Charles Bukowski - Women

"Everything's fine, Hank. How are you doing?"

"All is well. Listen, you're not pissed at me, are you?"

"No, Hank. It was a little gross, hahaha, but it was fun. It's our secret, anyhow."

"Thanks. You know, I'm really not…"

"I know."

"Well, listen, I wanted to speak to Debra. Is she there?"

"No, she's in court, transcribing."

"When will she be back?"

"She usually doesn't return to the office after she goes to court. In case she does, is there any message?"

"No, Tessie, thank you."

That did it. I couldn't even make amends. Constipation of Confession. Lack of Communication. I had Enemies in High Places.

I drank another wine. I had been ready to clear the air and let everything hang out. Now I had to sit on it. I felt worse and worse. Depression, suicide was often the lack of a proper diet. But I had been eating well. I remembered the old days, living on one candy bar a day, sending out hand-printed stories to Atlantic Monthly and Harper's. All I thought about was food. If the body didn't eat, the mind starved too. But I had been eating damned good, for a change, and drinking damned good wine. That meant that what I was thinking was probably the truth. Everybody imagined themselves special, privileged, exempt. Even an ugly old crone watering a geranium on her front porch. I had imagined myself special because I had come out of the factories at the age of 5 o and become a poet. Hot shit. So I pissed on everybody just like those bosses and managers had pissed on me when I was helpless. It came to the same thing. I was a drunken spoiled rotten fucker with a very minor minor fame.

My analysis didn't cure the burn.

The phone rang. It was Sara.

"You said you'd phone. What happened?"

"She wasn't in."

"Not in?"

"She's in court."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to wait. And tell her."

"All right."

"I shouldn't have laid all this shit on you."

"It's all right."

"I want to see you again."

"When? After the belly dancer?"

"Well, yes."

"Thanks but no thanks."

"I'll phone you…"

"All right. I'll get your diapers laundered and ready for you."

I sipped on the wine and waited. 3 o'clock, 4 o'clock, 5 o'clock. Finally I remembered to put my clothes on. I was sitting with a drink in my hand when Debra's car pulled up in front of the house. I waited. She opened the door. She had a bag of groceries. She looked very good.

"Hi!" she said, "How's my ex-wet noodle?"

I walked up to her and put my arms around her. I started to tremble and cry.

"Hank, what's wrong?"

Debra dropped the bag of groceries to the floor. Our dinner. I grabbed her and held her to me. I was sobbing. The tears flowed like wine. I couldn't stop. Most of me meant it, the other part was running away.

"Hank, what is it?"

"I can't be with you Thanksgiving."

"Why? Why? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong is that I am a GIANT HUNK OF SHIT!"

My guilt screwed inside me and I had a spasm. It hurt something awful.

"A belly dancer is flying down from Canada to spend Thanksgiving with me."

"A belly dancer?"

"Yes."

"Is she beautiful?"

"Yes, she is. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

Debra pushed me off.

"Let me put the groceries away."

She picked up the bag and walked into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open and close.

"Debra," I said, "I'm leaving."

There was no sound from the kitchen. I opened the front door and walked out. The Volks started. I turned the radio on, the headlights on and drove back to L.A.

Wednesday night found me at the airport waiting for Iris. I sat around and looked at the women. None of them-except for one or two-looked as good as Iris. There was something wrong with me: I did think of sex a great deal. Each woman I looked at I imagined being in bed with. It was an interesting way to pass airport waiting time. Women: I liked the colors of their clothing; the way they walked; the cruelty in some faces; now and then the almost pure beauty in another face, totally and enchantingly female. They had it over us: they planned much better and were better organized. While men were watching professional football or drinking beer or bowling, they, the women, were thinking about us, concentrating, studying, deciding-whether to accept us, discard us, exchange us, kill us or whether simply to leave us. In the end it hardly mattered; no matter what they did, we ended up lonely and insane.

I had bought Iris and myself a turkey, an 18-pounder. It was on my sink, thawing out. Thanksgiving. It proved you had survived.

another year with its wars, inflation, unemployment, smog, presidents. It was a grand neurotic gathering of clans: loud drunks, grandmothers, sisters, aunts, screaming children, would-be suicides. And don't forget indigestion. I wasn't different from anyone else: there sat the 18 pound bird on my sink, dead, plucked, totally disembowled. Iris would roast it for me.

I had received a letter in the mail that afternoon. I took it out of my pocket and re-read it. It had been mailed from Berkeley:

Dear Mr. Chinaski:

You don't know me but I'm a cute bitch. I've been going with sailors and one truck driver but they don't satisfy me. I mean, we fuck and then there's nothing more. There's no substance to those sons of bitches. I'm 22 and I have a 5 year old daughter, Aster. I live with a guy but there's no sex, we just live together. His name is Rex. I'd like to come see you. My mom could watch Aster. Enclosed is a photo of me. Write me if you feel like it. I've read some of your books. They are hard to find in bookstores. What I like about your writing is that you are so easy to understand. And you're funny too.

yours,

Tanya

Then Iris' plane landed. I stood at the window and watched her get off. She still looked good. She had come all the way from Canada to see me. She had one suitcase. I waved to her as she filed through the entranceway with the others. She had to pass through customs, then she was pressed up against me. We kissed and I got half a hard-on. She was in a dress, a practical tight-fitting blue dress, high heels and she wore a small hat cocked on her head. It was rare to see a woman in a dress. All the women in Los Angeles wore pants continually…

Since we didn't have to wait for her baggage we drove right to my place. I parked out front and we walked through the court together. She sat on the couch while I poured her a drink. Iris looked over at my homemade bookcase.

"Did you write all those books?"

"Yes."

"I had no idea you had written so many."

"I wrote them."

"How many?"

"I don't know. Twenty, twenty-five…"

I kissed her, putting one arm around her waist, pulling her to me. The other hand I put on her knee.

The phone rang. I got up and answered it. "Hank?" It was Valerie.

"Yes?"

"Who was that?"

"Who was who?"

"That girl…"

"Oh, that's a friend from Canada."

"Hank, you and your god-damned women!"

"Yes."

"Bobby wants to know if you and…"

"Iris."

"He wants to know if you and Iris want to come down for a drink."

"Not tonight. I'll take a rain check."

"She's really got a body!"

"I know."

"All right, maybe tomorrow."

"Maybe…"

I hung up thinking that Valerie probably liked women too. Well, that was all right. I poured two more drinks.

"How many women have you met at airports?" Iris asked. "It's not as bad as you think." "Have you lost count? Like your books?" "Math is one of my weaker points." "Do you enjoy meeting women at airports?" "Yes." I had not remembered that Iris was so talkative. "You pig!" She laughed. "Our first fight. Did you have a nice flight?" "I sat next to a bore. I made a mistake and let him buy me a drink. He talked my god-damned ear off."