Women (17 page)

“The dope runners are hijacking the shrimp boats these days. They kill everybody on board and then run the stuffin. That’s one reason the price of shrimp is going up—it’s become a hazardous occupation. How’s your occupation going?”

“I haven’t been writing. I think it’s over for me.”

“How long has it been?”

“Six or seven days.”

“This is the place. ...”

Joanna pulled into a parking lot. She drove very fast, but she didn’t drive fast as if she meant to break the law. She drove fast as if it were her given right. There was a difference and I appreciated it.

We got a table away from the crowd. It was cool and quiet and dark in there. I liked it. I went for the lobster. Joanna went for something strange. She ordered it in French. She was sophisticated, traveled. In a sense, as much as I disliked it, education helped when you were looking at a menu or for a job, especially when you were looking at a menu. I always felt inferior to waiters. I had arrived too late and with too little. The waiters all read Truman Capote. I read the race results.

The dinner was good and out on the gulf were the shrimp boats, the patrol boats and the pirates. The lobster tasted good in my mouth, and I drank him down with fine wine. Good fellow. I always liked you in your pink-red shell, dangerous and slow.

Back at Joanna Dover’s place we had a delicious bottle of red wine. We sat in the dark watching the few cars pass in the street below. We were quiet. Then Joanna spoke.

“Hank?”

“Yes?”

“Was it some woman who drove you here?”

“Yes.”

“Is it over with her?”

“I’d like to think so. But if I said 'no’ ...”

“Then you don’t know?”

“Not really.”

“Does anybody ever know?”

“I don’t think so.” “That’s what makes it all stink so.” “It does stink.” “Let’s fuck.” “I’ve drunk too much.” “Let’s go to bed.” “I want to drink some more.” “You won’t be able to . . .”

“I know. I hope you’ll let me stay four or five days.” “It will depend on your performance,” she said. “That’s fair enough.”

By the time we finished the wine I could barely make it to bed. I was asleep by the time Joanna came out of the bathroom. . . .

55

Upon awakening I got up and used Joanna’s toothbrush, drank a couple of glasses of water, washed my hands and face and got back into bed. Joanna turned around and my mouth found hers. My cock began to rise. I put her hand on my cock. I grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, kissing her, savagely. I played with her cunt. I teased her clit for a long time. She was very wet. I mounted and buried it. I held it in. I could feel her responding. I was able to work a long time. Finally I was unable to hold back any longer. I was wet with sweat and my heart beat so loudly that I could hear it.

“I’m not in very good shape,” I told her.

“I liked it. Let’s have a joint.”

She produced a joint, already rolled. We passed it back and forth. “Joanna,” I told her, “I’m still sleepy. I could use another hour.”

“Sure. As soon as we finish this joint.”

We finished the joint and stretched out in bed again. I slept.

56

That evening after dinner Joanna produced some mescaline.

“You ever tried this stuff?”

“No.”

“Want to try some?”

“All right.”

Joanna had some paints and brushes and paper spread on the table. Then I remembered she was an art collector. And that she had bought some of my paintings. We had been drinking Heine-kens most of the evening, but were still sober.

“This is very powerful stuff.”

“What does it do?”

“It gives you a strange kind of high. You might get sick. When you vomit you get higher but I prefer not to vomit so we take a little baking soda along with it. I guess the main thing about mescaline is that it makes you feel terror.”

“I’ve felt that without any help at all.”

I began painting. Joanna turned the stereo on. It was very strange music, but I liked it. I looked around and Joanna was gone. I didn’t care. I painted a man who had just committed suicide, he had hung himself from the rafters with a rope. I used many yellows, the dead man was so bright and pretty. Then something said, “Hank …”

It was right behind me. I leaped out of my chair, “
JESUS
CHRIST! OH,
JESUS
SHIT
CHRIST!”

Tiny icy bubbles ran from my wrists to my shoulders and down my back. I shivered and trembled. I looked around. Joanna was standing there.

“Never do that to me again,” I told her. “Never sneak up on me like that or I’ll kill you!”

“Hank, I just went to get some cigarettes.”

“Look at this painting.”

“Oh, it’s great,” she said, “I really love it!”

“It’s the mescaline, I guess.”

“Yes, it is.”

“All right, give me a smoke, lady.”

Joanna laughed and lit us up two.

I began painting again. This time I really did it: A huge, green wolf fucking a redhead, her red hair flowing back while the green wolf slammed it to her through lifted legs. She was helpless and submissive. The wolf sawed away and overhead the night burned, it was outdoors, and long-armed stars and the moon watched them. It was hot, hot, and full of color.

“Hank . . .”

I leaped up. And turned. It was Joanna behind me. I got her by the throat. “I told you, goddamn you, not to sneak up . . .”

57

I stayed five days and nights. Then I couldn’t get it up any more. Joanna drove me to the airport. She had bought me a new piece of luggage and some new clothing. I hated that Dallas-Fort Worth airport. It was the most inhuman airport in the U.S. Joanna waved me off and I was in the air. . . .

The trip to Los Angeles was without incident. I disembarked, wondering about the Volks. I took the elevator up in the parking area and didn’t see it. I figured it must have been towed away. Then I walked around to the other side—and there it was. All I had was a parking ticket.

I drove home. The apartment looked the way it always had— bottles and trash everywhere. I’d have to clean it up a bit. If anybody saw it that way they’d have me committed.

There was a knock. I opened the door. It was Tammie. “Hi!” she said.

“Hello.”

“You must have been in an awful hurry when you left. All the doors were unlocked. The back door was wide open. Listen, promise you won’t tell if I tell you something?”

“All right.”

“Arlene went in and used your phone, long distance.”

“All right.”

“I tried to stop her but I couldn’t. She was on pills.”

“All right.”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Galveston.”

“Why did you go flying off like that? You’re crazy.”

“I’ve got to leave again Saturday.”

“Saturday? What’s today?”

“Thursday.”

“Where are you going?”

“New York City.”

“Why?”

“A reading. They sent the tickets two weeks ago. And I get a percentage of the gate.”

“Oh, take me with you! I’ll leave Dancy with Mother. I want to go!”

“I can’t afford to take you. It’ll eat up my profits. I’ve had some heavy expenses lately.”

“I’ll be good! I’ll be so good! I’ll never leave your side! I really missed you.”

“I can’t do it, Tammie.”

She went to the refrigerator and got a beer. “You just don’t give a fuck. All those love poems, you didn’t mean it.”

“I meant it when I wrote them.”

The phone rang. It was my editor. “Where’ve you been?”

“Galveston. Research.”

“I hear you’re reading in New York City this Saturday.”

“Yes, Tammie wants to go, my girl.”

“Are you taking her?”

“No, I can’t afford it.”

“How much is it?”

“$316 round trip.”

“Do you really want to take her?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“All right, go ahead. I’ll mail you a check.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what to say. ...”

“Forget it. Just remember Dylan Thomas.”

“They won’t kill me.”

We said goodbye. Tammie was sucking on her beer.

“All right,” I told her, “you’ve got two or three days to pack.”

“You mean, I’m going?”

“Yes, my editor is paying your way.”

Tammie leaped up and grabbed me. She kissed me, grabbed my balls, pulled at my cock. “You’re the sweetest old fuck!”

New York City. Outside of Dallas, Houston, Charleston, and Atlanta, it was the worst place I had ever been. Tammie pushed up against me and my cock rose. Joanna Dover hadn’t gotten it all. . . .

58

We had a 3:30 pm flight out of Los Angeles that Saturday. At 2 pm I went up and knocked on Tammie’s door. She wasn’t there. I want back to my place and sat down. The phone rang. It was Tammie. “Look,” I said, “we have to think about leaving. I have people meeting me at Kennedy airport. Where are you?”

“I’m $6 short on a prescription. I’m getting some Quaaludes.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m just below Santa Monica Boulevard and Western, about a block. It’s an Owl drugstore. You can’t miss it.”

I hung up, got into the Volks and drove over. I parked a block below Santa Monica and Western, got out and looked around. There was no pharmacy.

I got back in the Volks and drove along looking for her red Camaro. Then I saw it, five blocks further down. I parked and walked in. Tammie was sitting in a chair. Dancy ran up and made a face at me.

“We can’t take the kid.”

“I know. We’ll drop her off over at my mother’s.”

“Your mother’s? That’s 3 miles the other way.”

“It’s on the way to the airport.”

“No, it’s in the other direction.”

“Do you have the 6 bucks?”

I gave Tammie the six.

“I’ll see you back at your place. You packed?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

I drove back and waited. Then I heard them.

“Mommy!” Dancy said, “I want a Ding-Dong!”

They went up the stairs. I waited for them to come down. They didn’t come down. I went up. Tammie was packed, but she was down on her knees zipping and unzipping her baggage.

“Look,” I said, “I’ll carry your other stuff down to the car.”

She had two large paper shopping bags, stuffed, and three dresses on hangers. All this besides her luggage.

I took the shopping bags and the dresses down to the Volks. When I came back she was still zipping and unzipping her luggage.

“Tammie, let’s go.”

“Wait a minute.”

She knelt there running the zipper back and forth, up and down. She didn’t look into the baggage. She just ran the zipper up and down.

“Mommy,” said Dancy, “I want a Ding-Dong.”

“Come on, Tammie, let’s go.”

“Oh, all right.”

I picked up the zipper bag and they followed me out.

I followed her battered red Camaro to her mother’s place. We went in. Tammie stood at her mother’s dresser and started pulling drawers out, in and out. Each time she pulled a drawer out she reached in and mixed everything up. Then she’d slam the drawer and go to the next. Same thing.

“Tammie, the plane is ready to take off.”

“Oh no, we’ve got plenty of time. I hate hanging around airports.”

“What are you going to do about Dancy?”

“I’m going to leave her here until Mother gets home from work.”

Dancy let out a wail. Finally she knew, and she wailed, and the tears ran, and then she stopped, balled her fists and screamed, “I
WANT
A DING-DONG!”

“Listen, Tammie, I’ll be waiting in the car.”

I went out and waited. I waited five minutes then went back in. Tammie was still sliding the drawers in and out.

“Please, Tammie, let’s leave!”

“All right.”

She turned to Dancy. “Look, you stay here until Grandma gets home. Keep the door locked and don’t Jet anybody in but Grandma!”

Dancy wailed again. Then she screamed, “I
HATE
YOU!”

Tammie followed me and we got into the Volks. I started the engine. She opened the door and was gone. “I
HAVE
TO
GET
SOMETHING
OUT
OF MY CAR!”

Tammie ran over to the Camaro. “Oh shit, I locked it and I don’t have the key for the door! Do you have a coat hanger?”

“No,” I screamed, “I don’t have a coat hanger!”

“Be right back!”

Tammie ran back to her mother’s apartment. I heard the door open. Dancy wailed and shouted. Then I heard the door slam and Tammie returned with a coat hanger. She went to the Camaro and jimmied the door.

I walked over to her car. Tammie had climbed into the back seat and was going through that incredible mess—clothing, paper bags, paper cups, newspapers, beer bottles, empty cartons—piled in there. Then she found it: her camera, the Polaroid I had given her for her birthday.

As I drove along, racing the Volks like I was out to win the 500, Tammie leaned over.

“You really love me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“When we get to New York I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before!”

“You mean it?”

“Yes.”

She grabbed my cock and leaned against me.

My first and only redhead. I was lucky. . . .

59

We ran up the long ramp. I was carrying her dresses and the shopping bags.

At the escalator Tammie saw the flight insurance machine.

“Please,” I said, “we only have five minutes until take-off.”

“I want Dancy to have the money.”

“All right.”

“Do you have two quarters?”

I gave her two quarters. She inserted them and a card jumped out of the machine.

“You got a pen?”

Tammie filled out the card and then there was an envelope. She put the card in the envelope. Then she tried to insert it in the slot in the machine.

“This thing won’t go in!”

“We’re going to miss the plane.”

She kept trying to jam the envelope in the slot. She couldn’t get it in.

She stood there and kept jamming the envelope at the slot. Now the envelope was completely bent in half and all the edges were bent.

“I’m going mad,” I told her. “I can’t stand it.”

She jammed a few more times. It wouldn’t go. She looked at me. “O.K., let’s go.”