Women - Charles Bukowski [107]
I stepped out onto the sidewalk and watched her from behind. I saw her turn and look back. Then she stood and stared at me, looking back over her shoulder. I walked into the laundry. When I came out with my things she was standing by my Volks. I put the things inside from the passenger’s side. Then I moved around to the driver’s side. She stood in front of me. She was about 27 with a very round face, impassive. We were standing very close together.
“I saw you looking at me. Why were you looking at me?”
“I apologize. I didn’t mean any offense.”
“I want to know why you were looking at me. You were really staring at me.”
“Look, you’re a beautiful woman. You have a beautiful body. I saw you walk by and I looked. I couldn’t help it.”
“Do you want a date for tonight?”
“Well, that would be great. But I’ve got a date. I’ve got something going.”
I circled around her and made for the driver’s side. I opened the door and got in. She walked off. As she did I heard her whisper, “Dumb honky asshole.”
I opened the mail—nothing. I needed to regroup. Something needed was missing. I looked in the refrigerator. Nothing. I walked outside, got in the Volks and drove to the Blue Elephant liquor store. I got a fifth of Smirnoff and some 7-UP. As I drove back toward my place, somewhere along the way, I knew I had forgotten cigarettes.
I went south down Western Avenue, took a left on Hollywood Boulevard, then a right on Serrano. I was trying to get to a Sav-On—for smokes. Right on the corner of Serrano and Sunset stood another black girl, a high-yellow in black high heels and a mini-skirt. As she stood there in that short skirt I could see just a touch of blue panty. She began to walk and I drove along beside her. She pretended not to notice me.
“Hey, baby!”
She stopped. I pulled over to the curb. She walked up to the car.
“How you doing?” I asked her.
“All right.”
“Are you a decoy?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I asked her, “how do I know you’re not a cop?”
“How do I know you’re not a cop?”
“Look at my face. Do I look like a cop?”
“All right,” she said, “drive around the corner and park. I’ll get in around the corner.”
I drove around the corner in front of Mr. Famous N.J. Sandwiches. She opened the door and got in.
“What do you want?” she asked. She was in her mid-thirties and one large solid gold tooth stood out in the center of her smile. She’d never be broke.
“Head,” I said.
“Twenty dollars.”
“O.K., let’s go.”
“Drive up Western to Franklin, take a left, go to Harvard and take a right.”
When we got to Harvard it was hard to park. Finally I parked in a red zone and we got out.
“Follow me,” she said.
It was a decaying high-rise. Just before we reached the lobby she took a right and I followed her up a cement stairway, watching her ass. It was strange, but everybody had an ass. It was almost sad. But I didn’t want her ass. I followed her down a hallway and then up some more cement steps. We were using some kind of fire escape instead of the elevator. What her reason was I had no idea. But I needed the exercise—if I intended to write big fat novels in my old age like Knut Hamsun.
We finally reached her apartment and she got out her key. I grabbed her hand.
“Wait a minute,” I said.
“What is it?”
“You got a couple of big black bastards in there who are gonna kick my ass and roll me?”
“No, there’s nobody in there. I live with a girl friend and she’s not home. She works at the Broadway Department Store.”
“Give me the key.”
I opened the door slowly and then kicked it wide with my foot. I looked inside. I had my steel but I didn’t reach. She closed the door behind us.
“Come on in the bedroom,” she said.
“Wait a minute….”
I ripped open a closet door and reaching in felt behind the clothing. Nothing.
“What kind of shit are you on, man?”
“I’m not on any kind of shit!”
“Oh Lord…”
I ran into the bathroom and yanked back the shower curtain. Nothing. I went into the kitchen, pulled back the plastic