Women - Charles Bukowski [186]
“Really,” she said, “I don’t think they’re putting anything into these drinks. I better have another.”
Tammie had five Stingers in 40 minutes.
We knocked on the back door of the Smack-Hi. One of Marty’s big bodyguards let us in. He had these malfunctioning thyroid types working for him to keep law and order when the teeny-boppers, the hairy freaks, the glue sniffers, the acid heads, the plain grass folk, the alcoholics—all the miserable, the damned, the bored and the pretenders—got out of hand.
I was getting ready to puke and I did. This time I found a trash can and let it go. The last time I had dumped it just outside Marty’s office. He was pleased with the change.
67
Want something to drink?” Marty asked.
“I’ll have a beer,” I said.
“I’ll have a Stinger,” said Tammie.
“Get a seat for her, put her on the tab,” I told Marty.
“All right. We’ll set her up. We’re S.R.O. We’ve had to turn away 150 and it’s 30 minutes before you go on.”
“I want to introduce Chinaski to the audience,” said Tammie.
“O.K. with you?” asked Marty.
“O.K.”
They had a kid out there with a guitar, Dinky Summers, and the crowd was disemboweling him. Eight years ago Dinky had had a gold record, but nothing since.
Marty got on an intercom and dialed out. “Listen,” he asked, “is that guy as bad as he sounds?”
You could hear a woman’s voice over the phone. “He’s terrible.”
Marty hung up.
“We want Chinaski!” they yelled.
“All right,” we could hear Dinky, “Chinaski is next.”
He started singing again. They were drunk. They hooted and hissed. Dinky sang on. He finished his act and got off stage. One could never tell. Some days it was better to stay in bed with the covers pulled up.
There was a knock. It was Dinky in his red, white and blue tennis shoes, white t-shirt, cords and brown felt hat. The hat sat perched on a mass of blonde curls. The t-shirt said, “God is Love.”
Dinky looked at us. “Was I really that bad? I want to know. Was I really that bad?”
Nobody answered.
Dinky looked at me. “Hank, was I that bad?”
“The crowd is drunk. It’s carnival time.”
“I want to know if I was bad or not?”
“Have a drink.”
“I gotta go find my girl,” Dinky said. “She’s out there alone.”
“Look,” I said, “let’s get it over with.”
“Fine,” said Marty, “go get it on.”
“I’m introducing him,” said Tammie.
I walked out with her. As we approached the stage they saw us and began screaming, cursing. Bottles fell off tables. There was a fist fight. The boys at the post office would never believe this.
Tammie went out to the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “Henry Chinaski couldn’t make it tonight….”
There was silence.
Then she said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Henry Chinaski!”
I walked on. They jeered. I hadn’t done anything yet. I took the mike. “Hello, this is Henry Chinaski….”
The place trembled with sound. I didn’t need to do anything. They would do it all. But you had to be careful. Drunk as they were they could immediately detect any false gesture, any false word. You could never underestimate an audience. They had paid to get in; they had paid for drinks; they intended to get something and if you didn’t give it to them they’d run you right into the ocean.
There was a refrigerator on stage. I opened it. There must have been 40 bottles of beer in there. I reached in and got one, twisted the cap off, took a hit. I needed that drink.
Then a man down front hollered, “Hey, Chinaski, we’re paying for drinks!”
It was a fat guy in the front row in a mailman’s outfit.
I went into the refrigerator and took out a beer. I walked over and handed him the beer. Then I walked back, reached in, and got some more beers. I handed them to the people in the first row.
“Hey, how about us?” A voice from near the back.
I took a bottle and looped it through the air. I threw a few more back there. They were good. They caught them all. Then one slipped out of my hand and went high into the air. I heard it smash. I decided to quit. I could see a lawsuit: skull fracture.
There were 20 bottles left.
“Now, the rest of these are mine!”
“You gonna read all night?