Women (24 page)

“We’re even. I write a lot of crap.”

“If you’re such a bad writer, why don’t you quit?”

“I need food, shelter and clothing. Buy me another drink.”

Babette nodded to the barkeep and I had a new drink.

We pressed our legs together.

“I’m a rat,” I told her, “I’m constipated and I can’t get it up.”

“I don’t know about your bowels. But you’re a rat and you can get it up.”

“What’s your phone number?”

Babette reached into her purse for a pen.

Then Cecelia and Valerie walked in.

“Oh,” said Valerie, “there are those bastards. I told you. The nearest bar!”

Babette slid off her stool. She was out the door. I could see her through the blinds on the window. She was walking away, on the boardwalk, and she had a body. It was willow slim. It swayed in the wind and was gone.

82

Cecelia sat and watched us drink. I could see that I repulsed her. I ate meat. I had no god. I liked to fuck. Nature didn’t interest me. I never voted. I liked wars. Outer space bored me. Baseball bored me. History bored me. Zoos bored me.

“Hank,” she said, “I’m going outside for a while.” “What’s out there?”

“I like to watch the people swim in the pool. I like to see them enjoying themselves.”

Cecelia got up and walked outside.

Valerie laughed. Bobby laughed.

“All right, so I’m not going to get into her panties.”

“Do you want to?” asked Bobby.

“It’s not so much my sex drive that’s offended, it’s my ego.”

“And don’t forget your age,” said Bobby.

“There’s nothing worse than an old chauv pig,” I said.

We drank in silence.

An hour or so later Cecelia returned.

“Hank, I want to go.”

“Where?”

“To the airport. I want to fly to San Francisco. I have all my luggage with me.”

“It’s all right with me. But Valerie and Bobby brought us down in their car. Maybe they don’t want to leave yet.”

“We’ll drive her to L.A.,” said Bobby.

We paid our bill, got into the car, Bobby at the wheel, Valerie next to him and Cecelia and me in the back seat. Cecelia leaned away from me, pressed herself against the door, as far away from me as she could get.

Bobby turned on the tape deck. The music hit the back seat like a wave. Bob Dylan.

Valerie passed back a joint. I took a hit then tried to hand it to Cecelia. She cringed away from me. I reached and fondled one of her knees, squeezed it. She pushed my hand away.

“Hey, how you guys doing back there?” Bobby asked.

“It’s love,” I replied.

We drove for an hour.

“Here’s the airport,” said Bobby.

“You’ve got two hours,” I told Cecelia. “We can go back to my place and wait.”

“That’s all right,” said Cecelia. “I want to go now.”

“But what will you do for two hours at the airport?” I asked.

“Oh,” said Cecelia, “I just love airports!”

We stopped in front of the terminal. I jumped out, unloaded her baggage. As we stood together Cecelia reached up and kissed me on the cheek. I let her walk in alone.

83

I had agreed to give a reading up north. It was the afternoon before the reading and I was sitting in an apartment at the Holiday Inn drinking beer with Joe Washington, the promoter, and the local poet, Dudley Barry, and his boyfriend, Paul. Dudley had come out of the closet and announced he was a homo. He was nervous, fat and ambitious. He paced up and down.

“You gonna give a good reading?”

“I don’t know.”

“You draw the crowds. Jesus, how do you do it? They line up around the block.”

“They like blood-lettings.”

Dudley grabbed Paul by the cheeks of the ass. “I’m gonna ream you out, baby! Then you can ream me!”

Joe Washington stood by the window. “Hey, look, here comes William Burroughs across the way. He’s got the apartment right next to yours. He’s reading tomorrow night.”

I walked to the window. It was Burroughs all right. I turned away and opened a new beer. We were on the second floor.

Burroughs walked up the stairway, passed my window, opened his door and went in.

“Do you want to go meet him?” Joe asked.

“No.”

“I’m going to see him for a minute.”

“All right.”

Dudley and Paul were playing grab-ass. Dudley was laughing and Paul was giggling and blushing.

“Why don’t you guys work out in private?”

“Isn’t he cute?” asked Dudley. “I just love young boys!”

“I’m more interested in the female.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Don’t be concerned.”

“Jack Mitchell is running with transvestites. He writes poems about them.”

“At least they look like women.”

“Some of them look better.”

I drank in silence.

Joe Washington returned. “I told Burroughs that you were in the next apartment. I said, 'Burroughs, Henry Chinaski is in the next apartment.’ He said, 'Oh, is that so?’ I asked if he wanted to meet you. He said, 'No.’”

“They should have refrigerators in these places,” I said. “This fucking beer is getting warm.”

I walked out to look for an ice machine. As I walked by Burroughs’ place he was sitting in a chair by the window. He looked at me indifferently.

I found the ice machine and came back with the ice and put it in the wash basin and stuck the beers in there.

“You don’t want to get too bombed,” said Joe. “You really start slurring your words.”

“They don’t give a damn. They just want me on the cross.”

“$500 for an hour’s work?” asked Dudley. “You call that a cross?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re some Christ!”

Dudley and Paul left and Joe and I went out to one of the local coffeehouses for food and drink. We found a table. The first thing we knew, strangers were pulling chairs up to our table. All men. What shit. There were some pretty girls there but they just looked and smiled, or they didn’t look and they didn’t smile. I figured the ones who didn’t smile hated me because of my attitude towards women. Fuck them.

Jack Mitchell was there and Mike Tufts, both poets. Neither worked for a living despite the fact their poetry paid them nothing. They lived on will power and handouts. Mitchell was really a good poet but his luck was bad. He deserved better. Then Blast Grimly, the singer, walked over. Blast was always drunk. I had never seen him sober. There were a couple of others at the table who I didn’t know.

“Mr. Chinaski?”

It was a sweet little thing in a short green dress.

“Yes?”

“Would you autograph this book?”

It was an early book of poems, poems I had written while working at the post office, It Runs Around the Room and Me. I signed it and made a drawing, handed it back.

“Oh, thanks so much!”

She left. All the bastards sitting around me had killed any chance for action.

Soon there were 4 or 5 pitchers of beer on the table. I ordered a sandwich. We drank 2 or 3 hours, then I went back to the apartment. I finished the beers in the sink and went to sleep.

I don’t remember much about the reading but I awakened in bed the next day, alone. Joe Washington knocked about 11 am. “Hey, man, that was one of your best readings!” “Really? You’re not shitting me?” “No, you were right there. Here’s the check.” “Thanks, Joe.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to meet Burroughs?” I’m sure. “He’s reading tonight. You going to stay for his reading?” “I gotta get back to L.A., Joe.” “You ever heard him read?” “Joe, I want to take a shower and get out of here. You’re going to drive me to the airport?” “Sure.”

When we left Burroughs was sitting in his chair by the window. He gave no indication of having seen me. I glanced at him and walked on. I had my check. I was anxious to make the racetrack. . . .

84

I had been corresponding with a lady in San Francisco for several months. Her name was Liza Weston and she survived by giving dance lessons, including ballet, in her own studio. She was 32, had been married once, and all her letters were long and typed flawlessly on pinkish paper. She wrote well, with intelligence and with very little exaggeration. I enjoyed her letters and answered them. Liza stayed away from literature, she stayed away from the so-called larger questions. She wrote me about small ordinary happenings but described them with insight and humor. And so it came about that she wrote to say that she was coming to Los Angeles to buy some dancing costumes and would I like to see her? I told her most certainly, and that she could stay at my place, but due to the difference in our ages she would have to sleep on the couch while I slept in the bed. I’ll phone you when I get in, she wrote back.

Three or four days later the phone rang. It was Liza. “I’m in town,” she said.

“Are you at the airport? I’ll pick you up.”

“I’ll take a cab in.”

“It costs.”

“It’ll be easier this way.”

“What do you drink?”

“I don’t much. So whatever you want. . . .”

I sat and waited for her. I always became uneasy in these situations. When they actually arrived I almost didn’t want them to happen. Liza had mentioned that she was pretty but I hadn’t seen any photographs. I had once married a woman, promised to marry her sight unseen, through the mails. She too had written intelligent letters, but my 2-and-one-half years of marriage proved to be a disaster. People were usually much better in their letters than in reality. They were much like poets in this way.

I paced the room. Then I heard footsteps coming up the court walk. I went to the blinds and peeked out. Not bad. Dark hair, neatly dressed in a long skirt that fell to her ankles. She walked gracefully, holding her head high. Nice nose, ordinary mouth. I liked women in dresses, it reminded me of bygone days. She carried a small bag. She knocked. I opened the door. “Come in.”

Liza put her suitcase on the floor. “Sit down.”

She had on very little makeup. She was pretty. Her hair was stylish and short.

I got her a vodka-7 and made myself one. She seemed calm. There was a touch of suffering in her face—she had been through one or two difficult periods in her life. So had I.

“I’m going to buy some costumes tomorrow. There’s a shop in L.A. that’s very unusual.”

“I like that dress you have on. A fully covered woman is exciting, I think. Of course, it’s hard to tell about her figure but one can make a judgment.”

“You’re like I thought you’d be. You’re not afraid at all.”

“Thanks.”

“You seem almost diffident.”

“I’m on my third drink.”

“What happens after the fourth?”

“Not much. I drink it and wait for the fifth.”

I walked out to get the newspaper. When I came back Liza had that long skirt hiked up to just above the knees. It looked good. She had fine knees, good legs. The day (actually the night) was brightening. From her letters I knew she was a health food addict like Cecelia. Only she didn’t act like Cecelia at all. I sat at the other end of the couch and kept sneaking looks at her legs. I had always been a leg man.

“You have nice legs,” I told Liza.

“You like them?”

She hitched her skirt up another inch. It was maddening. All that good leg coming out of all that cloth. It was so much better than a mini-skirt.

After the next drink I moved down next to Liza.

“You ought to come see my dance studio,” she said.

“I can’t dance.”

“You can. I’ll teach you.”

“Free?”

“Of course. You’re very light on your feet for a big guy. I can tell by the way you walk that you could dance very well.”

“It’s a deal. I’ll sleep on your couch.”

“I have a nice apartment but all I have is a waterbed.”

“All right.”

“But you have to let me cook for you. Good food.”

“Sounds all right.” I looked at her legs. Then I fondled one of her knees. I kissed her. She kissed me back like a lonely woman.

“Do you find me attractive?” Liza asked.

“Yes, of course. But what I like best is your style. You have a certain high tone.”

“You’ve got a good line, Chinaski.”

“I have to. I’m almost 60 years old.”

“You seem more like 40, Hank.”

“You have a good line too, Liza.”

“I have to. I’m 32.”

“I’m glad you’re not 22.”

“And I’m glad you’re not 32.”

“This is one glad night,” I said.

We each sipped our drinks.

“What do you think of women?” she asked.

“I’m not a thinker. Every woman is different. Basically they seem to be a combination of the best and the worst—both magic and terrible. I’m glad that they exist, however.”

“How do you treat them?”

“They are better to me than I am to them.”

“Do you think that’s fair?”

“Not fair, but that’s the way it is.”

“You’re honest.”

“Not quite.”

“After I buy those new costumes tomorrow I want to try them on. You can tell me which one you like best.”

“Sure. But I like the long type of gown. Class.”

“I buy all kinds.”

“I don’t buy clothes until they fall apart.”

“Your expenditures are of a different kind.”

“Liza, I’m going to bed after this drink, all right?”

“Of course.”

I had piled her bedding on the floor. “Will you have enough blankets?”

“Yes.”

“Pillow O.K.?”

“I’m sure.”

I finished my drink, got up and bolted the front door.

“I’m not locking you in. Feel safe.”

“I do. . . .”

I walked into the bedroom, switched off the light, undressed, and got under the covers. “You see,” I called to her, “I didn’t rape you.”

“Oh,” she answered, “I wish you would!”

I didn’t quite believe that but it was good to hear. I had played a pretty fair hand. Liza would keep overnight.

When I awakened I heard her in the bathroom. Maybe I should have slammed her? How did a man know what to do? Generally, I decided, it was better to wait, if you had any feeling for the individual. If you hated her right off, it was better to fuck her right off; if you didn’t, it was better to wait, then fuck her and hate her later on.

Liza came out of the bathroom in a medium-length red dress. It fit her well. She was slim and classy. She stood in front of my bedroom mirror playing with her hair.