I couldn’t believe it. Mercedes looked unconvinced.

We went to a place around the corner. I ordered eggs over easy with bacon and coffee, wheat toast. Mercedes ordered hotcakes and ham, cofifee.

The waitress brought our orders. I took a bite of egg. Mercedes poured syrup over her hotcakes.

“You’re right,” she said, “you must have fucked me. I can feel the semen running down my leg.”

I decided not to see her again.

I went up to Tammie’s place with my cardboard cartons. First I got the items she mentioned. Then I found other things—other dresses and blouses, shoes, an iron, a hair dryer, Dancy’s clothing, dishes and flatware, a photo album. There was a heavy rattan chair which belonged to her. I took all the things down to my place. I had eight or ten cartons full of stuff. I stacked them against my front room wall.

The next day I drove down to the train station to pick Tammie and Dancy up.

“You’re looking good,” Tammie said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“We’re going to live at Mother’s. You might as well drive us there. I can’t fight that eviction. Besides, who wants to stay where they’re not wanted?”

“Tammie, I moved most of your things. They’re in cardboard cartons at my place.”

“All right. Can I leave them there a while?”

“Sure.”

Then Tammie’s mother went to Denver, to see the sister, and the night she left I went to Tammie’s to get drunk. Tammie was on pills. I didn’t take any. When I got into the fourth 6-pack I said, “Tammie, I don’t see what you see in Bobby. He’s nothing.”

She crossed her legs, and swung her foot back and forth.

“He thinks his small talk is charming,” I said.

She kept swinging her foot.

“Movies, t.v., grass, comic books, dirty photos, that’s his gas tank.”

Tammie swung her foot harder.

“Do you really care for him?”

She kept swinging her foot.

“You fucking bitch!” I said.

I walked to the door, slammed it behind me, and got into the Volks. I raced through traffic, weaving in and out, destroying my clutch and gear shift.

I got back to my place and started loading the cartons of her stuff into my Volks. Also record albums, blankets, toys. The Volks, of course, didn’t hold too much.

I speeded back to Tammie’s. I pulled up and double-parked, put the red warning lights on. I pulled the boxes out of the car and stacked them on the porch. I covered them with blankets and toys, rang the bell and drove off.

When I came back with the second load the first load was gone. I made another stack, rang the bell and wheeled off like a missile.

When I came back with the third load the second was gone. I made a new stack and rang the bell. Then I was off again into the early morning.

When I got back to my place I had a vodka and water and looked at what was left. There was the heavy rattan chair and the stand-up hair dryer. I could only make one more run. It was either the chair or the dryer. The Volks couldn’t consume both.

I decided on the rattan chair. It was 4 am. I was double-parked in front of my place with the warning lights on. I finished the vodka and water. I was getting drunker and weaker. I picked up the rattan, it was really heavy, and carried it down the walk to my car. I sat it down and opened the door opposite the driver’s side. I jammed the rattan chair in. Then I tried to close the door. The chair was sticking out. I tried to pull the chair out of the car. It was stuck. I cursed, and pushed it further in. One leg of the rattan poked through the windshield and stuck out, pointing at the sky. The door still wouldn’t close. It wasn’t even close. I tried to push the leg of the chair further through the windshield so that I could close the door. It wouldn’t budge. The chair was jammed in tight. I tried to pull it out. It wouldn’t move. Desperately I pulled and pushed, pulled and pushed. If the police came, I was finished. After some time I wearied. I climbed in the driver’s side. There were no parking spaces in the street. I drove the car down to the pizza parlor parking lot, the open door swinging back and forth. I left it there with the door open, the ceiling light on. (The ceiling light wouldn’t shut off.) The windshield was smashed, the chair leg poking out into the moonlight. The whole scene was indecent, mad. It smacked of murder and assassination. My beautiful car.

I walked down the street and back to my place. I poured another vodka and water and phoned Tammie.

“Look, baby, I’m in a jam. I’ve got your chair stuck through my windshield and I can’t get it out and I can’t get it in and the door won’t close. The windshield is smashed. What can I do? Help me, for Christ’s sake!”

“You’ll think of something, Hank.”

She hung up.

I dialed again. “Baby… .”

She hung up. Then next the phone was off the hook: bzzzz, bzzzzzz, bzzzz… .

I stretched out on the bed. The phone rang.

“Tammie… .”

“Hank, this is Valerie. I just came home. I want to tell you that your car is parked in the pizza parlor with the door open.”

“Thanks, Valerie, but I can’t close the door. There is a rattan chair stuck through the windshield.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice that.”

“I appreciate your phoning.”

I fell asleep. It was one worried sleep. They were going to tow me away. I was going to get booked.

I awakened at 6:20 am, got dressed and walked to the pizza parlor. The car was still there. The sun was coming up.

I reached in and grabbed the rattan. It still wouldn’t budge. I was furious, and began pulling and yanking, cursing. The more impossible it seemed, the madder I got. Suddenly there was a cracking of wood. I was inspired, energized. A piece of wood broke off in my hands. I looked at it, tossed it into the street, went back to my task. Something else broke off. The days in the factories, the days of unloading boxcars, the days of lifting cases of frozen fish, the days of carrying murdered cattle on my shoulders were paying off. I had always been strong but equally lazy. Now I was tearing that chair to pieces. Finally I ripped it out of the car. I attacked it in the parking lot. I smashed it to bits, I broke it in pieces. Then I picked up the pieces and stacked them neatly on somebody’s front lawn.

I got in the Volks and found an empty parking space near my court. All I had to do now was find a junkyard on Santa Fe Avenue and buy myself a new windshield. That could wait. I went back in, drank two glasses of ice water and went to bed.

Four or five days passed. The phone rang. It was Tammie.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Listen, Hank. You know that little bridge you cross in your car when you drive to my mother’s place?”

“Yes.”

“Well, right by there they’re having a yard sale. I went in and saw this typewriter. It’s only 20 bucks and it’s in good working order. Please get it for me, Hank.”

“What do you want with a typewriter?”

“Well, I’ve never told you, but I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”

“Tammie… .”

“Please, Hank, just this one last time. I’ll be your friend for life.”

“No.”

“Hank… .”

“Oh, shit, well, all right.”

“I’ll meet you at the bridge in 15 minutes. I want to hurry before it’s taken. I’ve found a new apartment and Filbert and my brother are helping me move… .”

Tammie wasn’t at the bridge in 15. minutes or in 25 minutes. I got back in the Volks and drove over to Tammie’s mother’s apartment. Filbert was loading cartons into Tammie’s car. He didn’t see me. I parked a half a block away.

Tammie came out and saw my Volks. Filbert was getting into his car. He had a Volks, too, a yellow one. Tammie waved to him and said, “See you later!”

Then she walked down the street toward me. When she got near my car she stretched out in the center of the street and lay there. I waited. Then she got up, walked to my car, got in.

I pulled away. Filbert was sitting in his car. I waved to him as we drove my. He didn’t wave back. His eyes were sad. It was just beginning for him.

“You know,” Tammie said, “I’m with Filbert now.”

I laughed. It welled out of me.

“We’d better hurry. The typer might be gone.”

“Why don’t you let Filbert buy the fucking thing?”

“Look, if you don’t want to do it just stop the car and let me out!”

I stopped the car and opened the door.

“Listen, you son-of-a-bitch, you told me you’d buy that typer! If you don’t, I’m going to start screaming and breaking your windows!”

“All right. The typer is yours.”

We drove to the place. The typer was still there.

“This typewriter has spent its whole life up to now in an insane asylum,” the lady told us.

“It’s going to the right person,” I replied.

I gave the lady a twenty and we drove back. Filbert was gone.

“Don’t you want to come in for a while?” Tammie asked.

“No, I’ve got to go.”

She was able to carry the typer in without help. It was a portable.

I drank for the next week. I drank night and day and wrote 25 or 30 mournful poems about lost love.

It was Friday night when the phone rang. It was Mercedes. “I got married,” she said, “to Little Jack. You met him at the party that night you read in Venice. He’s a nice guy and he’s got money. We’re moving to the Valley.”

“All right, Mercedes, luck with it all.”

“But I miss drinking and talking with you. Suppose I come over tonight?”

“All right.”

She was there in 15 minutes, rolling joints and drinking my beer.

“Little Jack is a nice guy. We’re happy together.”

I sucked at my beer.

“I don’t want to fuck,” she said, “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. She wasn’t interesting. But she had her legs and her ass and her hair and her youth. I’d met some interesting women, God knows, but Mercedes just wasn’t high on the list.

The beer flowed and the joints went around. Mercedes still had the same job with the Hollywood Institute of Human Relationships. She was having trouble with her car. Little Jack had a short fat dick. She was reading Grapefruit by Yoko Ono. She was tired of abortions. The Valley was nice but she missed Venice. She missed riding her bicycle along the boardwalk.

I don’t know how long we talked, or she talked, but much, much later she said she was too drunk to drive home.

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

“But no fucking,” she said.

“I won’t touch your cunt.”

She undressed and went to bed. I undressed and went into the bathroom. She watched me coming out with a jar of Vaseline.

“What are you going to do?”

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

I rubbed the Vaseline on my cock. Then I turned out the light and got into bed.

“Turn your back,” I said.

I reached one arm under her and played with one breast and reached over the top and played with the other breast. It felt good with my face in her hair. I stiffened and slipped it into her ass. I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her ass toward me, hard, sliding it in. “Oooooohh,” she said.

I began working. I dug it in deeper. The cheeks of her ass were big and soft. As I slammed away I began to sweat. Then I rolled her on her stomach and sunk it in deeper. It was getting tighter. I nudged into the end of her colon and she screamed.

“Shut up! Goddamn you!”

She was very tight. I slipped it even further in. Her grip was unbelievable. As I rammed it in I suddenly got a stitch in my side, a terrible burning pain, but I continued. I was slicing her in half, right up the backbone. I roared like a madman and came.

Then I lay there on top of her. The pain in my side was murder. She was crying.

“Goddamn it,” I asked her, “what’s the matter? I didn’t touch your cunt.”

I rolled off.

In the morning Mercedes said very little, got dressed and left for her job.

Well, I thought, there goes another one.

My drinking slowed down the next week. I went to the racetrack to get fresh air and sunshine and plenty of walking. At night I drank, wondering why I was still alive, how the scheme worked. I thought about Katherine, about Lydia, about Tammie. I didn’t feel very good.

That Friday night the phone rang. It was Mercedes.

“Hank, I’d like to come by. But just for talk and beer and joints. Nothing else.”

“Come by if you want to.”

Mercedes was there in a half hour. To my surprise she looked very good to me. I’d never seen a mini-skirt as short as hers and her legs looked fine. I kissed her happily. She broke away.

“I couldn’t walk for two days after that last one. Don’t rip my butt 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 acted like she wanted it, 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.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Four times.”

“What happened? Where are they tonight?”

“One is dead. The other three are with other men.”

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

“Take your clothes off and go to bed.”

“All right, but I’ve got an idea.”

“Like what?”

“I want to watch you beat that thing off! I want to watch it squirt!”

“All right, that’s fair enough. It’s a deal.”

Mercedes undressed and went to bed. I undressed and stood at the side of the bed. “Sit up so you can see better.”

Mercedes sat on the edge of the bed. I spit on my palm and began to rub my cock.

“Oh,” Mercedes said, “It’s growing!”

“Uh huh… .”

“It’s getting big!”

“Uh huh… .”

“Oh, it’s all purple with big veins! It throbs! It’s ugly!”

“Yeh.”

As I kept beating my cock I moved it near her face. She watched it. Just as I was about to come I stopped.

“Oh,” she said.

“Look, I’ve got a better idea… .”

“What?”

“You beat it off.”

“All right.”

She started in. “Am I doing it right?”

“A little harder. And spit on your palm. And rub almost all of it, most of it, just not up near the head.”

“All right… . Oh, God, look at it. … I want to see it squirt juice!”

“Keep going, Mercedes! OH, MY GOD!”

I was just about to come. I pulled her hand away from my cock.

“Oh, damn you!” Mercedes said.

She bent forward and got it in her mouth. She began sucking and bobbing, running her tongue along the length of my cock as she sucked it.

“Oh, you bitch!”

Then she pulled her mouth off my cock.

“Go ahead! Go ahead! Finish me off!”

“No!”

“Well, goddamn it then!”

I pushed her over backwards on the bed and leaped on her. I kissed her viciously and drove my cock in. I worked violently, pumping and pumping. I moaned and then came. I pumped it into her, feeling it enter, feeling it steam into her.

I had to fly to Illinois to give a reading at the University. I hated readings, but they helped with the rent and maybe they helped sell books. They got me out of east Hollywood, they got me up in the air with the businessmen and the stewardesses and the iced drinks and little napkins and the peanuts to kill the breath.

I was to be met by the poet, William Keesing, who I had been corresponding with since 1966. I had first seen his work in the pages of Bull, edited by Doug Fazzick, one of the first mimeo mags and probably the leader in the mimeo revolution. None of us were literary in the proper sense: Fazzick worked in a rubber plant, Keesing was an ex-Marine out of Korea who had done time and was supported by his wife, Cecelia. I was working 11 hours a night as a postal clerk. That was also the time when Marvin arrived on the scene with his strange poems about demons. Marvin Woodman was the best damned demon-writer in America. Maybe in Spain and Peru too. I was into writing letters at the time. I wrote 4 and 5 page letters to everybody, coloring the envelopes and pages wildly with crayons. That’s when I began writing William Keesing, ex-Marine, ex-con, drug addict (he was mostly into codeine).

Now, years later, William Keesing had secured a temporary teaching job at the University. He had managed to pick up a degree or two between drug busts. I warned him that it was a dangerous job for anybody who wanted to write. But at least he taught his class plenty of Chinaski.

Keesing and his wife were waiting at the airport. I had my baggage with me and so we went right to the car.

“My God,” said Keesing, “I never saw anybody get off of an airplane looking like that.”

I had on my dead father’s overcoat, which was too large. My pants were too long, the cuffs came down over the shoes and that was good because my stockings didn’t match, and my shoes were down at the heels. I hated barbers so I cut my own hair when I couldn’t get a woman to do it. I didn’t like to shave and I didn’t like long beards, so I scissored myself every two or three weeks. My eyesight was bad but I didn’t like glasses so I didn’t wear them except to read. I had my own teeth but not that many. My face and my nose were red from drinking and the light hurt my eyes so I squinted through tiny slits. I would have fit into any skid row anywhere.

We drove off.

“We expected somebody quite different,” said Cecelia.

“Oh?”

“I mean, your voice is so soft, and you seem gentle. Bill expected you to get off the plane drunk and cursing, making passes at the women. …”

“I never pump up my vulgarity. I wait for it to arrive on its own terms.”

“You’re reading tomorrow night,” said Bill.

“Good, we’ll have fun tonight and forget everything.”

We drove on.

That night Keesing was as interesting as his letters and poems. He had the good sense to stay away from literature in our conversation, except now and then. We talked about other things. I didn’t have much luck in person with most poets even when their letters and poems were good. I’d met Douglas Fazzick with less than charming results. It was best to stay away from other writers and just do your work, or just not do your work.

Cecelia retired early. She had a job to go to in the morning. “Cecelia is divorcing me,” Bill told me. “I don’t blame her. She’s sick of my drugs, my puke, my whole thing. She’s stood it for years. Now she can’t take it any longer. I can’t give her much of a fuck anymore. She’s running with this teenage kid. I can’t blame her. I’ve moved out, I’ve got a room. We can go there and sleep or I can go there and sleep and you can stay here or we both can stay here, it doesn’t matter to me.”

Keesing took out a couple of pills and dropped them.

“Let’s both stay here,” I said.

“You really pour the drinks down.”

“There’s nothing else to do.”

“You must have a cast-iron gut.”

“Not really. It busted open once. But when those holes grow back together they say it’s tougher than the best welding.”

“How long you figure to go on?” he asked.

“I’ve got it all planned. I’m going to die in the year 2000 when I’m 80.”

“That’s strange,” said Keesing, “That’s the year I’m going to die. 2000. I even had a dream about it. I even dreamed the day and hour of my death. Anyhow, it’s in the year 2000.”

“It’s a nice round number. I like it.”

We drank for another hour or two. I got the extra bedroom. Keesing slept on the couch. Cecelia apparently was serious about dumping him.

The next morning I was up at 10:30 am. There was some beer left. I managed to get one down. I was on the second when Keesing walked in.

“Jesus, how do you do it? You spring back like an 18 year old boy.”

“I have some bad mornings. This just isn’t one.”

“I’ve got a 1:00 English class. I’ve got to get straight.”

“Drop a white.”

“I need some food in my gut.”

“Eat two soft-boiled eggs. Eat them with a touch of chili powder or paprika.”

“Can I boil you a couple?”

“Thanks, yes.”

The phone rang. It was Cecelia. Bill talked a while, then hung up. “There’s a tornado approaching. One of the biggest in the history of the state. It might come through here.”

“Something always happens when I read.”

I noticed it was beginning to get dark.

“They might cancel the class. It’s hard to tell. I better eat.”

Bill put the eggs on.

“I don’t understand you,” he said, “you don’t even look hungover.”

“I’m hungover every morning. It’s normal. I’ve adjusted.”

“You’re still writing pretty good shit, in spite of all that booze.”

“Let’s not get on that. Maybe it’s the variety of pussy. Don’t boil those eggs too long.”

I went into the bathroom and took a shit. Constipation wasn’t one of my problems. I was just coming out when I heard Bill holler, “Chinaski!”

Then I heard him in the yard, he was vomiting. He came back.

The poor guy was really sick.

“Take some baking soda. You got a Valium?”

“No.”

“Then wait 10 minutes after the baking soda and drink a warm beer. Pour it in a glass now so the air can get to it.”

“I got a bennie.”

“Take it.”

It was getting darker. Fifteen minutes after the bennie Bill took a shower. When he came out he looked all right. He ate a peanut butter sandwich with sliced banana. He was going to make it.

“You still love your old lady, don’t you?” I asked.

“Christ, yes.”

“I know it doesn’t help, but try to realize that it’s happened to all of us, at least once.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“Once a woman turns against you, forget it. They can love you, then something turns in them. They can watch you dying in a gutter, run over by a car, and they’ll spit on you.”

“Cecelia’s a wonderful woman.”

It was getting darker. “Let’s drink some more beer,” I said.

We sat and drank beer. It got really dark and then there was a high wind. We didn’t talk much. I was glad we had met. There was very little bullshit in him. He was tired, maybe that helped. He’d never had any luck with his poems in the U.S.A. They loved him in Australia. Maybe some day they’d discover him here, maybe not. Maybe by the year 2000. He was a tough, chunky little guy, you knew he could duke it, you knew he had been there. I was fond of him.

We drank quietly, then the phone rang. It was Cecelia again. The tornado had passed over, or rather, around. Bill was going to teach his class. I was going to read that night. Bully. Everything was working. We were all fully employed.

About 12:30 pm Bill put his notebooks and whatever he needed into a backpack, got on his bike and pedaled off to the university.

Cecelia came home sometime in the mid-afternoon. “Did Bill get off all right?” “Yes, he left on the bike. He looked fine.” “How fine? Was he on shit?” “He looked fine. He ate and everything.” “I still love him, Hank. I just can’t go through it anymore.” “Sure.”

“You don’t know how much it means to him to have you out here. He used to read your letters to me.” “Dirty, huh?”

“No, funny. You made us laugh.” “Let’s fuck, Cecelia.” “Hank, now you’re playing your game.” “You’re a plump little thing. Let me sink it in.” “You’re drunk, Hank.” “You’re right. Forget it.”

That night I gave another bad reading. I didn’t care. They didn’t care. If John Cage could get one thousand dollars for eating an apple, I’d accept $500 plus air fare for being a lemon.

It was the same afterwards. The little coeds came up with their young hot bodies and their pilot-light eyes and asked me to autograph some of my books. I would have liked to fuck about five of them in one night sometime and get them out of my system forever.

A couple of professors came up and grinned at me for being an ass. It made them feel better, they felt now as if they had a chance at the typewriter.

I took the check and got out. There was to be a small, select gathering at Cecelia’s house afterwards. That was part of the unwritten contract. The more girls the better, but at Cecelia’s house I stood very little chance. I knew that. And sure enough, in the morning I awakened in my bed, alone.

Bill was sick again the next morning. He had another 1:00 class and before he went off he said, “Cecelia will drive you to the airport. I’m going now. No heavy goodbyes.”

“All right.”

Bill put on his backpack and walked his bike out the door.

I was back in L.A. about a week and a half. It was night. The phone rang. It was Cecelia, she was sobbing. “Hank, Bill is dead. You’re the first one I’ve called.”

“Christ, Cecelia, I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m so glad you came when you did. Bill did nothing but talk about you after you left. You don’t know what your visit meant to him.”

“What happened?”

“He complained of feeling real bad and we took him to a hospital and in two hours he was dead. I know people are going to think he o.d.’d, but he didn’t. Even though I was going to divorce him I loved him.”

“I believe you.”

“I don’t want to bother you with all this.”

“It’s all right, Bill would understand. I just don’t know what to say to help you. I’m kind of in shock. Let me phone you later on to see if you’re all right.”

“Would you?”

“Of course.”

That’s the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.

As sick and unhappy as he was, Bill just didn’t look like somebody who was about to die. There were many deaths like that and even though we knew about death and thought about it almost every day, when there was an unexpected death, and when that person was an exceptional and lovable human being, it was hard, very, no matter how many other people had died, good, bad or unknown.

I phoned Cecelia back that night, and I phoned her again the next night, and once more after that, and then I stopped phoning.

A month went by. R.A. Dwight, the editor of Dogbite Press wrote and asked me to do a foreword to Keesing’s Selected Poems. Keesing, with the help of his death, was at last going to get some recognition somewhere besides Australia.

Then Cecelia phoned. “Hank, I’m going to San Francisco to see R.A. Dwight. I have some photos of Bill and some unpublished things. I want to go over them with Dwight and we’re going to decide what to publish. But first I want to stop in L.A. for a day or two. Can you meet me at the airport?”

“Sure, you can stay at my place, Cecelia.”

“Thanks much.”

She gave me her arrival time and I went in and cleaned the toilet, scrubbed the bathtub and changed the sheets and pillow cases on my bed.

Cecelia arrived on the 10 am flight which was hell for me to make, but she looked good, albeit a bit plump. She was sturdy, built low, she looked midwestern, scrubbed. Men looked at her, she had a way of moving her behind; it looked forceful, a bit ominous and sexy.

We waited for the baggage in the bar. Cecelia didn’t drink. She had an orange juice.

“I just love airports and airport passengers, don’t you?”

“No.”

“The people seem so interesting.”

“They have more money than the people who travel by rail or bus.”

“We passed over the Grand Canyon on the way in.”

“Yes, it’s on your route.”

“These waitresses wear such short skirts! Look, you can see their panties.”

“Good tips. They all live in condominiums and drive M.G.s.”

“Everybody on the plane was so nice! The man in the seat next to me offered to buy me a drink.”

“Let’s get your baggage.”

“R. A. phoned to tell me that he had received your foreword to Bill’s Selected Poems. He read me parts of it over the phone. It was beautiful. I want to thank you.”

“Forget it.”

“I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“I rarely drink. Maybe later.”

“What do you prefer? I’ll get something for when we get back to my place. I want you to feel comfortable and relaxed.”

“I’m sure Bill is looking down at us now and he’s feeling happy.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes!”

We got the baggage and walked toward the parking lot.

That night I managed to get 2 or 3 drinks into Cecelia. She forgot herself and crossed her legs high and I saw some good heavy flank. Durable. A cow of a woman, cow’s breasts, cow’s eyes. She could handle plenty. Keesing had had a good eye.

She was against the killing of animals, she didn’t eat meat. I guess she had enough meat. Everything was beautiful, she told me, we had all this beauty in the world and all we had to do was reach out and touch it, it was all there and all ours for the taking.

“You’re right, Cecelia,” I said. “Have another drink.”

“It makes me giddy.”

“What’s wrong with a little bit of giddy?”

Cecelia crossed her legs again and her thighs flashed. They flashed way up high.

Bill, you can’t use it now. You were a good poet, Bill, but what the hell, you left more behind than your writing. And your writing never had thighs and flanks like this.

Cecelia had another drink, then stopped. I kept going.

Where did all the women come from? The supply was endless. Each one of them was individual, different. Their pussies were different, their kisses were different, their breasts were different, but no man could drink them all, there were too many of them, crossing their legs, driving men mad. What a feast!

“I want to go to the beach. Will you take me to the beach, Hank?” Cecelia asked.

“Tonight?”

“No, not tonight. But sometime before I leave.”

“All right.”

Cecelia talked about how the American Indian had been abused. Then she told me that she wrote, but she never submitted it, she just kept a notebook. Bill had encouraged and helped her with some of her things. She’d helped Bill get through the university. Of course, the G.I. Bill had helped, too. And there had always been codeine, he had always been hooked on codeine. She’d threatened to leave him again and again, but it didn’t help. Now—

“Drink this, Cecelia,” I said, “it will help you forget.”

I poured her a tall one.

“Oh, I couldn’t drink all that!”

“Cross your legs higher. Let me see more of your legs.”

“Bill never talked to me like that.”

I continued to drink. Cecelia continued to talk. After a while I didn’t listen. Midnight came and left.

“Listen, Cecelia, let’s go to bed. I’m bombed.”

I walked into the bedroom and undressed, got under the covers. I heard her walk by and go into the bathroom. I switched the bedroom light off. She came out soon and I felt her getting into the other side of the bed.

“Goodnight, Cecelia,” I said.

I pulled her to me. She was naked. Jesus, I thought. We kissed.

She kissed very well. It was a long, hot one. We finished. “Cecelia?” “Yes?”

“I’ll fuck you some other time.” I rolled over and went to sleep.

Bobby and Valerie came by and I introduced everybody around.

“Valerie and I are going to take a vacation and rent rooms by the seashore in Manhattan Beach,” said Bobby. “Why don’t you guys come along? We could split the rent. There are two bedrooms.”

“No, Bobby, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, Hank, please!” said Cecelia. “I just love the ocean! Hank, if we go down there I’ll even drink with you. I promise!”

“All right, Cecelia.”

“Fine,” said Bobby. “We leave this evening. We’ll pick you guys up around 6 pm. We’ll have dinner together.”

“That sounds real good,” said Cecelia.

“Hank’s fun to eat with,” said Valerie. “Last time we went out with him we walked into this fancy place and he told the head waiter right off, ‘I want cole slaw and french fries for my friends here! A double order of each, and don’t water the drinks or I’ll have your coat and tie!’”

“I can’t wait!” said Cecelia.

Cecelia wanted to go for a constitutional around 2 pm. We walked through the court. She noticed the poinsettias. She walked right up to a bush and stuck her face into the flowers, caressing them with her fingers.

“Oh, they’re so beautiful!”

“They’re dying, Cecelia. Can’t you see how shriveled they are? The smog is killing them.”

We walked along under the palms.

“And there are birds everywhere! Hundreds of birds, Hank!”

“And dozens of cats.”

We drove to Manhattan Beach with Bobby and Valerie, moved into our waterfront apartment and went out to eat. The dinner was fair. Cecelia had one drink with her dinner and explained all about her vegetarianism. She had soup, salad and yogurt; the remainder of us had steaks, french fries, french bread, and salad. Bobby and Valerie stole the salt and pepper shakers, two steak knives and the tip I had left for the waiter.

We stopped for liquor, ice and smokes, then went back to the apartment. Her one drink had Cecelia giggling and talking and she was explaining that animals had souls too. Nobody challenged her opinion. It was possible, we knew. What we weren’t sure of was if we had any.

We continued drinking. Cecelia had just one more and stopped.

“I want to go out and look at the moon and stars,” she said. “It’s so beautiful out!”

“All right, Cecelia.”

She went outside by the swimming pool and sat in.a deck chair.

“No wonder Bill died,” I said. “He starved. She never gives it away.”

“She talked the same way about you at dinner when you went to the men’s room,” said Valerie. “She said, ‘Oh, Hank’s poems are so full of passion, but as a person he’s not that way at all!’”

“Me and God don’t always pick the same horse.”

“You fucked her yet?” asked Bobby.

“No.”

“What was Keesing like?”

“All right. But I really wonder how he stood being with her. Maybe the codeine and pills helped. Maybe she was like a big flower-child-nurse to him.”

“Fuck it,” said Bobby, “let’s drink.”

“Yeah. If I had to choose between drinking and fucking I think I’d have to stop fucking.”

“Fucking can cause problems,” said Valerie.

“When my wife is out fucking somebody else I put on my pyjamas, pull the covers up and go to sleep,” said Bobby.

“He’s cool,” said Valerie.

“None of us quite know how to use sex, what to do with it,” I said. “With most people sex is just a toy—wind it up and let it run.”

“What about love?” asked Valerie.

“Love is all right for those who can handle the psychic overload. It’s like trying to carry a full garbage can on your back over a rushing river of piss.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad!”

“Love is a form of prejudice. I have too many other prejudices.”

Valerie went to the window.

“People are having fun, jumping into the pool, and she’s out there looking at the moon.”

“Her old man just died,” said Bobby. “Give her a break.”

I took my bottle and went to my bedroom. I undressed down to my shorts and went to bed. Nothing was ever in tune. People just blindly grabbed at whatever there was: communism, health foods, zen, surfing, ballet, hypnotism, group encounters, orgies, biking, herbs, Catholicism, weight-lifting, travel, withdrawal, vegetarianism, India, painting, writing, sculpting, composing, conducting, backpacking, yoga, copulating, gambling, drinking, hanging around, frozen yogurt, Beethoven, Bach, Buddha, Christ, TM, H, carrot juice, suicide, handmade suits, jet travel, New York City, and then it all evaporated and fell apart. People had to find things to do while waiting to die. I guess it was nice to have a choice.

I took my choice. I raised the fifth of vodka and drank it straight. The Russians knew something.

The door opened and Cecelia walked in. She looked good with her low-slung powerful body. Most American women were either too thin or without stamina. If you gave them rough use something broke in them and they became neurotic and their men became sport freaks or alcoholics or obsessed with cars. The Norwegians, the Icelanders, the Finns knew how a woman should be built: wide and solid, a big ass, big hips, big white flanks, big heads, big mouths, big tits, plenty of hair, big eyes, big nostrils, and down in the center—big enough and small enough.

“Hello, Cecelia. Come on to bed.”

“It was nice out tonight.”

“I suppose. Come say hello.”

She went into the bathroom. I switched off the bedroom light.

She came out after a while. I felt her climb into bed. It was dark but some light came in through the curtains. I handed her the fifth. She took a tiny sip, then handed the bottle back. We were sitting up, our backs against the headboard and the pillows. We were thigh to thigh.

“Hank, the moon was just a tiny sliver. But the stars were brilliant and beautiful. It makes you think, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Some of those stars have been dead for millions of light-years and yet we can still see them.”

I reached around and pulled Cecelia’s head toward me. Her mouth opened. It was wet and it was good.

“Cecelia, let’s fuck.”

“I don’t want to.”

In a way I didn’t want to either. Which is why I had asked.

“You don’t want to? Then why do you kiss like that?”

“I think that people should take the time to get to know each other.”

“Sometimes there’s not that much time.”

“I don’t want to do it.”

I got out of bed. I walked down in my shorts and knocked on Bobby and Valerie’s door.

“What is it?” Bobby asked.

“She won’t fuck me.”

“So?”

“Let’s go for a swim.”

“It’s late. The pool is closed.”

“Closed? There’s water, isn’t there?”

“I mean, the lights are off.”

“That’s all right. She won’t fuck me.”

“You don’t have a bathing suit.”

“I have my shorts.”

“All right, wait a minute… .”

Bobby and Valerie came out dressed beautifully in new tight-fitting swim suits. Bobby handed me a Columbian and I took a hit. “What’s wrong with Cecelia?” “Christian chemistry.”

We walked to the pool. It was true, the lights were out. Bobby and Valerie dove into the pool in tandem. I sat at the edge of the pool, my legs dangling in. I sucked from the fifth of vodka.

Bobby and Valerie surfaced together. Bobby swam over to the edge of the pool. He pulled at one of my ankles.

“Come on, shit head! Show some guts! DIVE!”

I took another hit of vodka, then set the bottle down. I didn’t dive. I carefully lowered myself over the edge. Then I dropped in. It was strange in the dark water. I sank slowly towards the bottom of the pool. I was 6 feet tall and weighed 225 pounds. I waited to touch bottom and push off. Where was the bottom? There it was, and I was almost out of oxygen. I pushed off. I went back up slowly. Finally I broke the surface of the water.

“Death to all whores who keep their legs closed against me!” I screamed.

A door opened and a man came running out of a ground floor apartment. He was the manager.

“Hey, there is no swimming allowed this time of night! The pool lights are off!”

I paddled toward him, reached the pool edge and looked up at him. “Look, motherfucker, I drink two barrels of beer a day and I’m a professional wrestler. I’m a kindly sou! by nature. But I intend to swim and I want those lights turned ON! NOW! I’m only asking you one time!”

I paddled off.

The lights went on. The pool was brilliantly lit. It was magic. I paddled toward the vodka, took it down from the pool edge and had a good one. The bottle was almost empty. I looked down and Valerie and Bobby were swimming in circles around each other underwater. They were good at it, they were lithe and graceful. How odd that everybody was younger than I.

We finished with the pool. I walked to the manager’s door in my wet shorts and knocked. He opened the door. I liked him.

“Hey, buddy, you can flick out the lights now. I’m through swimming. You’re O.K., baby, you’re O.K.”

We walked back to our apartment.

“Have a drink with us,” said Bobby. “I know that you’re unhappy.”

I went in and had two drinks.

Valerie said, “Look, Hank, you and your women! You can’t fuck them all, don’t you know that?” “Victory or death!” “Sleep it off, Hank.” “Goodnight, folks, and thanks… .”

I went back to my bedroom. Cecelia was flat on her back and she was snoring, “Guzzz, guzzz, guzzz. …”

She looked fat to me. I took off my wet shorts, climbed into bed. I shook her.

“Cecelia, you’re SNORING!”

“Oooh, oooh… . I’m sorry. …”

“O.K., Cecelia. This is just like being married. I’ll get you in the morning when I’m fresh.”

A sound awakened me. It was not quite daylight. Cecelia was moving around getting dressed.

I looked at my watch.

“It’s 5 am. What are you doing?”

“I want to watch the sun come up. I love sunrises!”

“No wonder you don’t drink.”

“I’ll be back. We can have breakfast together.”

“I haven’t been able to eat breakfast for 40 years.”

“I’m going to watch the sunrise, Hank.”

I found a capped bottle of beer. It was warm. I opened it, drank it. Then I slept.

At 10:30 am there was a knock on the door.

“Come in. …”

It was Bobby, Valerie and Cecelia.

“We just had breakfast together,” said Bobby.

“Now Cecelia wants to take her shoes off and walk along the beach,” said Valerie.

“I’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean before, Hank. It’s so beautiful!”

“I’ll get dressed… .”

We walked along the shoreline. Cecelia was happy. When the waves came in and ran over her bare feet she screamed. “You people go ahead,” I said, “I’m going to find a bar.” “I’ll come with you,” said Bobby. “I’ll watch over Cecelia,” Valerie said… .

We found the nearest bar. There were only two empty stools. We sat down. Bobby drew a male. I drew a female. Bobby and I ordered our drinks.

The woman next to me was 26, 27. Something had wearied her—her eyes and mouth looked tired—but she still held together in spite of it. Her hair was dark and well-kept. She had on a skirt and she had good legs. Her soul was topaz and you could see it in her eyes. I laid my leg against hers. She didn’t move away. I drained my drink.

“Buy me a drink,” I asked her.

She nodded to the barkeep. He came over.

“Vodka-7 for the gentleman.”

“Thanks… .”

“Babette.”

“Thanks, Babette. My name’s Henry Chinaski, alcoholic writer.”

“Never heard of you.”

“Likewise.”

“I run a shop near the beach. Trinkets and crap, mostly crap.”

“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.

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.

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… .

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.

“Hank, I’m going to buy the costumes now. You stay in bed. You’re probably sick from all that drinking.”

“Why? We both drank the same.”

“I heard you sneaking some in the kitchen. Why did you do that?”

“I was afraid, I guess.”

“You? Afraid? I thought you were the big, tough, drinking, woman-fucker?”

“Did I let you down?”

“No.”

“I was afraid. My art is my fear. I rocket off from it.”

“I’m going to get the costumes, Hank.”

“You’re angry. I let you down.”

“Not at all. I’ll be back.”

“Where’s this shop at?”

“87th Street.”

“87th Street? Great Christ, that’s Watts!”

“They have the best costumes on the coast.”

“It’s black down there!”

“Are you anti-black?”

“I’m anti-everything.”

“I’ll take a cab. I’ll be back in 3 hours.”

“Is this your idea of vengeance?”

“I said I’d be back. I’m leaving my things.”

“You’ll never come back.”

“I’ll be back. I can handle myself.”

“All right, but look … don’t take a cab.”

I got up and found my bluejeans, found my car keys.

“Here, take my Volks. It’s TRV 469, right outside. But go easy on the clutch, and second gear is shot, especially coming back down it grinds… .”

She took the keys and I got back into bed and pulled the sheet up. Liza bent over me. I grabbed her, kissed her along the neck. My breath was bad.

“Cheer up,” she said. “Trust. We’ll celebrate tonight and there’ll be a fashion parade.” 1 can t wait.

“You will.”

“The silver key opens the door on the driver’s side. The gold key is the ignition. …”

She walked off in her medium-length red dress. I heard the door close. I looked around. Her suitcase was still there. And there was a pair of her shoes on the rug.

When I awakened it was 1:30 pm. I took a bath, got dressed, checked the mail. A letter from a young man in Glendale. “Dear Mr. Chinaski: I am a young writer and I think that I am a good one, a very good one, but my poems keep coming back. How does one break into this game? What is the secret? Who do you have to know? I very much admire your writing and I would like to come over and talk to you. I’ll bring a couple of 6-packs and we can talk. I’d also like to read you some of my work. …”

The poor fucker didn’t have a cunt. I threw his letter into the wastebasket.

An hour or so later Liza returned. “Oh, I’ve found the most marvelous costumes!”

She had an armful of dresses. She went into the bedroom. Some time passed, then she walked out. She was in a high-necked long gown and she whirled in front of me. It fit her very nicely around the ass. It was gold and black and she had on black shoes. She did a subdued dance.

“You like it?”

“Oh, yes. …” I sat and waited.

Liza went back into the bedroom. Then she came out in green and red with shots of silver. This one was a midriff job with her bellybutton showing. As she paraded in front of me she had this special way of looking into my eyes. It was neither coy nor sexy, it was perfect.

I don’t remember how many costumes she showed me, but the last one was just right. It clung to her and was slit up each side of the skirt. As she walked around, first one leg came out, then the other. The dress was black, it shimmered, and it was cut low in front.

I got up as she walked across the room and grabbed her. I kissed her viciously, bending her backwards. I continued to kiss her and began pulling up her long gown. I pulled the back of the skirt all the way up and saw her panties, yellow. I pulled the front of her gown up and began pushing my cock against her. Her tongue slipped into my mouth—it was as cool as if she had been drinking ice water. I walked her backwards into the bedroom, pushed her on to the bed and mauled her. I got those yellow panties off and got my own pants off. I let my imagination go. Her legs were around my neck as I stood over her. I spread her legs apart, moved up, and slid it in. I played around a little, using different speeds, then anger thrusts, thrusts of love, teasing thrusts, brutal thrusts. I would pull out from time to time, then begin again. Finally I let go, gave her the last few strokes, came, and sank down beside her.

Liza continued to kiss me. I wasn’t sure whether she had gotten off or not. I had.

We had dinner at a French place that also served good American food at fair prices. It was always overcrowded which gave us time at the bar. That night I left my name as Lancelot Lovejoy, and I was even sober enough to recognize the call 45 minutes later.

We ordered a bottle of wine. We decided to hold off dinner for a while. There isn’t a better way to drink than at a small table over a white tablecloth with a good-looking woman.

“You fuck,” Liza told me, “with the enthusiasm of a man who is fucking for the first time and yet you fuck with a lot of inventiveness.”

“May I write that down on my sleeve?”

“Sure.”

“I might use it sometimes.”

“Just don’t use me, that’s all I ask. I don’t want to be just another one of your women.”

I didn’t answer.

“My sister hates you,” she said. “She said that all you’ll do is use me.”

“What happened to your class, Liza? You’re talking just like everybody else.”

We never got around to dinner. When we got back home we drank some more. I did like her very much. I began to abuse her a bit, verbally. She looked surprised, her eyes filled with tears. She ran to the bathroom, stayed 10 minutes or so, then came out.

“My sister was right. You’re a bastard!”

“Let’s go to bed, Liza.”

We got ready for bed. We got into bed and I mounted her. Without foreplay it was much more difficult but I finally got it in. I began to work. I worked and I worked. It was another hot night. It was like a recurring bad dream. I began sweating. I humped and I pumped. It wouldn’t go down, it wouldn’t come off. I pumped and I humped. Finally I rolled off. “Sorry, baby, too much to drink.”

Liza slowly slid her head down my chest, across my belly, down, got to it, began licking and licking and licking, then took it into her mouth and worked on it… .

I flew back to San Francisco with Liza. She had an apartment at the top of a steep hill. It was nice. The first thing I had to do was crap. I went into the bathroom and sat down. Green vines all around. What a pot. I liked it. When I came out Liza sat me down on some big pillows, put Mozart on the machine, and poured me a chilled wine. It was dinner time and she stood in the kitchen cooking. Every now and then she poured me another wine. I always enjoyed being at women’s places more than when they were at mine. When I was at their places I could always leave.

She called me in to dinner. There was salad, iced tea and a chicken stew. It was quite good. I was a terrible cook. All I could fry were steaks, although I made a good beef stew, especially when drunk. I liked to gamble with my beef stews. I put almost everything into them and sometimes got away with it.

After dinner we took a ride to Fisherman’s Wharf. Liza drove her car with great caution. It made me nervous. She would stop at a cross street and look in both directions for traffic. When there wasn’t any she still sat there. I waited.

“Liza, shit, let’s go. There isn’t anybody around.”

Then she would go. That was the way it was with people. The longer you knew them the more their eccentricities showed. Sometimes their eccentricities were humorous—in the beginning.

We walked along the wharf, then went and sat on the sand. It wasn’t much of a beach.

She told me she hadn’t had a boyfriend in some time. What the men she had known talked about, what was important to them, she found unbelievable.

“Women are much the same,” I told her. “When they asked Richard Burton what was the first thing he looked for in a woman, he said, ‘She must be at least 30 years old.’”

It got dark and we went back to her apartment. Liza brought out the wine and we sat on pillows. She opened the shutters and we looked out on the night. We began kissing. Then we drank. And kissed some more.

“When are you going back to work?” I asked her.

“Do you want me to?”

“No, but you have to live.”

“But you’re not working.”

“In a way, I am.”

“You mean you live in order to write?”

“No, I just exist. Then later I try to remember and write some of it down.”

“I only run my dance studio three nights a week.”

“You make ends meet that way?”

“So far I have.”

We became more involved with kissing. She didn’t drink as much as I did. We moved to the waterbed, undressed and got to it. I’d heard about waterbed fucks. They were supposed to be great. I found it difficult. The water shuddered and shook beneath us, and as I was moving down, the water seemed to be rocking from side to side. Instead of bringing her to me, it seemed to take her away from me. Maybe I needed practice. I went into my savagery routine, grabbing her by the hair, thrusting as if it was a rape. She liked it, or seemed to, making little delightful sounds. I savaged her some more, then suddenly she appeared to climax, making all the right sounds. That excited me and I came just at the end of hers.

We cleaned up and went back to the pillows and the wine. Liza fell asleep with her head in my lap. I sat there an hour or so. Then I stretched out on my back and we slept that night on all those pillows.

The next day Liza took me to her dance studio. We got sandwiches from a place across the street and we took them up with our drinks to her studio and ate them. It was a very large room on a second floor. There was nothing but empty floor, some stereo equipment, a few chairs, and there were ropes strung high above, across the ceiling. I didn’t know what any of it meant.

“Shall I teach you to dance?” she asked.

“Somehow I’m not in the mood,” I said.

The following days and nights were similar. Not bad but not great. I learned to manage on the waterbed a bit better but I still preferred a normal bed for fucking.

I stayed 3 or 4 more days, then flew back to L.A.

We continued to write letters back and forth.

A month later she was back in L. A. This time when she walked up to my door she wore slacks. She looked different, I couldn’t explain it to myself but she looked different. I didn’t enjoy sitting around with her so I took her to the racetrack, to the movies, to the boxing matches, all the things I did with women I enjoyed, but something was missing. We still had sex, but it was no longer as exciting. I felt as if we were married.

After five days Liza was sitting on the couch and I was reading the newspaper when she said, “Hank, it’s not working, is it?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll leave. I don’t want to stay here.”

“Relax, it’s not that bad.”

“I just don’t understand it.”

I didn’t answer.

“Hank, drive me to the Women’s Liberation Building. Do you know where it’s at?”

“Yes, it’s in the Westlake district where the art school used to be.”

“How did you know?”

“I drove another woman there once.”

“You bastard.”

“O.K., now… .”

“I have a girlfriend who works there. I don’t know where her apartment is and I can’t find her in the phonebook. But I know she works at the Women’s Lib Building. I’ll stay with her for a couple of days. I just don’t want to go back to San Francisco feeling like I do… .”

Liza got her things together and put them in her suitcase. We walked out to the car and I drove to the Westlake district. I had driven Lydia there once for a women’s art exhibit where she had entered some of her sculpture.

I parked outside.

“I’ll wait to make sure your friend is there.”

“It’s all right. You can go.”

“I’ll wait.”

I waited. Liza came out, waved. I waved back, started the engine and drove off.

I was sitting in my shorts one afternoon a week later. There was a tender little knock on the door. “Just a moment,” I said. I put on a robe and opened the door.

“We’re two girls from Germany. We’ve read your books.”

One looked to be about 19, the other maybe 22.

I had two or three books out in Germany in limited editions. I had been born in Germany in 1920, in Andernach. The house I had lived in during my childhood was now a brothel. I couldn’t speak German. But they spoke English.

“Come in.”

They sat on the couch.

“I’m Hilda,” said the 19 year old.

“I’m Gertrude,” said the 22 year old.

“I’m Hank.”

“We thought your books were very sad and very funny,” said Gertrude.

“Thank you.”

I went in and poured 3 vodka-7s. I loaded their drinks, and I loaded mine.

“We’re on our way to New York City. We thought we would stop by,” said Gertrude.

They went on to say they’d been in Mexico. They spoke good English. Gertrude was heavier, almost a butterball; she was all breasts and ass. Hilda was thin, looked like she was under some kind of strain … constipated and odd, but attractive.

As I drank I crossed my legs. My robe fell apart.

“Oh,” said Gertrude, “you have sexy legs!”

“Yes,” said Hilda.

“I know it,” I said.

The girls stayed right along with me on the drinks. I went and concocted three more. When I sat down again I made sure that my robe covered me properly.

“You girls can stay here for a few days, rest up.”

They didn’t answer.

“Or you don’t have to stay,” I said. “It’s all right. We can just talk awhile. I don’t want to make any demands on you.”

“I’ll bet you know a lot of women,” said Hilda. “We’ve read your books.”

“I write fiction.”

“What’s fiction?”

“Fiction is an improvement on life.”

“You mean you lie?” asked Gertrude.

“A little. Not too much.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” asked Hilda.

“No. Not now.”

“We’ll stay,” said Gertrude.

“There’s only one bed.”

“That’s all right.”

“Just one other thing …”

“What?”

“I must sleep in the middle.”

“That’s all right.”

I kept mixing drinks and soon we ran out. I phoned the liquor store. “I want …”

“Wait, my friend,” he said, “we don’t start making home deliveries until 6 pm.”

“Really? I push $200 a month down your throat… .”

“Who is this?”

“Chinaski.”

“Oh, Chinaski… . What is it you wanted?”

I told the man. Then, “You know how to get here?”

“Oh, yes.”

He arrived in 8 minutes. It was the fat Australian who was always sweating. I took the two cartons and set them on a chair.

“Hello, ladies,” said the fat Australian.

They didn’t answer.

“What’s the bill, Arbuckle?”

“Well, it comes to $17.94.”

I gave him a twenty. He started digging for change.

“You know better than that. Buy yourself a new home.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Then he leaned toward me and asked in a lower voice, “My God, how do you do it?”

“Typing,” I said.

“Typing?”

“Yes, about 18 words a minute.”

I pushed him back outside and closed the door.

That night I got in bed with them, with me in between. We were all drunk and first I grabbed one and kissed and fondled her, then I turned and grabbed the other. I went back and forth and it was very rewarding. Later I concentrated on one for a long time, then turned and went to the other. Each waited patiently. I was confused. Gertrude was hotter, Hilda was younger. I reamed butt, laid on top of each of them but didn’t stick it in. I finally decided on Gertrude. But I couldn’t do it. I was too drunk. Gertrude and I went to sleep, her hand holding my cock, my hands on her breasts. My cock went down, her breasts remained firm.

It was very hot the next day and there was more drinking. I phoned out for food. I turned the fan on. There wasn’t much talking. Those German girls liked their drinks. Then they both went out and sat on the old couch on my front porch—Hilda in shorts and bra and Gertrude in a tight pink underslip without bra or panties. Max, the mailman, came by. Gertrude accepted my mail for me. Poor Max nearly fainted. I could see the envy and disbelief in his eyes. But, then, he had job security… .

Around 2 pm Hilda announced that she was going for a walk. Gertrude and I went inside. Finally it did happen. We were on the bed and we played our openers. After a while we got down to it. I mounted and it went in. But it went in sharply to the left, like there was a curve. I could only remember one other woman like that—but it had been good. Then I got to thinking, she’s fooling me, I’m not really in there. So I pulled it out and stuck it back in. It went in and took a hard left turn again. What shit. Either she had a fucked up pussy or I wasn’t penetrating. I persuaded myself to believe she had a fucked up pussy. I pumped and worked while it bent around that hard left turn.

I worked and worked. Then it felt as if I were hitting bone. It was shocking. I gave up and rolled off.

“Sorry,” I said, “I just don’t seem to have it today.”

Gertrude didn’t answer.

We both got up and dressed. Then we went into the front room and sat and waited on Hilda. We drank and waited. Hilda took a long time. A long, long time. She finally arrived.

“Hello,” I said.

“Who are all these black men in your neighborhood?” she asked.

“I don’t know who they are.”

“They said I could make $2,000 a week.”

“Doing what?”

“They didn’t say.”

The German girls stayed 2 or 3 days more. I still kept hitting that left turn in Gertrude even when I was sober. Hilda told me she was on Tampax, so she was no help.

They finally collected their things and I got them into my car. They had large canvas bags that they carried over their shoulders. German hippies. I followed their instructions. Turn here, turn there. We climbed higher and higher into the Hollywood Hills. We were in rich territory. I had forgotten that some people lived quite well while most others ate their own shit for breakfast. When you lived where I lived you began to believe that every place else was like your own crummy place.

“Here it is,” said Gertrude.

The Volks was at the bottom of a long winding driveway. Up there somewhere was a house, a large, large house with all the things in it, and around it, that such houses have.

“You had better let us walk up,” said Gertrude.

“Sure,” I said.

They got out. I turned the Volks around. They stood at the entrance and waved to me, their canvas backpacks slung over their shoulders. I waved back. Then I drove off, put it into neutral, and glided down out of the mountains.

I was asked to give a reading at a famous nightclub, The Lancer, on Hollywood Boulevard. I agreed to read two nights. I was to follow a rock group, The Big Rape, each night. I was getting sucked into

the show biz maze. I had some extra tickets and I phoned Tammie and asked her if she wanted to come. She said yes, so the first night I took her with me. I had them put her on the tab. We sat in the bar waiting for my act to go on. Tammie’s act was similar to mine. She promptly got drunk and walked up and down in the bar talking to people.

By the time I was ready to go on Tammie was falling over tables. I found her brother and told him, “Jesus Christ, get her out of here, will you?”

He led her off into the night. I was drunk, too, and later on I forgot that I had asked that she be taken away.

I didn’t give a good reading. The audience was strictly into rock, and they missed lines and meanings. But some of it was my fault too. I sometimes lucked out with rock crowds, but that particular night I didn’t. I was disturbed by Tammie’s absence, I think. When I got home I phoned her number. Her mother answered. “Your daughter,” I told her, “is SCUM!”

“Hank, I don’t want to hear that.”

She hung up.

The next night I went alone. I sat at a table in the bar and drank. An elderly, dignified woman came up to my table and introduced herself. She taught English literature and had brought one of her pupils, a little butterball called Nancy Freeze. Nancy appeared to be in heat. They wanted to know if I would answer some questions for the class.

“Shoot.”

“Who was your favorite author?”

“Fante.”

“Who?”

“John F—a—n—t—e. Ask the Dust. Wait Until Spring, Bandini.”

“Where can we find his books?”

“I found them in the main library, downtown. Fifth and Olive, isn’t it?”

“Why did you like him?”

“Total emotion. A very brave man.”

“Who else?”

“Celine.”

“Why?”

“They ripped out his guts and he laughed, and he made them laugh too. A very brave man.”

“Do you believe in bravery?”

“I like to see it anywhere, in animals, birds, reptiles, humans.”

“Why?”

“Why? It makes me feel good. It’s a matter of style in the face of no chance at all.”

“Hemingway?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Too grim, too serious. A good writer, fine sentences. But for him, life was always total war. He never let go, he never danced.”

They folded up their notebooks and vanished. Too bad. I had meant to tell them that my real influences were Gable, Cagney, Bogart and Errol Flynn.

Next thing I knew I was sitting with three handsome women, Sara, Cassie, and Debra. Sara was 32,3 classy wench, good style and a heart. She had red-blond hair that fell straight down, and she had wild eyes, slightly insane. She also carried an overload of compassion that was real enough and which obviously cost her something. Debra was Jewish with large brown eyes and a generous mouth, heavily smeared with blood-red lipstick. Her mouth glistened and beckoned to me. I guessed she was somewhere between 30 and 35, and she reminded me of how my mother looked in 1935 (although my mother had been much more beautiful). Cassie was tall with long blond hair, very young, expensively dressed, modish, hip, “in,” nervous, beautiful. She sat closest to me, squeezing my hand, rubbing her thigh against mine. As she squeezed my hand I became aware that her hand was much larger than mine. (Although I am a large man I am embarrassed by my small hands. In my barroom brawls as a young man in Philadelphia I had quickly found out the importance of hand size. How I had managed to win 30 percent of my fights was amazing.) Anyway, Cassie felt she had an edge on the other two, and I wasn’t sure but that I agreed.

Then I had to read, and I had a luckier night. It was the same crowd, but my mind was on my work. The crowd got warmer and warmer, wilder and enthusiastic. Sometimes it was them who made it happen, sometimes it was you. Usually the latter. It was like climbing into the prize ring: you should feel you owed them something or you shouldn’t be in there. I jabbbed and crossed and shuffled, and in the last round I really opened up and knocked out the referee. Performance is performance. Because I had bombed the night before my success must have seemed very strange to them. It certainly seemed strange to me.

Cassie was waiting in the bar. Sara slipped me a love note with her phone number. Debra was not as inventive—she just wrote down her phone number. For a moment—strangely—I thought about Katherine, then I bought Cassie a drink. I’d never see Katherine again. My little Texas girl, my beauty of beauties. Goodbye, Katherine.

“Look, Cassie, can you drive me home? I’m too drunk to drive. One more drunk driving rap and I’ve had it.”

“All right, I’ll drive you home. How about your car?”

“Fuck it. I’ll leave it.”

We left together in her M.G. It was like a movie. At any moment I expected her to drop me off at the next corner. She was in her mid-twenties. She talked as we drove. She worked for a music company, loved it, didn’t have to be at work until 10:30 am and she left at 3 pm. “Not bad,” she said, “and I like it. I can hire and fire, I’ve moved up, but I haven’t had to fire anybody yet. They’re good folks and we’ve put out some great records. …”

We arrived at my place. I broke out the vodka. Cassie’s hair came down almost to her ass. I had always been a hair and leg man.

“You really read well tonight,” she said. “You were a totally different person than the night before. I don’t know how to explain it, but at your best you have this … humanness. Most poets are such little prigs and shits.”

“I don’t like them either.”

“And they don’t like you.”

We drank some more and then went to bed. Her body was amazing, glorious, Playboy style, but unfortunately I was drunk. I did get it up, however, and I pumped and pumped, I grabbed her long hair, I got it out from under her and ran my hands through it, I was excited but I couldn’t finally do it. I rolled off, told Cassie goodnight, and slept a guilty sleep.

In the morning I was embarrassed. I was sure I would never see Cassie again. We dressed. It was about 10 am. We walked to the M. G. and got in. I didn’t talk, she didn’t talk. I felt the fool, but there was nothing to say. We drove back to The Lancer and there was the blue Volks.

“Thanks for all of it, Cassie. Think nice thoughts about Chinaski.”

She didn’t answer. I kissed her on the cheek and got out. She drove off in the M.G. It was, after all, as Lydia had often said, “If you want to drink, drink; if you want to fuck, throw the bottle away.”

My problem was that I wanted to do both.

So I was surprised when the phone rang a couple of nights later and it was Cassie.

“What are you doing, Hank?”

“Just sitting around. …”

“Why don’t you come over?”

“I’d like to. …”

She gave me the address, it was either Westwood or West L. A.

“I have plenty to drink,” she said. “You needn’t bring anything.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t drink anything?”

“It’s all right.”

“If you pour it, I’ll drink it. If you don’t, I won’t.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said.

I got dressed, jumped into the Volks, and drove to the address. How many breaks did a man have coming? The gods were good to me, of late. Maybe it was a test? Maybe it was a trick? Fatten Chinaski up, then slice him in half. I knew that might be coming too. But what can you do after a couple of 8-counts with only 2 rounds left to go?

Cassie’s apartment was on the second floor. She seemed glad to see me. A large black dog leaped on me. He was huge and floppy and male. He stood with his paws on my shoulders and licked my face. I pushed him off. He stood there wiggling his butt and making begging sounds. He had long black hair and appeared to be a mongrel, but what a big one he was.

“That’s Elton,” said Cassie.

She went to the refrigerator and got the wine.

“This is what you should drink. I’ve got plenty of it.”

She was dressed in an all-green gown which clung tightly to her. She was like a snake. She had on shoes sequined with green stones, and once again I noticed how long her hair was, not only long but full, there was such a mass of it. It came down at least to her ass. Her eyes were large and blue-green, sometimes more blue than green, sometimes the other way around, depending upon how the light hit them. I noticed two of my books in her bookcase, two of the better ones.

Cassie sat down, opened the wine and poured two.

“We kind of met somehow during that last encounter, we touched somewhere. I didn’t want to let it go,” she said.

“I enjoyed it,” I said.

“Want an upper?”

“All right,” I said.

She brought out two. Black cap. The best. I sent mine down with the wine.

“I’ve got the best dealer in town. He doesn’t rip me off,” she said.

“Good.”

“You ever been hooked?” she asked.

“I tried coke for a while, but I couldn’t stand the comedown. I was afraid to go into the kitchen the next day because there was a butcher knife in there. Besides, 50 to 75 bucks a day is beyond me.

“I’ve got some coke.” I pass.

She poured more wine.

I don’t know why, but with each new woman it seemed like the first time, almost as if I had never been with a woman before. I kissed Cassie. As I kissed her I let one hand run through all that long hair.

“Want some music?”

“No, not really.”

“You knew Dee Dee Bronson, didn’t you?” Cassie asked.

“Yes, we split.”

“You heard what happened to her?”

“No.”

“First she lost her job, then she went to Mexico. She met a retired bullfighter. The bullfighter beat the shit out of her and took her life savings, $7,000.”

“Poor Dee Dee: from me to that.”

Cassie got up. I watched her walk across the room. Her ass moved and shimmered under that tight green gown. She came back with papers and some grass. She rolled a joint.

“Then she got in a car crash.”

“She never could drive. Do you know her well?”

“No. But we hear about things in the industry.”

“Just living until you die is hard work,” I said.

Cassie passed the joint. “Your life seems in order,” she said.

“Really?”

“I mean, you don’t come on or try to impress like some men. And you seem naturally funny.”

“I like your ass and your hair,” I said, “and your lips and your eyes and your wine and your place and your joints. But I’m not in order.”

“You write a lot about women.”

“I know. I wonder sometimes what I will write about after that.”

“Maybe it won’t stop.”

“Everything stops.”

“Let me have some of that joint.”

“Sure, Cassie.”

She took a hit and then I kissed her. I pulled her head back by the hair. I forced her lips open. It was a long one. Then I let her go.

“You like that, don’t you?” she asked.

“To me it’s more personal and sexual than fucking.”

“I think you’re right,” she said.

We smoked and drank for several hours, then went to bed. We kissed and played. I was good and hard and I stroked her well, but after ten minutes I knew I wasn’t going to make it. Too much to drink again. I began to sweat and strain. I stroked some more, then rolled off.

“I’m sorry, Cassie. …”

I watched her head move down to my penis. It was still hard. She began licking it. The dog jumped up on the bed and I kicked him off. I watched Cassie licking my cock. The moonlight came through the window and I could see her clearly. She took the end of my dick in her mouth and just nibbled at it. Suddenly she went for it all and she worked well, running her tongue up and down the length of my cock as she sucked. It was glorious.

I reached down and grabbed her hair with one hand and held it up, held it high over her head, all that hair, as she sucked on my cock. It lasted a long time but finally I could feel myself getting ready to come. She sensed it too and redoubled her efforts. I began making whimpering sounds and I could hear the big dog whimpering on the rug along with me. I liked that. I held back as long as I could to prolong the pleasure. Then, still holding and caressing her hair, I exploded in her mouth.

When I awakened the next morning Cassie was getting dressed.

“That’s all right,” she said, “you can stay. Just be sure you lock the door when you leave.”

“All right.”

After she left I took a shower. Then I found a beer in the refrigerator, drank that, dressed, said goodbye to Elton, made sure the door was locked, got into the Volks and drove back home.

Three or four days later I found her note and phoned Debra. She said, “Come on over.” She gave me the directions to Playa del Rey and I drove over. She had a small rented house with a front yard. I drove into the front yard, got out of the car and knocked, then rang. It was one of those two-tone bells. Debra opened the door. She was as I remembered her, with enormous lipstick mouth, short hairdo, bright earrings, perfume, and almost always, that wide smile.

“Oh, come in, Henry!”

I did. There was a guy sitting there but he was obviously a homosexual so it wasn’t really an affront.

“This is Larry, my neighbor. He lives in the house in back.”

We shook hands and I sat down.

“Is there anything to drink?” I asked.

“Oh, Henry!”

“I can go get something. I would have, only I didn’t know what you wanted.”

“Oh, I have something.”

Debra went into the kitchen.

“How are you doing?” I asked Larry.

“I haven’t been doing well, but I’m doing better. I’m into self-hypnosis. It’s done marvels for me.”

“Do you want anything to drink, Larry?” asked Debra from the kitchen.

“Oh no, thanks… .”

Debra came out with two glasses of red wine. Debra’s house was over-decorated. There was something everywhere. It was expensively cluttered and there seemed to be rock music coming from every direction out of little speakers.

“Larry’s practicing self-hypnosis.”

“He told me.”

“You don’t know how much better I’m sleeping, you don’t know how much better I’m relating,” Larry said.

“Do you think everybody should try it?” asked Debra.

“Well, that would be difficult to say. But I do know that it works for me.”

“I’m throwing a Halloween party, Henry. Everybody’s coming. Why don’t you join us? What do you think he could come as, Larry?”

They both looked at me.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Larry. “Really, I don’t know. Maybe? … oh, no … I don’t think so… .”

The doorbell bing-bonged and Debra went to open it. It was another homosexual without his shirt on. He had on a wolfs mask with a big rubber tongue hanging out of the mouth. He seemed testy and depressed.

“Vincent, this is Henry. Henry, this is Vincent… .”

Vincent ignored me. He just stood there with his rubber tongue. “I had a horrible day at work. I can’t stand it there anymore. I think I’ll quit.”

“But Vincent, what would you do?” Debra asked him.

“I don’t know. But I can do a lot of things. I don’t have to eat their shit!”

“You’re coming to the party, aren’t you Vincent?”

“Of course, I’ve been preparing for days.”

“Have you memorized your lines for the play?”

“Yes, but this time I think we should do the play before we do the games. Last time, before we got to the play we were all so smashed we didn’t do the play justice.”

“All right, Vincent, we’ll do it that way.”

With that, Vincent and his tongue turned and walked out the door.

Larry stood up. “Well, I must be going too. Nice meeting you,” he said to me.

“All right, Larry.”

We shook hands and Larry walked through the kitchen and out the back door to his place.

“Larry’s been a great help to me, he’s a good neighbor. I’m glad you were nice to him.”

“He was all right. Hell, he was here before I was.”

“We don’t have sex.”

“Neither do we.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ll go get us something to drink.”

“Henry, I have plenty of everything. I knew you were coming.”

Debra refilled our glasses. I looked at her. She was young, but she looked as if she was straight out of the 1930’s. She wore a black skirt that came down halfway between her knee and ankle, black shoes with high heels, a white high-necked blouse, a necklace, earrings, bracelets, the lipstick mouth, plenty of rouge, perfume. She was well-built with nice breasts and buttocks and she swung them as she walked. She kept lighting cigarettes, there were lipstick-smeared butts everywhere. I felt sure I was back in my boyhood. She even didn’t wear pantyhose and now and then she tugged at her long stockings, showing just enough leg, just enough knee. She was the kind of girl that our fathers loved.

She told me about her business. It had something to do with court transcripts and lawyers. It drove her crazy but she was making a good living.

“Sometimes I get very snappish with my help, but then I get over it and they forgive me. You just don’t know what those goddamned lawyers are like! They want everything immediately, and they don’t think about the time it takes to do it.”

“Lawyers and doctors are the most overpaid, spoiled members of our society. Next in line is your corner garage mechanic. Then you might throw in your dentist.”

Debra crossed her legs and her skirt hiked up.

“You have very nice legs, Debra. And you know how to dress. You remind me of the girls in my mother’s day. That’s when women were women.”

“You’ve got a great line, Henry.”

“You know what I mean. It’s especially true of L. A. Once not long ago I left town and when I returned, do you know how I knew I was back?”

“Well, no… .”

“It was the first woman I passed on the street. She had on a skirt so short you saw the crotch of her panties. And through the front of the panties—pardon me—you could see her cunt hairs. I knew I was back in L.A.”

“Where were you? On Main Street?”

“Main Street, hell. It was Beverly and Fairfax.”

“Do you like the wine?”

“Yes, and I like your place. I might even move in here.”

“My landlord’s jealous.”

“Anybody else who might be jealous?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I work hard and I just like to come home and relax in the evening. I like to decorate this place. My girlfriend—she works for me—and I are going to antique shops tomorrow morning. Do you want to come along?”

“Will I be here in the morning?”

Debra didn’t answer. She poured me another drink and sat beside me on the couch. I leaned over and kissed her. As I did I pulled her skirt further back and peeked at that nylon leg. It looked good. When we finished kissing she pulled her skirt down again, but I had already memorized the leg. She got up and went to the bathroom. I heard the toilet flush. Then there was a wait. She was probably applying more lipstick. I took out my hanky and wiped my mouth. The hanky came away smeared with red. I was finally getting everything the boys in high school had gotten, the rich pretty well-dressed golden boys with their new automobiles, and me with my sloppy old clothes and broken down bicycle.

Debra walked out. She sat down and lit a cigarette.

“Let’s fuck,” I said.

Debra walked into the bedroom. There was a half a bottle of wine left on the coffee table. I poured myself a drink and lit one of her cigarettes. She turned off the rock music. That was nice.

It was quiet. I poured another drink. Maybe I would move in? Where would I put the typewriter?

“Henry?”

“What?”

“Where are you?”

“Wait. I just want to finish this drink.”

“All right.”

I finished the glass and then poured down what was left in the bottle. I was in Playa del Rey. I undressed, leaving my clothes in a messy pile on the couch. I had never been a dresser. My shirts were all faded and shrunken, 5 or 6 years old, threadbare. My pants the same. I hated department stores, I hated the clerks, they acted so superior, they seemed to know the secret of life, they had a confidence I didn’t possess. My shoes were always broken down and old, I disliked shoe stores too. I never purchased anything until it was completely unusable, and that included automobiles. It wasn’t a matter of thrift, I just couldn’t bear to be a buyer needing a seller, seller being so handsome and aloof and superior. Besides, it all took time, time when you could just be laying around and drinking.

I walked into the bedroom with just my shorts on. I was conscious of my white belly lolling out over the shorts. But I made no effort to suck in my gut. I stood by the side of the bed, lowered my shorts, stepped out of them. Suddenly I wanted more to drink. I climbed into the bed. I got under the covers. Then I turned toward Debra. I held her. We were pressed together. Her mouth was open. I kissed her. Her mouth was like a wet cunt. She was ready. I sensed it. There would be no need of foreplay. We kissed and her tongue flicked in and out of my mouth. I caught it between my teeth, held it. Then I rolled over on top of Debra and slid it in.

I think it was the way her head was turned away to one side as I fucked her. It turned me on. Her head was turned away and bounced on the pillow with each stroke. Now and then as I was stroking I turned her head toward me and kissed that blood-red mouth. It was finally working for me. I was fucking all the women and girls I had gazed longingly after on the sidewalks of Los Angeles in 1937, the last really bad year of the depression, when a piece of ass cost two bucks and nobody had any money (or hope) at all. I’d had to wait a long time for mine. I worked and pumped. I was having a red hot useless fuck! I grabbed Debra’s head once again, reached that lipstick mouth just one more time as I spurted into her, into her diaphragm.

The next day was Saturday and Debra cooked us breakfast.

“Are you coming antique hunting with us today?”

“All right.”

“Are you hungover?” she asked.

“Not too bad.”

We ate in silence for a while, then she said, “I liked your reading at The Lancer. You were drunk but it came through.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t.”

“When are you going to read again?”

“Somebody’s been phoning from Canada. They’re trying to raise funds.”

“Canada! Can I go with you?”

“We’ll see.”

“Are you staying tonight?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

“I will then.”

“Great… .”

We finished breakfast and I went to the bathroom while Debra did the dishes. I flushed and wiped, flushed again, washed my hands, came out. Debra was cleaning up at the sink. I grabbed her from behind.

“You can use my toothbrush if you want,” she said.

“Is my breath bad?”

“It’s all right.”

“Like hell.”

“You can also shower if you want… .”

“That too … ?”

“Stop it. Tessie won’t be here for an hour. We can clear away the cobwebs.”

I went and let the bathwater run. The only time I liked to shower was in a motel. In the bathroom there was a photo of a man on the wall—dark, long hair, standard, handsome face run through with the usual idiocy. He smiled white teeth at me. I brushed what was left of my discolored teeth. Debra had mentioned that her ex-husband was a shrink.

Debra showered after I was through. I poured myself a small glass of wine and sat in a chair looking out the front window. Suddenly I remembered that I had forgotten to mail my ex-woman her child support money. Oh well. I’d do it Monday.

I felt peaceful in Playa del Rey. It was good to get out of the crowded, dirty court where I lived. There was no shade, and the sun beat down mercilessly on us. We were all insane in one way or another. Even the dogs and the cats were insane, and the birds and the newsboys and the hookers.

For us, in east Hollywood, the toilets never worked properly and the landlord’s cut-rate plumber could never quite fix them. We left the tank lids off and hand-manipulated the plunger. The faucets dripped, the roaches crawled, the dogs crapped everywhere, and the screens had large holes in them that let in flies and all manner of strange flying insects.

The bell bing-bonged and I got up and opened the door. It was Tessie. She was in her forties, a swinger, a redhead with obviously dyed hair.

“You’re Henry, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Debra’s in the bathroom. Please sit down.” She had on a short red skirt. Her thighs were good. Her ankles and calves weren’t bad either. She looked like she loved to fuck. I walked to the bathroom and knocked on the door. “Debra, Tessie’s here. …”

The first antique store was a block or two from the water. We drove down in the Volks and went in. I walked around with them. Everything was priced $800, $1500 … old clocks, old chairs, old tables. The prices were unbelievable. Two or three clerks stood around and rubbed their hands. They evidently worked on salary plus commission. The owner certainly located the items for almost nothing in Europe or the Ozark Mountains. I got bored looking at huge price tags. I told the girls I’d wait in the car.

I found a bar across the street, went in, sat down. I ordered a bottle of beer. The bar was full of young men mostly under 25. The were blond and slim, or dark and slim, dressed in perfectly fitting slacks and shirts. They were expressionless and undisturbed. There were no women. A large television set was on. There was no sound. Nobody watched it. Nobody spoke. I finished my beer and left.

I found a liquor store and got a 6-pack. I went back to the car and sat there. The beer was good. The car was parked in the lot in back of the antique store. The street to my left was backed up with traffic and I watched the people waiting patiently in the cars. There was almost always a man and a woman, staring straight ahead, not talking. It was, finally, for everyone, a matter of waiting. You waited and you waited—for the hospital, the doctor, the plumber, the madhouse, the jail, papa death himself. First the signal was red, then the signal was green. The citizens of the world ate food and watched t.v. and worried about their jobs or their lack of same, while they waited.

I began to think about Debra and Tessie in the antique shop. I really didn’t like Debra, but there I was entering her life. It made me feel like a peep-freak.

I sat drinking the beer. I was down to the last can when they finally came out.

“Oh Henry,” said Debra, “I found the nicest marble top table

for only $200!”

“It’s really fabulous!” said Tessie.

They climbed into the car. Debra pressed her leg against mine, “Have you been bored with all this?” she asked.

I started the engine and drove to a liquor store and bought 3 or 4 bottles of wine, cigarettes.

That bitch Tessie in her short red skirt with her nylons, I thought to myself as I paid the liquor store man. I bet she has done in at least a dozen good men without even thinking about it. I decided her problem was not thinking. She didn’t like to think. And that was all right because there weren’t any laws or rules about it. But when she reached 50 in a few years she’d begin to think! Then she’d be a bitter woman in a supermarket, jamming her shopping cart into people’s backs and ankles in the check-out line, her dark shades on, her face puffed and unhappy, her cart filled with cottage cheese, potato chips, pork chops, red onions and a quart of Jim Beam.

I went back to the car and we drove to Debra’s place. The girls sat down. I opened a bottle and poured 3 glasses.

“Henry,” said Debra, “I’m going to get Larry. He’ll drive me down in his van to pick up my table. You needn’t endure that, aren’t you glad?”

“Yes.”

“Tessie will keep you company.”

“All right.”

“You two behave yourselves now!”

Larry came in through the back door and he and Debra walked out the front. Larry warmed up the van, and they drove off.

“Well, we’re alone,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Tessie. She sat very still, looking straight ahead. I finished my drink and went to the bathroom to take a piss. When I came out Tessie was still sitting quietly on the couch.

I walked along behind the couch. When I reached her I took her under the chin and tipped her face up. I pressed my mouth against hers. She had a very large head. She had purple makeup smeared under her eyes and she smelled like stale fruit juice, apricots. She had thin silver chains dangling from each ear and at the end of each chain hung one ball—symbolic. As we kissed I reached down into her blouse. I found a breast and cupped my hand on it and rolled it around. No brassiere. Then I straightened up and pulled my hand away. I walked around the couch and sat down next to her. I poured two drinks.

“For an ugly old son of a bitch, you’ve got a lot of balls,” she said.

“How about a quickie before Debra gets back?”

“No.”

“Don’t hate me. I’m just trying to enliven the party.”

“I think you stepped out of bounds. What you just did was gross and obvious.”

“I guess I lack imagination.”

“And you’re a writer?”

“I write. But mostly I take photographs.”

“I think you fuck women just in order to write about fucking them.”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

“O.K., O.K., forget it. Drink up.”

Tessie went back to her drink. She finished it and put her cigarette down. She looked at me, blinking her long false eyelashes. She was like Debra with a big lipstick mouth. Only Debra’s mouth was darker and didn’t glisten as much. Tessie’s was a bright red and her lips glistened, she held her mouth open, continually licking her lower lip. Suddenly Tessie grabbed me. That mouth opened over my mouth. It was exciting. I felt as if I was being raped. My cock began to rise. I reached down while she was kissing me and flipped her skirt back, ran my hand up her left leg as we continued to kiss.

“Come on,” I said, after the kiss.

I took her by the hand and led her into Debra’s bedroom. I pushed her down on the bed. The bedspread was on. I pulled off my shoes and pants, then pulled her shoes off. I kissed her a long one, then I pulled the red skirt up over her hips. No pantyhose. Nylons and pink panties. I pulled the panties off. Tessie had her eyes closed. Somewhere in the neighborhood I could hear a stereo playing symphony music. I rubbed a finger along her cunt. Soon it got wet and began to open. I sank my finger in. Then I pulled it out and rubbed the clit. She was nice and juicy. I mounted. I hit her a few swift, vicious jolts, then I went slow, then I ripped again. I looked into that depraved and simple face. It really excited me. I pounded away.

Then Tessie pushed me away. “Get off!”

“What? What?”

“I hear the van! I’ll get fired! I’ll lose my job!”

“No, no, you WHORE!”

I ripped away without mercy, pressed my lips against that glistening, horrible mouth and came inside of her, good. I jumped off. Tessie picked up her shoes and panties and ran to the bathroom. I wiped off with my handkerchief and straightened the bedspread, fluffed up the pillows. As I was zipping up the door opened. I walked into the front room.

“Henry, would you help Larry carry in the table? It’s heavy.”

“Sure.”

“Where’s Tessie?”

“I think she’s in the bathroom.”

I followed Debra out to the truck. We slid the table out of the van, grabbed it and carried it back to the house. As we came back in Tessie was sitting on the couch with a cigarette.

“Don’t drop the merchandise, boys!” she said.

“No way!” I said.

We carried it into Debra’s bedroom and put it by the bedside. She had another table there which she removed. Then we stood around and looked at the marble top.

“Oh, Henry … just $200 … do you like it?”

“Oh, it’s fine, Debra, just fine.”

I went to the bathroom. I washed my face, combed my hair. Then I dropped my pants and shorts and quietly washed my parts. I pissed, flushed, and walked back out.

“Care for a wine, Larry?” I asked.

“Oh no, but thanks… .”

“Thanks for helping, Larry,” said Debra.

Larry went out the back door.

“Oh, I’m so excited!‘1” said Debra.

Tessie sat and drank and talked with us for 10 or 15 minutes then she said, “I’ve got to go.”

“Stay if you want to,” said Debra.

“No, no, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to clean my apartment, it’s a mess.”

“Clean your apartment? Today? When you’ve got two nice friends to drink with?” asked Debra.

“I just sit here thinking about that mess over there and I can’t feel relaxed. Don’t take it personally.”

“All right, Tessie, you go now. We’ll forgive you.”

“All right, darling… .”

They kissed in the doorway and then Tessie was gone. Debra took my by the hand and led me into the bedroom. We looked at the marble tabletop.

“What do you really think of it, Henry?”

“Well, I’ve lost $200 at the track and I’ve had nothing to show for it, so I think it’s all right.”

“It will be here next to us tonight while we sleep together.”

“Maybe I ought to stand there and you can go to bed with the table?”

“You’re jealous!”

“Of course.”

Debra walked back to the kitchen and came back with some rags and some kind of cleaning fluid. She began wiping off the marble.

“You see, there is a special way to treat marble to accent the veins.”

I got undressed and sat on the edge of the bed in my shorts. Then I lay back on the pillows and on the bedspread. Then I sat up. “Oh Christ, Debra, I’m messing up your bedspread.”

“That’s all right.”

I went and got two drinks, gave one to Debra. I watched her working on the table. Then she looked at me:

“You know, you have the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen on a man.”

“Not bad for an old guy, huh, kid?”

“Not at all.”

She rubbed at the table some more, then gave it up.

“How did you get along with Tessie?”

“She’s all right. I really like her.”

“She’s a good worker.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“I feel bad that she left. I think she just wanted to give us some privacy. I ought to phone her.”

“Why not?”

Debra got on the phone. She talked to Tessie for quite some time. It began to get dark. What about dinner? She had the phone in the center of the bed and she was sitting on her legs. She had a nice behind. Debra laughed and then she said goodbye. She looked at me.

“Tessie says that you’re sweet.”

I went out for more drinks. When I got back the large color television was on. We sat side by side on the bed watching t. v. We sat with our backs to the wall, drinking.

“Henry,” she asked, “what are you doing on Thanksgiving?”

“Nothing.”

“Why don’t you have Thanksgiving with me? I’ll get the turkey. I’ll have 2 or 3 friends over.”

“All right, it sounds good.”

Debra leaned forward and snapped the set off. She looked very happy. Then the light went off. She went to the bathroom and came out with something flimsy wrapped around her. Then she was in bed next to me. We pressed together. My cock rose. Her tongue flicked in and out of my mouth. She had a large tongue and it was warm. I went on down. I spread the hair and worked my tongue. Then I gave her a bit of a nose job. She was responding. I climbed back up, mounted her and stuck it in.

… I worked and I worked. I tried to think of Tessie in her short red skirt. It didn’t help. I had given it all to Tessie. I pumped on and on.

“Sorry, baby, too much to drink. Ah, feel my heart!””

She put her hand on my chest. “It’s really going,” she said.

“Am I still invited for Thanksgiving?”

“Sure, my poor dear, don’t worry, please.”

I kissed her goodnight, then rolled away and tried to sleep.

After Debra left for work the next morning I bathed, then tried to watch t.v. I walked around naked and noticed that I could be seen from the street through the front window. So I had a glass of grapefruit juice and dressed. Finally there was nothing to do but go back to my place. There’d be some mail, maybe a letter from someone. I made sure that all the doors were locked, then I walked out to the Volks, started it, and drove back to Los Angeles.

On the way in I remembered Sara, the third girl I had met during the reading at The Lancer. I had her phone number in my wallet. I drove home, took a crap, then phoned her.

“Hello,” I said, “this is Chinaski, Henry Chinaski… .”

“Yes, I remember you.”

“What are you doing? I thought I might drive out to see you.”

“I have to be at my restaurant today. Why don’t you come down here?”

“It’s a health food place, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I’ll make you a good healthy sandwich.”

“Oh?”

“I close at 4. Why don’t you get here a little before that?”

“All right. How do I get there?”

“Get a pen and I’ll give you directions.”

I wrote the directions down. “See you about 3:30,” I said.

About 2:30 I got into the Volks. Somewhere on the freeway the instructions got confusing or I became confused. I have a great dislike both for freeways and for instructions. I turned off and found myself in Lakewood. I pulled into a gas station and phoned Sara. “Drop On Inn,” she answered.

“Shit!” I said.

“What’s the matter? You sound angry.”

“I’m in Lakewood! Your instructions are fucked!”

“Lakewood? Wait.”

“I’m going back. I need a drink.”

“Now hold on. I want to see you! Tell me what street in Lakewood and the nearest cross street.”

I let the phone hang and went to see where I was. I gave Sara the information. She redirected me.

“It’s easy,” she said. “Now promise you’ll come.”

“All right.”

“And if you get lost again, phone me.”

“I’m sorry, you see, I have no sense of direction. I’ve always had nightmares about getting lost. I believe I belong on another planet.”

“It’s all right. Just follow my new instructions.”

I got back in the car, and this time it was easy. Soon I was on the

Pacific Coast Highway looking for the turn-off. I found it. It led me into a snob shopping district near the ocean. I drove slowly and spotted it: Drop On Inn, a large hand-painted sign. There were photos and small cards pasted in the window. An honest-to-god health food place, Jesus Christ. I didn’t want to go in. I drove around the block and past the Drop On Inn slowly. I took a right, then another right. I saw a bar, Crab Haven. I parked outside and went in.

It was 3:45 in the afternoon and every seat was taken. Most of the clients were well on the way. I stood and ordered a vodka-7. I took it to the telephone and phoned Sara. “O.K., it’s Henry. I’m here.”

“I saw you drive past twice. Don’t be afraid. Where are you?”

“Crab Haven. I’m having a drink. I’ll be there soon.”

“All right. Don’t have too many.”

I had that one and another. I found a small empty booth and sat there. I really didn’t want to go. I hardly remembered what Sara looked like.

I finished the drink and drove to her place. I got out, opened the screen door and walked in. Sara was behind the counter. She saw me. “Hi, Henry!” she said, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” She was preparing something. Four or five guys sat or stood around. Some sat on a couch. Others sat on the floor. They were all in their mid-twenties, they were all the same, they were dressed in little walking shorts, and they just sat. Now and then one of them would cross his legs or cough. Sara was a fairly handsome woman, lean, and she moved around briskly. Class. Her hair was red-blond. It looked very good.

“We’ll take care of you,” she told me.

“All right,” I said.

There was a bookcase. Three or four of my books were in it. I found some Lorca and sat down and pretended to read. That way I wouldn’t have to see the guys in their walking shorts. They looked as if nothing had ever touched them—all well-mothered, protected, with a soft sheen of contentment. None of them had ever been in jail, or worked hard with their hands, or even gotten a traffic ticket. Skimmed-milk jollies, the whole bunch.

Sara brought me a health food sandwich. “Here, try this.”

I ate the sandwich as the guys lolled about. Soon one got up and

walked out. Then another. Sara was cleaning up. There was only one left. He was about 22 and he sat on the floor. He was gangly, his back bent like a bow. He had on glasses with heavy black rims. He seemed more lonely and daft than the others. “Hey, Sara,” he said, “let’s go out and have some beers tonight.”

“Not tonight, Mike. How about tomorrow night?”

“All right, Sara.”

He stood up and walked to the counter. He put a coin down and picked up a health food cookie. He stood at the counter eating the health food cookie. When he finished it he turned and walked out.

“Did you like the sandwich?” Sara asked.

“Yes, it wasn’t bad.”

“Could you bring in the table and the chairs from the sidewalk?”

I brought in the table and the chairs.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t like bars. The air is bad. Let’s get something to drink and go to your place.”

“All right. Help me carry the garbage out.”

I helped her carry the garbage out. Then she locked up.

“Follow my van. I know a store that stocks good wine. Then you can follow me to my place.”

She had a Volks van and I followed her. There was a poster of a man in the back window of her van. “Smile and rejoice,” he advised me, and at the bottom of the poster was his name, Drayer Baba.

We opened a bottle of wine and sat on the couch in her house. I ‘iked the way her house was furnished. She had built all her furniture herself, including the bed. Photos of Drayer Baba were everywhere. He was from India and had died in 1971, claiming to be God.

While Sara and I sat there drinking the first bottle of wine the door opened and a young man with snaggled teeth, long hair and a very long beard walked in. “This is Ron, my roommate,” said Sara.

“Hello, Ron. Want a wine?”

Ron had a wine with us. Then a fat girl and a thin man with a shaved head walked in. They were Pearl and Jack. They sat down. Then another young man walked in. His name was Jean John. Jean John sat down. Then Pat walked in. Pat had a black beard and long hair. He sat down on the floor at my feet.

“I’m a poet,” he said.

I took a swallow of wine.

“How do you go about getting published?” he asked me.

“You submit it to the editors.”

“But I’m unknown.”

“Everybody starts out unknown.”

“I give readings 3 nights a week. And I’m an actor so I read very well. I figure if I read my stuff enough somebody might want to publish it.”

“It’s not impossible.”

“The problem is that when I read nobody shows up.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I’m going to print my own book.”

“Whitman did.”

“Will you read some of your poems?”

“Christ, no.”

“Why not?”

“I just want to drink.”

“You talk about drinking a lot in your books. Do you think drinking has helped your writing?”

“No. I’m just an alcoholic who became a writer so that I would be able to stay in bed until noon.”

I turned to Sara. “I didn’t know you had so many friends.”

“This is unusual. It’s hardly ever like this.”

“I’m glad we’ve got plenty of wine.”

“I’m sure they’ll be leaving soon,” she said.

The others were talking. The conversation drifted and I stopped listening. Sara looked good to me. When she spoke it was with wit and incisjveness. She had a good mind. Pearl and Jack left first. Then Jean John. Then Pat the poet. Ron sat on one side of Sara and I sat on the other. Just the 3 of us. Ron poured himself a glass of wine. I couldn’t blame him, he was her roommate. I had no hope of outwait-ing him. He was already there. I poured Sara a wine and then one for myself. After I finished drinking it I said to Sara and Ron, “Well, I guess I’ll be going.”

“Oh no,” said Sara, “not so soon. I haven’t had a chance to talk

to you. I’d like to talk to you.”

She looked at Ron. “You understand, don’t you, Ron?”

“Sure.”

He got up and walked to the back of the house.

“Hey,” I said, “I don’t want to start any shit.”

“What shit?”

“Between you and your roommate.”

“Oh, there’s nothing between us. No sex, nothing. He rents the room in the back of the house.”

“Oh.”

I heard the sound of a guitar. Then loud singing.

“That’s Ron,” said Sara.

He just bellowed and called the hogs. His voice was so bad that no comment was needed.

Ron sang on for an hour. Sara and I drank some more wine. She lit some candles. “Here, have a beedie.”

I tried one. A beedie is a small brown cigarette from India. It had a good tart taste. I turned to Sara and we had our first kiss. She kissed well. The evening was looking up.

The screen door swung open and a young man walked into the room.

“Barry,” said Sara, “I’m not having any more visitors.”

The screen door banged and Barry was gone. I foresaw future problems: as a recluse I couldn’t bear traffic. It had nothing to do with jealousy, I simply disliked people, crowds, anywhere, except at my readings. People diminished me, they sucked me dry.

“Humanity, you never had it from the beginning.” That was my motto.

Sara and I kissed again. We both had drunk too much. Sara opened another bottle. She held her wine well. I have no idea what we talked about. The best thing about Sara was that she made very few references to my writing. When the last bottle was empty I told Sara that I was too drunk to drive home.

“Oh, you can sleep in my bed, but no sex.”

“Why?”

“One doesn’t have sex without marriage.”

“One doesn’t?”

“Drayer Baba doesn’t believe in it.”

“Sometimes God can be mistaken.”

“Never.”

“All right, let’s go to bed.”

We kissed in the dark. I was a kiss freak anyway, and Sara was one of the best kissers I had ever met. I’d have to go all the way back to Lydia to find anyone comparable. Yet each woman was different, each kissed in her own way. Lydia was probably kissing some son of a bitch right now, or worse, kissing his parts. Katherine was asleep in Austin.

Sara had my cock in her hand, petting it, rubbing it. Then she pressed it against her cunt. She rubbed it up and down, up and down against her cunt. She was obeying her God, Drayer Baba. I didn’t play with her cunt because I felt that would offend Drayer. We just kissed and she kept rubbing my cock against her cunt, or maybe against the clit, I didn’t know. I waited for her to put my cock in her cunt. But she just kept rubbing. The hairs began to burn my cock. I pulled away.

“Good night, baby,” I said. And then I turned, rolled over and put my back up against her. Drayer Baby, I thought, you’ve got one helluva believer in this bed.

In the morning we began the rubbing bit again with the same end result. I decided, to hell with it, I don’t need this kind of non-action.

“You want to take a bath?” Sara asked.

“Sure.”

I walked into the bathroom and let the water run. Sometime during the night I had mentioned to Sara that one of my insanities was to take 3 or 4 steaming hot baths a day. The old water therapy.

Sara’s tub held more water than mine and the water was hotter. I was five feet, eleven and 3/4 inches and yet I could stretch out in the tub. In the old days they made bathtubs for emperors, not for 5 foot bank clerks.

I got into the tub and stretched. It was great. Then I stood up and looked at my poor raw cunt-hair-rubbed cock. Rough time, old boy, but close, I guess is better than nothing? I sat back down in the tub and stretched out again. The phone rang. There was a pause.

Then Sara knocked.

“Come in!”

“Hank, it’s Debra.”

“Debra? How’d she know I was here?”

“She’s been calling everywhere. Should I tell her to phone back?”

“No, tell her to wait.”

I found a large towel and wrapped it about my waist. I walked into the other room. Sara was talking to Debra on the phone.

“Oh, here he is… .”

Sara handed me the phone. “Hello, Debra?”

“Hank, where have you been?”

“In the bathtub.”

“The bathtub?”

“Yes.”

“You just got out?”

“Yes.”

“What are you wearing?”

“I have a towel around my middle.”

“How can you keep the towel around your middle and talk on the phone?”

“I’m doing it.”

“Did anything happen?”