Women (12 page)

“Come on! You’re slow!”

“Wait, Lydia, wait!”

She vaulted over a barbed wire fence. I couldn’t make it. I got tangled in the wire. I couldn’t move. I was like a trapped cow. “LYDIA!”

She came back with her red curlers and started helping me get loose from the barbs. “I tracked you. I found your red notebook. You got lost deliberately because you were pissed.”

“No, I got lost out of ignorance and fear. I am not a complete person—I’m a stunted city person. I am more or less a failed drizzling shit with absolutely nothing to offer.” “Christ,” she said, “don’t you think I know that?” She freed me from the last barb. I lurched after her. I was back with Lydia again.

31

It was 3 or 4 days before I had to fly to Houston to give a reading. I went to the track, drank at the track, and afterwards I went to a bar on Hollywood Boulevard. I went home at 9 or 10 pm. As I moved through the bedroom towards the bathroom I tripped over the telephone cord. I fell against the corner of the bed frame—an edge of steel like a knife blade. When I got up I found I had a deep gash just above the ankle. The blood ran into the rug and I left a bloody trail as I went to the bathroom. The blood ran over the tiles and I left red footprints as I walked about.

There was a knock on the door and I let Bobby in. “Jesus Christ, man, what happened?”

“It’s
DEATH
,” I said. “I’m bleeding to death. . . .”

“Man,” he said, “you better do something about that leg.”

Valerie knocked. I let her in too. She screamed. I poured Bobby and Valerie and myself drinks. The phone rang. It was Lydia.

“Lydia, baby, I’m bleeding to death!”

“Is this one of your dramatic trips again?”

“No, I’m bleeding to death. Ask Valerie.”

Valerie took the phone. “It’s true, his ankle is cut open. There’s blood everywhere and he won’t do anything about it. You better come over. ...”

When Lydia arrived I was sitting on the couch. “Look, Lydia: DEATH!” Tiny veins were hanging out of the wound like strings of spaghetti. I yanked at some of them. I took my cigarette and tapped ashes into the wound. “I’m a MAN! Hell, I’m a MAN!”

Lydia went and got some hydrogen peroxide and poured it into the wound. It was nice. White foam gushed out of the wound. It sizzled and bubbled. Lydia poured some more in.

“You better go to a hospital,” Bobby said.

“I don’t need a fucking hospital,” I said. “It will cure itself. . . .”

The next morning the wound looked horrible. It was still open and seemed to be forming a nice crust. I went to the drugstore for some more hydrogen peroxide, some bandages, and some epsom salts. I filled the tub full of hot water and epsom salts and got in. I began thinking about myself with only one leg. There were advantages:

HENRY
CHINASKI
IS,
WITHOUT
A
DOUBT
,
THE
GREATEST
ONE-LEGGED
POET
IN
THE
WORLD

Bobby came by that afternoon. “You know what it costs to get a leg amputated?” “$12,000.” After Bobby left I phoned my doctor.

I went to Houston with a heavily bandaged leg. I was taking antibiotic pills in an attempt to cure the infection. My doctor mentioned that any drinking would nullify the good the antibiotic pills had.

At the reading, which was at the modern art museum, I went on sober. After I read a few poems somebody in the audience asked, “How come you’re not drunk?”

“Henry Chinaski couldn’t make it,” I said. “I’m his brother Efram.”

I read another poem and then confessed about the antibiotics. I also told them it was against museum rules to drink on the premises. Somebody from the audience came up with a beer. I drank it and read some more. Somebody else came up with another beer. Then the beers began to flow. The poems got better.

There was a party and a dinner afterwards at a cafe. Almost directly across the table from me was absolutely the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She looked like a young Katherine Hepburn. She was about 22, and she just radiated beauty. I kept making wisecracks, calling her Katherine Hepburn. She seemed to like it. I didn’t expect anything to come of it. She was with a girlfriend. When it came time to leave I said to the museum director, a woman named Nana, at whose house I was staying, “I’m going to miss her. She was too good to believe.”

“She’s coming home with us.”

“I don’t believe it.”

. . . but later there she was, at Nana’s place, in the bedroom with me. She had on a sheer nightgown, and she sat on the edge of the bed combing her very long hair and smiling at me. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Laura” she said.

“Well, look, Laura, I’m going to call you Katherine.”

“All right,” she said.

Her hair was reddish-brown and so very long. She was small but well proportioned. Her face was the most beautiful thing about her.

“Can I pour you a drink?” I asked.

“Oh no, I don’t drink. I don’t like it.”

Actually, she frightened me. I couldn’t understand what she was doing there with me. She didn’t appear to be a groupie. I went to the bathroom, came back and turned out the light. I could feel her getting into bed next to me. I took her in my arms and we began kissing. I couldn’t believe my luck. What right had I? How could a few books of poems call this forth? There was no way to understand it. I certainly was not about to reject it. I became very aroused. Suddenly she went down and took my cock in her mouth. I watched the slow movement of her head and body in the moonlight. She wasn’t as good at it as some, but it was the very fact of her doing it that was amazing. Just as I was about to come I reached down and buried my hand in that mass of beautiful hair, pulling at it in the moonlight as I came in Katherine’s mouth.

32

Lydia met me at the airport. She was horny as usual. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “I’m hot! I play with myself but it doesn’t do any good.”

We were driving back to my place.

“Lydia, my leg is still in terrible shape. I just don’t know if I can handle it with this leg.”

“What?”

“It’s true. I don’t think I can fuck with my leg the way it is.”

“What the hell good are you then?”

“Well, I can fry eggs and do magic tricks.”

“Don’t be funny. I’m asking you, what the hellgood are you?”

“The leg will heal. If it doesn’t they’ll cut if off. Be patient.”

“If you hadn’t been drunk you wouldn’t have fallen and cut your leg. It’s always the bottle!”

“It’s not always the bottle, Lydia. We fuck about 4 times a week. For my age that’s pretty good.”

“Sometimes I think you don’t even enjoy it.”

“Lydia, sex isn’t everything! You are obsessed. For Christ’s sake, give it a rest.”

“A rest until your leg heals? How am I going to make it meanwhile?”

“I’ll play Scrabble with you.”

Lydia screamed. The car began to swerve all over the street. “
YOU
SON-OF-A-BITCH! I’LL
KILL
YOU!”

She crossed the double yellow line at high speed, directly into oncoming traffic. Horns sounded and cars scattered. We drove on against the flow of traffic, cars approaching us peeling off to the left and right. Then just as abruptly Lydia swerved back across the double line into the lane we had just vacated.

Where are the police? I thought. Why is it that when Lydia does something the police become nonexistent?

“All right,” she said. “I’m taking you home and that’s it. I’ve had it. I’m going to sell my house and move to Phoenix. Glen-doline lives in Phoenix now. My sisters warned me about living with an old fuck like you.”

We drove the remainder of the way without talking. When we reached my place I took out my suitcase, looked at Lydia, said, “Goodbye.” She was crying without making a sound, her whole face was wet. Suddenly she drove off toward Western Avenue. I walked into the court. Back from another reading. . . .

I checked the mail and then phoned Katherine who lived in Austin, Texas. She seemed truly glad to hear from me, and it was good to hear that Texas accent, that high laughter. I told her that I wanted her to come visit me, that I’d pay air fare both ways. We’d go to the racetrack, we’d go to Malibu, we’d . . . whatever she wanted. “But, Hank, don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“No, none. I’m a recluse.”

“But you’re always writing about women in your poems.”

“That’s past. This is present.”

“But what about Lydia?”

“Lydia?”

“Yes, you told me all about her.”

“What did I tell you?”

“You told me how she beat up two other women. Would you let her beat me up? I’m not very big, you know.”

“It can’t happen. She’s moved to Phoenix. I tell you, Katherine, you are the exceptional woman I’ve been looking for. Please, trust me.”

“I’ll have to make arrangements. I have to get somebody to take care of my cat.”

“All right. But I want you to know that everything is clear here.”

“But, Hank, don’t forget what you told me about your women.”

“Told you what?”

“You said, 'They always come back.’”

“That’s just macho talk.”

“I’ll come,” she said. “As soon as I get things straight here I’ll make a reservation and let you know the details.”

When I was in Texas Katherine had told me about her life. I was only the third man she had slept with. There had been her husband, an alcoholic track star, and me. Her ex-husband, Arnold, was into show business and the arts in some way. Exactly how it worked I didn’t know. He was continually signing contracts with rock stars, painters and so forth. The business was $60,000 in debt, but flourishing. One of those situations where the further you were in debt the better off you were.

I don’t know what happened to the track star. He just ran off, I guess. And then Arnold got on coke. The coke changed him overnight. Katherine said she didn’t know him anymore. It was terrifying. Ambulance trips to hospitals. And then he’d be back at the office the next morning as if nothing had happened. Then Joanna Dover entered the picture. A tall, stately semi-millionairess. Educated and crazy. She and Arnold began to do business together. Joanna Dover dealt in the arts like some people deal in corn futures. She discovered unknown artists on the way up, bought their work cheap, and sold high after they became recognized. She had that kind of eye. And a magnificent 6-foot body. She began to see a lot of Arnold. One evening Joanna came to pick up Arnold dressed in an expensive tight-fitting gown. Then Katherine knew that Joanna really meant business. So, after that, she went along whenever Arnold and Joanna would go out. They were a trio. Arnold had a very low sex drive, so Katherine wasn’t worried about that. She was worried about the business. Then Joanna dropped out of the picture, and Arnold got more and more into coke. More and more ambulance trips. Katherine finally divorced him. She still saw Arnold, however. She took coffee to the office at 10:30 every morning for the staff and Arnold put her on the payroll. Which enabled her to keep the house. She and Arnold had dinner there now and then, but no sex. Still, he needed her, she felt protective towards him. Katherine also believed in health foods and the only meat she ate was chicken and fish. She was a beautiful woman.

33

Within a day or two, about 1 pm in the afternoon there was a knock at my door. It was a painter, Monty Riff, or so he informed me. He also told me that I used to get drunk with him when I lived on DeLongpre Avenue.

“I don’t remember you,” I said.

“Dee Dee used to bring me over.”

“Oh yeah? Well, come on in.” Monty had a 6-pack with him and a tall stately woman.

“This is Joanna Dover,” he introduced me to her.

“I missed your reading in Houston,” she said.

“Laura Stanley told me all about you,” I said.

“You know her?”

“Yes. But I’ve renamed her Katherine, after Katherine Hepburn.”

“You really know her?”

“Fairly well.”

“How well?”

“She’s flying out to visit me in a day or two.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

We finished the 6-pack and I left to go get some more. When I got back Monty was gone. Joanna told me that he had an appointment. We got to talking about painting and I brought out some of mine. She looked at them and decided that she’d like to buy two of them. “How much?” she asked.

“Well, $40 for the small one and $60 for the large one.”

Joanna wrote me out a check for $100. Then she said, “I want you to live with me.”

“What? This is pretty sudden.”

“It would pay off. I have some money. Just don’t ask me how much. I’ve been thinking of some reasons why we should live together. Do you want to hear them?”

“No.”

“One thing, if we lived together I’d take you to Paris.”

“I hate to travel.”

“I’d show you a Paris you’d really like.”

“Let me think it over.”

I leaned over and gave her a kiss. Then I kissed her again, this time a little longer.

“Shit,” I said, “let’s go to bed.”

“All right,” said Joanna Dover.

We undressed and climbed in. She was 6 feet tall. I’d always had small women. It was strange—every place I reached there seemed to be more woman. We warmed up. I gave her 3 or 4 minutes of oral sex, then mounted. She was good, she was really good. We cleaned up, got dressed and then she took me to dinner in Malibu. She told me she lived in Galveston, Texas. She gave me her phone number, the address and told me to come and see her. I told her that I would. She told me that she was serious about Paris and the rest. It had been a good fuck and the dinner was excellent too.

34

The next day Katherine phoned me. She said she had the tickets and would be landing at L.A. International Friday at 2:30 pm.

“Katherine,” I said, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

“Hank, don’t you want to see me?”

“I want to see you more than anybody I know.”

“Then what is it?”

“Well, you know Joanna Dover …”

“Joanna Dover?”

“The one . . . you know . . . your husband …”