Charles Bukowski: Women

Soon they both came out, each of them with a bottle of beer.

"Thanks, Hank."

"Yeah, thanks, man."

They sat there sucking at the beers.

"Well," said Tammie, "we gotta get going."

"Yeah, we're going out to rape some junior high school boys!"

"Yeah!"

The both jumped up and they were gone out the door. I walked into the kitchen and looked into the refrig. That turkey looked like it had been mauled by a tiger-the carcass had simply been ripped apart. It looked obscene.

Sara drove over the next evening.

"How's the turkey?" she asked.

"O.K."

She walked in and opened the refrigerator door. She screamed. Then she ran out.

"My god, what happened?"

"Tammie and Arlene came by. I don't think they had eaten for a week."

"Oh, it's sickening. It hurts my heart!"

"I'm sorry. I should have stopped them. They were on uppers."

"Well, there's just one thing I can do."

"What's that?"

"I can make you a nice turkey soup. I'll go get some vegetables."

"All right." I gave her a twenty.

Sara prepared the soup that night. It was delicious. When she left in the morning she gave me instructions on how to heat it up.

Tammie knocked on the door around 4 pm. I let her in and she walked straight to the kitchen. The refrigerator door opened. "Hey, soup, huh?" "Yeah."

"Is it any good?" "Yeah."

"Mind if I try some?" "O.K."

I heard her put it on the stove. Then I heard her dipping in there.

"God! This stuff is mild! It needs spices!"

I heard her spooning the spices in. Then she tried it.

"That's better! But it needs more! I'm Italian, you know. Now… there… that's better! Now I'll let it heat up. Can I have a beer?"

"All right."

She came in with her bottle and sat down.

"Do you miss me?" she asked.

"You'll never know."

"I think I'm going to get my job back at the Play Pen."

"Great."

"Some good tippers come in that place. One guy he tipped me 5 bucks each night. He was in love with me. But he never asked me out. He just ogled me. He was strange. He was a rectal surgeon and sometimes he masturbated as he watched me walking around. I could smell the stuff on him, you know."

"Well, you got him off…"

"I think the soup is ready. Want some?"

"No thanks."

Tammie went in and I heard her spooning it out of the pot. She was in there a long time. Then she came out.

"Could you lend me a five until Friday?"

"No."

"Then lend me a couple of bucks."

"No."

"Just give me a dollar then."

I gave Tammie a pocketful of change. It came to a dollar and thirty-seven cents.

"Thanks," she said.

"It's all right."

Then she was gone out of the door.

Sara came by the next evening. She seldom came by this often, it was something about the holiday season, everybody was lost, half-crazy, afraid. I had the white wine ready and poured us both a drink.

"How's the Inn going?" I asked her.

"Business is crappy. It hardly pays to stay open."

"Where are your customers?"

"They've all left town; they've all gone somewhere."

"All our schemes have holes in them."

"Not all of them. Some people just keep making it and making it."

"True."

"How's the soup?"

"Just about finished."

"Did you like it?"

"I didn't have too much."

Sara walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

"What happened to the soup? It looks strange."

I heard her tasting it. Then she ran to the sink and spit it out.

"Jesus, it's been poisoned! What happened? Did Tammie and Arlene come back and eat soup too?"

"Just Tammie."

Sara didn't scream. She just poured the remainder of the soup into the sink and ran the garbage disposal. I could hear her sobbing, trying not to make any sound. That poor organic turkey had had a rough Christmas.

New Year's Eve was another bad night for me to get through. My parents had always delighted in New Year's Eve, listening to it approach on the radio, city by city, until it arrived in Los Angeles. The firecrackers went off and the whistles and horns blew and the amateur drunks vomited and husbands flirted with other men's wives and the wives flirted with who ever they could. Everybody kissed and played grab-ass in the bathrooms and closets and sometimes openly, especially at midnight, and there were terrible family arguments the next day not to mention the Tournament of Roses Parade and the Rose Bowl game.

Sara arrived early New Year's Eve. She got excited about things like Magic Mountain, outer space movies, Star Trek, and over certain rock bands, creamed spinach, and pure food, but she had better basic common sense than any woman I had ever met.

Perhaps only one other, Joanna Dover, could match her good sense and kind spirit. Sara was better looking and much more faithful than any of my other current women, so this new year was not going to be so bad after all.

I had just been wished a "Happy New Year" by a local idiot news broadcaster on t.v. I disliked being wished a "Happy New Year" by some stranger. How did he know who I was? I might be a man with a 5-year-old child wired to the ceiling and gagged, hanging by her ankles as I slowly sliced her to pieces.

Sara and I had begun to celebrate and drink but it was difficult to get drunk when half the world was straining to get drunk along with you.

"Well," I said to Sara, "it ain't been a bad year. Nobody murdered me."

"And you're still able to drink every night and get up at noon every day."

"If I can just hold out another year."

"Just an old alcoholic bull."

There was a knock on the door. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was Dinky Summers, the folk rock man and his girl friend Janis.

"Dinky!" I hollered. "Hey, shit, man, what's happening?"

"I don't know, Hank. I just thought we'd drop by."

"Janis this is Sara. Sara… Janis."

Sara went out and got two more glasses. I poured. The talk wasn't much.

"I've written about ten new pieces. I think I'm getting better."

"I think he is too," said Janis, "really."

"Hey look, man, that night I opened your act… Tell me, Hank, was I that bad?"

"Listen, Dinky, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I was drinking more than I was listening. I was thinking of myself having to go out there and I was getting ready to face it, it makes me puke."

"But I just love to get up in front of the crowd and when I get over to them and they like my stuff I'm in heaven."

"Writing's different. You do it alone, it has nothing to do with a live audience."

"You might be right."

"I was there," said Sara. "Two guys had to help Hank up on stage. He was drunk and he was sick."

"Listen, Sara," asked Dinky, "Was my act that bad?"

"No, it wasn't. They were just impatient for Chinaski. Everything else irritated them."

"Thanks, Sara."

"Folk rock just doesn't do much for me," I said.

"What do you like?"

"Almost all the German classical composers plus a few of the Russians."

"I've written about ten new pieces."

"Maybe we can hear some?" asked Sara.

"But you don't have your guitar, do you?" I asked.

"Oh, he's got it," said Janis, "it's always with him!"

Dinky got up, went out and got his instrument from the car. He sat down cross-legged on the rug and began tuning that thing. We were going to get some real live entertainment. Soon he began. He had a full, strong voice. It bounced off the walls. The song was about a woman. About a heartbreak between Dinky and some woman. It was not really too bad. Maybe up on stage with people paying it would be all right. But it was harder to tell when they were sitting on the rug in front of you. It was much too personal and embarrassing. Yet, I decided he was not really too bad. But he was in trouble. He was aging. The golden curls were not quite as golden and the wide-eyed innocence drooped a little. He would soon be in trouble.