Women - Charles Bukowski [109]
“I want you to leave, man.”
“Bobby, what the hell’s wrong?”
“I want you to go back to your place.”
I pulled out, got up, walked into the front room and put on my pants and shoes.
“Hey, Cool Papa,” I said to Bobby, “what’s wrong?”
“I just want you out of here.”
“All right, all right….”
I walked back to my place. It seemed a very long time since I had put Iris Duarte on that plane. She must be back in Vancouver by now. Shit. Iris Duarte, goodnight.
97
I got a letter in the mail. It was addressed from Hollywood.
Dear Chinaski:
I’ve just read almost all your books. I work as a typist in a place on Cherokee Ave. I’ve hung your picture in the place where I work. It’s a poster from one of your readings. People ask me, “Who’s that?” and I say, “That’s my boy friend” and they say. “My God!”
I gave my boss your book of stories, The Beast with Three Legs and he said he didn’t like it. He said you didn’t know how to write. He said it was cheap shit. He got quite angry about it.
Anyhow, I like your things and I’d like to meet you. They say I’m pretty well stacked. Care to check me out?
luv,
Valencia
She left two phone numbers, one at work, one at home. It was about 2:30 PM. I dialed the work number. “Yes?” a female answered.
“Is Valencia there?”
“This is Valencia.”
“This is Chinaski. I got your letter.”
“I thought you’d phone.”
“You have a sexy voice,” I said.
“You have too,” she answered.
“When can I see you?” I asked.
“Well, I’m not doing anything tonight.”
“O.K. How about tonight?”
“All right,” she said, “I’ll see you after work. You can meet me at this bar on Cahuenga Boulevard, The Foxhole. You know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you around six then….”
I drove up and parked outside The Foxhole. I lit a cigarette and sat there awhile. Then I got out and walked into the bar. Which one was Valencia? I stood there and nobody said anything. I walked up to the bar and ordered a double vodka-7. Then I heard my name, “Henry?”
I looked around and there was a blonde alone in a booth. I took my drink over and sat down. She was about 38, and not stacked. She had gone to seed, was a bit too fat. Her breasts were very large but they sagged wearily. She had short clipped blond hair. She was heavily made up and she looked tired. She was in pants, blouse and boots. Pale blue eyes. Many bracelets on each arm. Her face revealed nothing, although once she might have been beautiful.
“It was really a fucking miserable day,” she said. “I typed my ass off.”
“Let’s make it some other night then when you’re feeling better,” I said.
“Ah, shit, it’s all right. Another drink and I’ll spring back.”
Valencia motioned to the waitress. “Another wine.”
She was drinking a white wine.
“How’s the writing going?” she asked. “Any new books out?”
“No, but I’m working on a novel.”
“What’s it called?”
“No title yet.”
“Is it going to be a good one?”
“I don’t know.”
Neither of us said anything for a while. I finished my vodka and had another. Valencia just wasn’t my type in any sense of the word. I disliked her. There are people like that—immediately upon meeting them you despise them.
“There’s a Japanese girl down where I work. She does everything possible to get me fired. I’m in tight with the boss, but this bitch makes the day unpleasant for me. Someday I’m going to stick my foot up her ass.”
“Where are you from?”
“Chicago.”
“I didn’t like Chicago,” I said.
“I like Chicago.”
I finished my drink, she finished hers. Valencia pushed her bill toward me. “You mind paying for this? I had a shrimp salad too.”
I took out my key to unlock the door.
“This your car?”
“Yes.”
“You expect me to ride in an old car like that?”
“Look, if you don’t want to get in, don’t get in.”
Valencia got in. She took out her mirror and began making up her face as we drove along. It wasn’t far to my place. I parked.
Inside she said, “This place is filthy. You need somebody to fix it up.”
I got out the vodka and the 7-UP and poured two drinks. Valencia pulled her boots off.
“Where’s your typewriter?”
“On the kitchen