Women - Charles Bukowski [1]
I finished the second half of the reading and forgot about Lydia just as I forgot about the women I passed on the sidewalks. I took my money, signed some napkins, some pieces of paper, then left, and drove back home.
I was still working each night on the first novel. I never started writing until 6:18 PM. That was when I used to punch in at the Terminal Annex Post Office. It was 6 PM when they arrived: Peter and Lydia Vance. I opened the door. Peter said, “Look, Henry, look what I brought you!”
Lydia jumped up on the coffee table. Her bluejeans fit tighter than ever. She flung her long brown hair from side to side. She was insane; she was miraculous. For the first time I considered the possibility of actually making love to her. She began reciting poetry. Her own. It was very bad. Peter tried to stop her, “No! No! No rhyming poetry in Henry Chinaski’s house!”
“Let her go, Peter!”
I wanted to watch her buttocks. She strode up and down that old coffeetable. Then she danced. She waved her arms. The poetry was terrible, the body and the madness weren’t.
Lydia jumped down.
“How’d you like it, Henry?”
“What?”
“The poetry.”
“Hardly.”
Lydia stood there with her sheets of poetry in her hand. Peter grabbed her. “Let’s fuck!” he said to her. “Come on, let’s fuck!”
She pushed him off.
“All right,” Peter said. “Then I’m leaving!”
“So leave. I’ve got my car,” Lydia said. “I can get back to my place.”
Peter ran to the door. He stopped and turned. “All right, Chinaski! Don’t forget what I brought you!”
He slammed the door and was gone. Lydia sat down on the couch, near the door. I sat about a foot away from her. I looked at her. She looked marvelous. I was afraid. I reached out and touched her long hair. The hair was magic. I pulled my hand away. “Is all that hair really yours?” I asked. I knew it was. “Yes,” she said, “it is.” I put my hand under her chin and very awkwardly I tried to turn her head toward mine. I was not confident in these situations. I kissed her lightly.
Lydia jumped up. “I’ve got to go. I’m paying a baby sitter.”
“Look,” I said, “stay. I’ll pay. Just stay a while.”
“No, I can’t,” she said, “I’ve got to go.”
She walked to the door. I followed her. She opened the door. Then she turned. I reached for her one last time. She lifted up her face and gave me the tiniest kiss. Then she pulled away and put some typed papers in my hand. The door closed. I sat on the couch with the papers in my hand and listened to her car start.
The poems were stapled together, mimeographed and called HERRRR. I read some of them. They were interesting, full of humor and sexuality, but badly written. They were by Lydia and her three sisters—all so jolly and brave and sexy together. I threw the sheets away and I opened my pint of whiskey. It was dark outside. The radio played mostly Mozart and Brahms and the Bee.
2
A day or so later I got a poem in the mail from Lydia. It was a long poem and it began:
Come out, old troll,
Come out of your dark hole, old troll,
Come out into the sunlight with us and
Let us put daisies in your hair…
The poem went on to tell me how good it would feel to dance in the fields with female fawn creatures who would bring me joy and true knowledge. I put the letter in a dresser drawer.
I was awakened the next morning by a knocking on the glass panes of my front door. It was 10:30 AM.
“Go away,” I said.
“It’s Lydia.”
“All right. Wait a minute.”
I put on a shirt and some pants and opened the door. Then I ran to the bathroom and vomited. I tried to brush my teeth but only vomited again—the sweetness of the toothpaste turned my stomach. I came out.
“You’re sick,” Lydia said. “Do you want me to leave?”
“Oh no, I’m all right. I always wake up like this.”
Lydia looked good. The light came through the curtains and shone on her. She had an orange in her hand and was tossing