.

finally she couldn't stand it, all her talk about jackingoff, I mean ME supposedly jackingoff and me just sitting there smiling at her, and she jumped up and ran out the door.

I let her go. I sat there and drank my wine. port.

same old stuff.

I thought it over. umm, umm, well.

then very leisurely I got up and took the elevator down. same old feeling of power. I was not angry. I was very calm. it was just the same old war.

I walked on down the street but I didn't go to her favorite bar. why repeat the same play? you are a whore; I tried to make a woman out of you. balls. after a while a man could get to sounding pretty silly. so I went to another bar and sat down on a stool near the door. I ordered a drink and took a slug, set the thing down, and then I saw her. Vicki. she was at the other end of the bar. for some reason she looked scared shitless.

but I didn't go on down. I just stared at her as if I didn't know her.

then I noticed something next to me in one of those old-fashioned fox furs. the dead fox's head hung down over her breast looking at me. the breast looked at me.

“your fox looks like it needs a drink, sweetie,” I told her.

“it's dead; it don't need a drink. I need a drink or I'm gonna die.”

well, a nice guy like me. who am I to spread death? I bought her a drink. her name, she told me, was Margy. I told her that I was Thomas Nightengale, shoesalesman. Margy. all these women with names, drinking, crapping, having monthlies. fucking men. getting folded into walls. it was too much.

we had a couple more, and already she was in her purse, flashing the photo of her children, an ugly demented boy and a girl without any hair, they were some dull place in Ohio, the father had them, the father was a beast, a money-maker; no sense of humor, no understanding. oh, one of THOSE? and he brought these women in the house and screwed them in front of her with all the lights on.

“ah, I see, I see,” I said. “yes, of course, most men are beasts, they simply do not understand. and you're SUCH a sweetie, what the hell, it ain't right.”

I suggested we go to another bar. Vicki's ass was twitching and she was half Indian.

we left her there. we went around the corner. we had one around the corner.

then I suggested we go to my place. do a little eating. I mean, get something to cook, bake, fry.

I didn't tell her about Vicki, of course. but Vicki always prided herself on her god damned baked chickens. maybe it was because she looked like one. a baked chicken with horse teeth.

so I suggested we get a chicken, bake it, bathe it in whiskey. she did not demur.

so. liquor store. 5th of whiskey. 5 or 6 quarts of beer.

we found an all night market. the place even had a butcher.

“we wanta bake a chicken,” I said.

“oh, christ,” he said.

I dropped one of the quarts of beer. it really exploded.

“christ,” he said.

I dropped another to see what he would say.

“oh, jesus,” he said.

“I want THREE CHICKENS,” I said.

“THREE CHICKENS?”

“jesus christ, yes,” I said.

the butcher reached in and got three very white-yellow chickens with a few long black unplucked hairs that looked like human hairs on them and he wrapped them all up, a big big bundle, all in pink tough paper with this real gripping tape, and I paid him and we got out of there.

I dropped 2 more quarts of beer on the way.

I rode up the elevator, feeling my power rising. when we got inside my door I lifted Margy's dress to see what was holding her stockings up. then I gave her a big chummy whiskey-goose with long-finger right hand. she screamed and dropped the big pink bundle. it fell on the rug and the 3 chickens came out. those 3 chickens, all white-yellow with their 29 or 30 drooling dropping murdered human hairs sticking to them looked very strange gaping there on that worn rug of yellow and brown flowers and trees and Chinese dragons, under electric light in los angeles at the end of the world near 6th street and Union.

‘“oooh, the chickens.”

“fuck the chickens.”

her garter belt was dirty. it was perfect. I goosed her again.

well, shit, so I sat down and peeled the whiskey bottle, poured a couple of tall waterglasses full, took off my shoes stockings pants shirt, took one of her cigarettes. sat in my underwear. I always do that, right away. I like to be comfortable. if the broad don't like it, fuck her. she can go. but they always stay. I got a manner. some broads say I should have been a king. others say other things. fuck 'em.

she drank most of her drink and started for her purse. “I have some children in Ohio. they're lovely children .. .”

“forget that. we've been through that stage. tell me, do you suck dick?”

“what do you mean?”

“OH, BALLS!” I smashed my glass against the wall.

then I got another one, filled it up, and we drank some more.

I don't know how long we worked on the whiskey but it must have gotten to me because the next thing I know I was laying on the bed naked. staring up at the electric light and Margy was standing there naked and she was rubbing my penis quite rapidly with her fox fur. and while she was rubbing she was saying over and over, “I am going to fuck you, I am going to fuck you …”

“listen,” I said. “I don't know if you can fuck me. I jacked-off in the elevator earlier this evening. I think it was about 8 o'clock.”

“I will fuck you anyhow.”

she really speeded up that fox fur. it was all right. maybe I could get one for myself. I once knew a guy who put raw liver in a long drinking glass and screwed that. me, I didn't like to stick my thing into anything that could break or slice. imagine going to a doctor with a bloody cock and saying it happened while screwing a water glass. once while I was bumming in a small town in Texas I saw this well-built wonderful fuck of a young broad married to this little shriveled up old dwarf with nasty disposition and some kind of malady that made him trembly all over. she supported him and pushed him around in a wheelchair, and I used to think of him pouncing on all that good meat. I'd get a picture of it, you know, and then finally I got the story. when she had been a younger girl she had gotten this coke bottle stuck all the way into her snatch and just couldn't get the thing out and had to go to a doctor. he got it out, and somehow the story got out. she was ruined in that town after that, and didn't have sense enough to get out. nobody wanted her except the nasty dwarf with the shakes. he didn't give a damn — he had the best piece of ass in town.

where was I? oh, yeah.

her fox fur went faster and faster and I finally got something going just as I heard a key go into the door. oh, shit, it was probably Vicki!

well, it's simple, I thought. I'll just boot her ass out and go about my business.

the door opened and there stood Vicki with 2 cops standing behind her.