Charles Bukowski - Women

I finished my drink. "Well, look, thanks for the drinks. I've got to get going."

"All right, you've got my phone number."

"Right."

Valencia walked me to the screen door. We kissed there. Then I walked out to the Volks. I got in and drove off. I circled around the corner, double-parked, opened the door and puked up the other drink.

I saw Sara every three or four days, at her place or at mine. We slept together but there was no sex. We came close but we never quite got to it. Drayer Baba's precepts held strong.

We decided to spend the holidays together at my place, Christmas and New Year's.

Sara arrived about noon on the 24th in her Volks van. I watched her park, then went out to meet her. She had lumber tied to the roof of the van. It was to be my Christmas present: she was going to build me a bed. My bed was a mockery: a simple box spring with the innards sticking out of the mattress. Sara had also brought an organic turkey plus the trimmings. I was to pay for that and the white wine. And there were some small gifts for each of us.

We carried in the lumber and the turkey and the sundry bits and pieces. I placed the box spring, mattress and headboard outside and put a sign on them: "Free." The head-board went first, the box spring second, and finally somebody took the mattress. It was a poor neighborhood.

I had seen Sara's bed at her place, slept in it, and had liked it. I had always disliked the average mattress, at least the ones I was able to buy. I had spent over half my life in beds which were better suited for somebody shaped like an angleworm.

Sara had built her own bed, and she was to build me another like it. A solid wood platform supported by 7 four-by-four legs (the seventh directly in the middle) topped by a layer of firm 4-inch foam. Sara had some good ideas. I held the boards and Sara drove home the nails. She was good with a hammer. She only weighed 105 pounds but she could drive a nail. It was going to be a fine bed.

It didn't take Sara long.

Then we tested it-non-sexually-as Drayer Baba smiled over us.

We drove around looking for a Christmas tree. I wasn't too anxious to get a tree (Christmas had always been an unhappy time in my childhood) and when we found all the lots empty, the lack of a tree didn't bother me. Sara was unhappy as we drove back. But after we got in and had a few glasses of white wine she regained her spirits and went about hanging Christmas ornaments, lights, and tinsel everywhere, some of the tinsel in my hair.

I had read that more people committed suicide on Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day than at any other time. The holiday had little or nothing to do with the Birth of Christ, apparently.

All the radio music was sickening and the t.v. was worse, so we turned it off and she phoned her mother in Maine. I spoke to Mama too and Mama was not all that bad.

"At first," said Sara, "I was thinking about fixing you up with Mama but she's older than you are."

"Forget it."

"She had nice legs."

"Forget it."

"Are you prejudiced against old age?"

"Yes, everybody's old age but mine."

"You act like a movie star. Have you always had women 20 or 30 years younger than you?"

"Not when I was in my twenties."

"All right then. Have you ever had a woman older than you, I mean lived with her?"

"Yeah, when I was 25 I lived with a woman 35."

"How'd it go?"

"It was terrible. I fell in love."

"What was terrible?"

"She made me go to college."

"And that's terrible?"

"It wasn't the kind of college you're thinking of. She was the faculty, and I was the student body."

"What happened to her?"

"I buried her."

"With honors? Did you kill her?"

"Booze killed her."

"Merry Christmas."

"Sure. Tell me about yours."

"I pass."

"Too many?"

"Too many, yet too few."

Thirty or 40 minutes later there was a knock on the door. Sara got up and opened it. A sex symbol walked in. On Christmas Eve. I didn't know who she was. She was in a tight black outfit and her huge breasts looked as if they would burst out of the top of her dress. It was magnificent. I had never seen breasts like that, showcased in just that way, except in the movies.

"Hi, Hank!"

She knew me.

"I'm Edie. You met me at Bobby's one night."

"Oh?"

"Were you too drunk to remember?"

"Hello, Edie. This is Sara."

"I was looking for Bobby. I thought Bobby might be down here."

"Sit down and have a drink."

Edie sat in a chair to my right, very near to me. She was about 25. She lit a cigarette and sipped at her drink. Each time she leaned forward over the coffee table I was sure that it would happen, I was sure that those breasts would spring out. And I was afraid of what I might do if they did. I just didn't know. I had never been a breast man, I had always been a leg man. But Edie really knew how to do it. I was afraid and I peeked sideways at her breasts not knowing whether I wanted them to fall out or to stay in.

"You met Manny," she said to me, "down at Bobby's?"

"Yeh."

"I had to kick his ass out. He was too fucking jealous. He even hired a private dick to follow me! Imagine that! That simple sack of shit!"

"Yeh."

"I hate men who are beggars! I hate little toadies!"

'"A good man nowadays is hard to find,'" I said. "That's a song. Out of World War Two. They also had, 'Don't sit under the apple tree with anybody else but me.'"

"Hank, you're babbling…" said Sara.

"Have another drink, Edie," I said and I poured her one.

"Men are such shits!" she continued. "I walked into a bar the other day. I was with four guys, close friends. We sat around chugalugging pitchers of beer, we're laughing, you know, just having a good time, we weren't bothering anybody. Then I got the idea that I would like to shoot a game of pool. I like to shoot pool. I think that when a lady shoots pool it shows her class."

"I can't shoot pool," I said. "I always rip up the green. And I'm not even a lady."

"Anyway, I go up to the table and there's this guy shooting pool all by himself. I go up to him and I say, 'Look, you've had this table a long time. My friends and myself want to shoot a little pool. Do you mind letting us have the table for a while?' He turned and looked at me. He waited. Then he sneered, and he said, 'All right.'"

Edie became animated and bounced around as she spoke and I peeked at her things.

"I went back and told my friends, 'We got the table.' Finally this guy shooting is down to his last ball when a buddy of his walks up and says, 'Hey, Ernie, I hear you're giving up the table.' And you know what he tells this guy? He says, 'Yeah, I'm giving it up to that bitch!' I heard it and I saw RED! This guy is bent over the table to cue in on his last ball. I grabbed a pool stick and while he was bent over I hit him over the head as hard as I could. The guy dropped on the table like he was dead. He was known in the bar and so a bunch of his friends rush over but meanwhile my four buddies rush over too. Boy, what a brawl! Bottles smashing, broken mirrors… I don't know how we got out of there but we did. You got some shit?"

"Yeah but I don't roll too good."

"I'll take care of it."

Edie rolled a tight thin joint, just like a pro. She sucked it up, hissing, then passed it to me.

"So I went back the next night, alone. The owner who is the bartender, he recognizes me. His name is Claude. 'Claude,' I told him, 'I'm sorry about yesterday but that guy at the table was a real bastard. He called me a bitch.'"

I poured more drinks all around. In another minute her breasts would be out.

"The owner said, 'It's O.K., forget it.' He seemed like a nice guy. 'What do you drink?' he asked me. I hung around the bar and had two or three free drinks and he said, 'You know, I can use another waitress.'"