Women - Charles Bukowski [192]
“Thanks, Valerie, but I can’t close the door. There is a rattan chair stuck through the windshield.”
“Oh, I didn’t notice that.”
“I appreciate your phoning.”
I fell asleep. It was one worried sleep. They were going to tow me away. I was going to get booked.
I awakened at 6:20 AM, got dressed and walked to the pizza parlor. The car was still there. The sun was coming up.
I reached in and grabbed the rattan. It still wouldn’t budge. I was furious, and began pulling and yanking, cursing. The more impossible it seemed, the madder I got. Suddenly there was a cracking of wood. I was inspired, energized. A piece of wood broke off in my hands. I looked at it, tossed it into the street, went back to my task. Something else broke off. The days in the factories, the days of unloading boxcars, the days of lifting cases of frozen fish, the days of carrying murdered cattle on my shoulders were paying off. I had always been strong but equally lazy. Now I was tearing that chair to pieces. Finally I ripped it out of the car. I attacked it in the parking lot. I smashed it to bits, I broke it in pieces. Then I picked up the pieces and stacked them neatly on somebody’s front lawn.
I got in the Volks and found an empty parking space near my court. All I had to do now was find a junkyard on Santa Fe Avenue and buy myself a new windshield. That could wait. I went back in, drank two glasses of ice water and went to bed.
71
Four or five days passed. The phone rang. It was Tammie.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Listen, Hank. You know that little bridge you cross in your car when you drive to my mother’s place?”
“Yes.”
“Well, right by there they’re having a yard sale. I went in and saw this typewriter. It’s only 20 bucks and it’s in good working order. Please get it for me, Hank.”
“What do you want with a typewriter?”
“Well, I’ve never told you, but I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”
“Tammie….”
“Please, Hank, just this one last time. I’ll be your friend for life.”
“No.”
“Hank….”
“Oh, shit, well, all right.”
“I’ll meet you at the bridge in 15 minutes. I want to hurry before it’s taken. I’ve found a new apartment and Filbert and my brother are helping me move….”
Tammie wasn’t at the bridge in 15 minutes or in 25 minutes. I got back in the Volks and drove over to Tammie’s mother’s apartment. Filbert was loading cartons into Tammie’s car. He didn’t see me. I parked a half a block away.
Tammie came out and saw my Volks. Filbert was getting into his car. He had a Volks, too, a yellow one. Tammie waved to him and said, “See you later!”
Then she walked down the street toward me. When she got near my car she stretched out in the center of the street and lay there. I waited. Then she got up, walked to my car, got in.
I pulled away. Filbert was sitting in his car. I waved to him as we drove my. He didn’t wave back. His eyes were sad. It was just beginning for him.
“You know,” Tammie said, “I’m with Filbert now.”
I laughed. It welled out of me.
“We’d better hurry. The typer might be gone.”
“Why don’t you let Filbert buy the fucking thing?”
“Look, if you don’t want to do it just stop the car and let me out!”
I stopped the car and opened the door.
“Listen, you son-of-a-bitch, you told me you’d buy that typer! If you don’t, I’m going to start screaming and breaking your windows!”
“All right. The typer is yours.”
We drove to the place. The typer was still there.
“This typewriter has spent its whole life up to now in an insane asylum,” the lady told us.
“It’s going to the right person,” I replied.
I gave the lady a twenty and we drove back. Filbert was gone.
“Don’t you want to come in for a while?” Tammie asked.
“No, I’ve got to go.”
She was able to carry the typer in without help. It was a portable.
72
I drank for the next week. I drank night and day and wrote 25 or 30 mournful poems about lost love.
It was Friday night when the phone rang. It was Mercedes. “I got married,” she said, “to Little Jack. You met him at the party that night you read in Venice. He’s a nice guy and he’s got money. We