Women (4 page)

I walked over to the bed and stretched out. It was a nice motel room but it lacked character. I’d be damned if I’d take a shower. I thought of turning on the t.v.

I slept finally. . . .

There was a knock on the door. Two bright young college boys stood there, ready to take me to the airport. I sat on the edge of the bed putting on my shoes. “We got time for a couple at the airport bar before take-off?” I asked.

“Sure, Mr. Chinaski,” one of them said, “anything you want.” “O.K.” I said. “Then let’s get the fuck out of here.”

8

I got back, made love to Lydia several times, got in a fight with her, and left L. A. International late one morning to give a reading in Arkansas. I was lucky enough to have a seat by myself. The flight captain announced himself, if I heard correctly, as Captain Winehead. When the stewardess came by I ordered a drink.

I was certain I knew one of the stewardesses. She lived in Long Beach, had read some of my books, had written me a letter enclosing her photo and phone number. I recognized her from the photo. I had never gotten around to meeting her but I called her a number of times and one drunken night we had screamed at each other over the phone.

She stood up front trying not to notice me as I stared at her behind and her calves and her breasts.

We had lunch, saw the Game of the Week, the after-lunch wine burned my throat, and I ordered two Bloody Marys.

When we got to Arkansas I transferred to a small two engine job. When the propellers started up the wings began to vibrate and shake. They looked like they might fall off. We lifted off and the stewardess asked if anybody wanted a drink. By then we all needed one. She staggered and wobbled up and down the aisle selling drinks. Then she said, loudly, “
DRINK
UP! WE’RE
GOING
TO LAND!” We drank up and landed. Fifteen minutes later we were up again. The stewardess asked if anybody wanted a drink. By then we all needed one. Then she said, loudly, “
DRINK
UP! WE’RE
GOING
TO LAND!”

Professor Peter James and his wife, Selma, were there to meet me. Selma looked like a movie starlet but with much more class.

“You’re looking great,” said Pete.

“Your wife’s looking great.”

“You’ve got two hours before the reading.”

Pete drove to their place. It was a split-level house with the guestroom on the lower level. I was shown my bedroom, downstairs. “You want to eat?” Pete asked. “No, I feel like I’m going to vomit.” We went upstairs.

Backstage, just before the reading, Pete filled a water pitcher with vodka and orange juice. “An old woman runs the readings. She’d cream in her panties if she knew you were drinking. She’s a nice old girl but she still thinks poetry is about sunsets and doves in flight.”

I went out and read. S.R.O. The luck was holding. They were like any other audience: they didn’t know how to handle some of the good poems, and during others they laughed at the wrong times. I kept reading and pouring from the water pitcher.

“What’s that you’re drinking?”

“This,” I said, “is orange juice mixed with life.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I’m a virgin.”

“Why did you seek to become a writer?”

“Next question, please.”

I read some more. I told them I had flown in with Captain Winehead and had seen the Game of the Week. I told them that when I was in good spiritual shape I ate off one dish and then washed it immediately. I read some more poems. I read poems until the water pitcher was empty. Then I told them the reading was over. There was a bit of autographing and we went to a party at Pete’s house. . . .

I did my Indian dance, my Belly dance and my Broken-Ass-in-the-Wind dance. It’s hard to drink when you dance. And it’s hard to dance when you drink. Peter knew what he was doing. He had couches and chairs lined up to separate the dancers from the drinkers. Each could go their own way without bothering the other.

Pete walked up. He looked around the room at the women. “Which one do you want?” he asked.

“Is it that easy?”

“It’s just southern hospitality.”

There was one I had noticed, older than the others, with protruding teeth. But her teeth protruded perfectly—pushing the lips out like an open passionate flower. I wanted my mouth on that mouth. She wore a short skirt and her pantyhose revealed good legs that kept crossing and uncrossing as she laughed and drank and tugged at her skirt which would just not stay down. I sat next to her. “I’m—” I started to say. . . .

“I know who you are. I was at your reading.”

“Thanks. I’d like to eat your pussy. I’ve gotten pretty good at it. I’ll drive you crazy.”

“What do you think of Allen Ginsberg?”

“Look, don’t get me off the track. I want your mouth, your legs, your ass.”

“All right,” she said.

“See you soon. I’m in the bedroom downstairs.”

I got up, left her, had another drink. A young guy—at least 6 feet 6 inches tall—walked up to me. “Look, Chinaski, I don’t believe all that shit about you living on skidrow and knowing all the dope dealers, pimps, whores, junkies, horse players, fighters and drunks. ...”

“It’s partly true.”

“Bullshit,” he said and walked off. A literary critic.

Then this blonde, about 19, with rimless glasses and a smile walked up. The smile never left. “I want to fuck you,” she said. “It’s your face.”

“What about my face?”

“It’s magnificent. I want to destroy your face with my cunt.”

“It might be the other way around.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

“You’re right. Cunts are indestructible.”

I went back to the couch and started playing with the legs of the one with the short skirt and moist flower lips whose name was Lillian.

The party ended and I went downstairs with Lilly. We undressed and sat propped against the pillows drinking vodka and vodka mix. There was a radio and the radio played. Lilly told me that she had worked for years to put her husband through college and then when he had gotten his professorship he had divorced her.

“That’s shaggy,” I said.

“You been married?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

'“Mental cruelty,’ according to the divorce papers.”

“Was it true?” she asked.

“Of course: both ways.”

I kissed Lilly. It was as good as I had imagined it would be. The flower mouth was open. We clasped, I sucked on her teeth. We broke.

“I think you,” she said, looking at me with wide and beautiful eyes, “are one of the two or three best writers of today.”

I switched off the bed lamp fast. I kissed her some more, played with her breasts and body, then went down on her. I was drunk, but I think I did O.K. But after that I couldn’t do it the other way. I rode and rode and rode. I was hard but I couldn’t come. Finally I rolled off and went to sleep. . . .

In the morning Lilly was flat on her back, snoring. I went to the bathroom, pissed, brushed my teeth and washed my face. Then I crawled back into bed. I turned her toward me and started playing with her parts. I am always very horny when hungover—not horny to eat but horny to blast. Fucking was the best cure for hangovers. It got all the parts ticking again. Her breath was so bad that I didn’t want the flower mouth. I mounted. She gave a small groan. For me, it was very good. I don’t think I gave her more than twenty strokes before I came.

After a while I heard her get up and walk to the bathroom. Lillian. By the time she came back I had turned my back to her and was nearly asleep.

After 15 minutes she got out of bed and began to dress.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to take my kids to school.”

Lillian closed the door and ran up the stairway.

I got up, walked to the bathroom, and stared for a while at my face in the mirror.

At ten am I went upstairs for breakfast. I found Pete and Selma. Selma looked great. How did one get a Selma? The dogs of this world never ended up with a Selma. Dogs ended up with dogs. Selma served us breakfast. She was beautiful and one man owned her, a college professor. That was not quite right, somehow. Educated hotshot smoothies. Education was the new god, and educated men the new plantation masters.

“It was a damned good breakfast,” I told them. “Thanks much.”

“How was Lilly?” Pete asked.

“Lilly was very good.”

“You’ve got to read again tonight, you know. It’ll be at a smaller college, more conservative.

“All right. I’ll be careful.”

“What are you going to read?”

“Old stuff, I guess.”

We finished our coffee and walked into the front room and sat down. The phone rang, Pete answered, talked, then turned to me. “Guy from the local paper wants to interview you. What’ll I tell him?”

“Tell him all right.”

Pete relayed the answer, then walked over and picked up my latest book and a pen. “I thought you might want to write something in this for Lilly.”

I opened the book to the title page. “Dear Lilly,” I wrote. “You will always be part of my life! . . .

Henry Chinaski.”

9

Lydia and I were always fighting. She was a flirt and it irritated me. When we ate out I was sure she was eyeballing some man across the room. When my male friends came by to visit and Lydia was there I could hear her conversation become intimate and sexual. She always sat very close to my friends, positioning herself as near them as possible. It was my drinking that irritated Lydia. She loved sex and my drinking got in the way of our lovemaking. “Either you’re too drunk to do it at night or too sick to do it in the morning,” she’d say. Lydia would go into a rage if I even drank a bottle of beer in front of her. We split up at least once a week— “Forever”—but always managed to make up, somehow. She had finished sculpting my head and had given it to me. When we’d split I’d put the head in my car next to me on the front seat, drive it over to her place and leave it outside her door on the porch. Then I’d go to a phone booth, ring hervup and say, “Your goddamned head is outside the door!” That head went back and forth. . . .

We had just split again and I had dropped off the head. I was drinking, a free man again. I had a young friend, Bobby, a rather bland kid who worked in a porno bookstore and was a photographer on the side. He lived a couple of blocks away. Bobby was having trouble with himself and with his wife, Valerie. He phoned one evening and said he was bringing Valerie over to stay the night with me. It sounded fine. Valerie was 22, absolutely lovely, with long blond hair, mad blue eyes and a beautiful body. Like Lydia, she had also spent some time in a madhouse. After a while I heard them drive up on the lawn in front of my court. Valerie got out. I remembered Bobby telling me that when he first introduced Valerie to his parents they had commented on her dress—that they liked it very much—and she had said, “Yeah, well how about the rest of me?” She had pulled her dress up over her hips. And didn’t have any panties on.

Valerie knocked. I heard Bobby drive off. I let her in. She looked fine. I poured two scotch and waters. Neither of us spoke. We drank those and I poured two more. After that I said, “Come on, let’s make a bar.” We got into my car. The Glue Machine was right around the corner. I had been 86’d earlier that week but nothing was said when we walked in. We got a table and ordered drinks. We still didn’t talk. I just looked into those mad blue eyes. We were sitting side by side and I kissed her. Her mouth was cool and open. I kissed her again and our legs pressed together. Bobby had a nice wife. Bobby was crazy to pass her around.

We decided on dinner. We each ordered a steak and we drank and we kissed while we waited. The barmaid said, “Oh, you’re in love!” and we both laughed. When the steaks came Valerie said, “I don’t want to eat mine.” “I don’t want to eat mine either,” I said.

We drank for another hour and then decided to go back to my place. As I drove the car up on the front lawn I saw a woman in the driveway. It was Lydia. She had an envelope in her hand. I got out of the car with Valerie and Lydia looked at us. “Who’s that?” asked Valerie. “The woman I love,” I told her.

“Who’s the bitch?” screamed Lydia.

Valerie turned and ran down the sidewalk. I could hear her high heels on the pavement. “Come on in,” I told Lydia. She followed me in.

“I came here to give this letter to you and it looks like I came at the right time. Who was she?”

“Bobby’s wife. We’re just friends.”

“You were going to fuck her, weren’t you?”

“Now look, I told her I love you.”

“You were going to fuck her, weren’t you?”

“Now look, baby …”

Suddenly she shoved me. I was standing in front of the coffee table which was in front of the couch. I fell backward over the coffee table and into the space between the table and the couch. I heard the door slam. And as I got up I heard the engine of Lydia’s car start. Then she drove off.

Son-of-a-bitch, I thought, one minute I’ve got two women and the next I’ve got none.

10

I was surprised the next morning when April knocked on the door. April was the one on
ATD
who had been at Harry Ascot’s party and who had left with the speed freak. It was 11 am. April came in and sat down.

“I’ve always admired your work,” she said.

I got her a beer and got myself a beer.

“God is a hook in the sky,” she said.

“All right,” I said.

April was on the heavy side but not too fat. She had big hips and a large ass and her hair fell straight down. There was something about the size of her—rugged, like she could handle an ape. Her mental deficiency was attractive to me because she didn’t play games. She crossed her legs, showing me enormous white flanks.

“I planted tomato seeds down in the basement of the apartment house I live in,” she said.

“I’ll take some when they come up,” I said.

“I’ve never had a driver’s license,” April said. “My mother lives in New Jersey.”

“My mother’s dead,” I said. I walked over and sat next to her on the couch. I grabbed her and kissed her. While I was kissing her she looked right into my eyes. I broke off. “Let’s fuck,” I said.