Charles Bukowski - Women

"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."