Women - Charles Bukowski [195]
We drove off.
“We expected somebody quite different,” said Cecelia.
“Oh?”
“I mean, your voice is so soft, and you seem gentle. Bill expected you to get off the plane drunk and cursing, making passes at the women….”
“I never pump up my vulgarity. I wait for it to arrive on its own terms.”
“You’re reading tomorrow night,” said Bill.
“Good, we’ll have fun tonight and forget everything.”
We drove on.
That night Keesing was as interesting as his letters and poems. He had the good sense to stay away from literature in our conversation, except now and then. We talked about other things. I didn’t have much luck in person with most poets even when their letters and poems were good. I’d met Douglas Fazzick with less than charming results. It was best to stay away from other writers and just do your work, or just not do your work.
Cecelia retired early. She had a job to go to in the morning. “Cecelia is divorcing me,” Bill told me. “I don’t blame her. She’s sick of my drugs, my puke, my whole thing. She’s stood it for years. Now she can’t take it any longer. I can’t give her much of a fuck anymore. She’s running with this teenage kid. I can’t blame her. I’ve moved out, I’ve got a room. We can go there and sleep or I can go there and sleep and you can stay here or we both can stay here, it doesn’t matter to me.”
Keesing took out a couple of pills and dropped them.
“Let’s both stay here,” I said.
“You really pour the drinks down.”
“There’s nothing else to do.”
“You must have a cast-iron gut.”
“Not really. It busted open once. But when those holes grow back together they say it’s tougher than the best welding.”
“How long you figure to go on?” he asked.
“I’ve got it all planned. I’m going to die in the year 2000 when I’m 80.”
“That’s strange,” said Keesing, “That’s the year I’m going to die. 2000. I even had a dream about it. I even dreamed the day and hour of my death. Anyhow, it’s in the year 2000.”
“It’s a nice round number. I like it.”
We drank for another hour or two. I got the extra bedroom. Keesing slept on the couch. Cecelia apparently was serious about dumping him.
The next morning I was up at 10:30 AM. There was some beer left. I managed to get one down. I was on the second when Keesing walked in.
“Jesus, how do you do it? You spring back like an 18 year old boy.”
“I have some bad mornings. This just isn’t one.”
“I’ve got a 1:00 English class. I’ve got to get straight.”
“Drop a white.”
“I need some food in my gut.”
“Eat two soft-boiled eggs. Eat them with a touch of chili powder or paprika.”
“Can I boil you a couple?”
“Thanks, yes.”
The phone rang. It was Cecelia. Bill talked a while, then hung up. “There’s a tornado approaching. One of the biggest in the history of the state. It might come through here.”
“Something always happens when I read.”
I noticed it was beginning to get dark.
“They might cancel the class. It’s hard to tell. I better eat.”
Bill put the eggs on.
“I don’t understand you,” he said, “you don’t even look hungover.”
“I’m hungover every morning. It’s normal. I’ve adjusted.”
“You’re still writing pretty good shit, in spite of all that booze.”
“Let’s not get on that. Maybe it’s the variety of pussy. Don’t boil those eggs too long.”
I went into the bathroom and took a shit. Constipation wasn’t one of my problems. I was just coming out when I heard Bill holler, “Chinaski!”
Then I heard him in the yard, he was vomiting. He came back.
The poor guy was really sick.
“Take some baking soda. You got a Valium?”
“No.”
“Then wait 10 minutes after the baking soda and drink a warm beer. Pour it in a glass now so the air can get to it.”
“I got a bennie.”
“Take it.”
It was getting darker. Fifteen minutes after the bennie Bill took a shower. When he came out he looked all right. He ate a peanut butter sandwich with sliced banana. He was going to make it.
“You still love your old lady, don’t you?” I asked.
“Christ, yes.”
“I know it doesn’t help, but try to realize that it’s happened