Women - Charles Bukowski [197]
I phoned Cecelia back that night, and I phoned her again the next night, and once more after that, and then I stopped phoning.
77
A month went by. R.A. Dwight, the editor of Dogbite Press wrote and asked me to do a foreword to Keesing’s Selected Poems. Keesing, with the help of his death, was at last going to get some recognition somewhere besides Australia.
Then Cecelia phoned. “Hank, I’m going to San Francisco to see R.A. Dwight. I have some photos of Bill and some unpublished things. I want to go over them with Dwight and we’re going to decide what to publish. But first I want to stop in L.A. for a day or two. Can you meet me at the airport?”
“Sure, you can stay at my place, Cecelia.”
“Thanks much.”
She gave me her arrival time and I went in and cleaned the toilet, scrubbed the bathtub and changed the sheets and pillow cases on my bed.
Cecelia arrived on the 10 AM flight which was hell for me to make, but she looked good, albeit a bit plump. She was sturdy, built low, she looked midwestern, scrubbed. Men looked at her, she had a way of moving her behind; it looked forceful, a bit ominous and sexy.
We waited for the baggage in the bar. Cecelia didn’t drink. She had an orange juice.
“I just love airports and airport passengers, don’t you?”
“No.”
“The people seem so interesting.”
“They have more money than the people who travel by rail or bus.”
“We passed over the Grand Canyon on the way in.”
“Yes, it’s on your route.”
“These waitresses wear such short skirts! Look, you can see their panties.”
“Good tips. They all live in condominiums and drive M.G.s.”
“Everybody on the plane was so nice! The man in the seat next to me offered to buy me a drink.”
“Let’s get your baggage.”
“R.A. phoned to tell me that he had received your foreword to Bill’s Selected Poems. He read me parts of it over the phone. It was beautiful. I want to thank you.”
“Forget it.”
“I don’t know how to repay you.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”
“I rarely drink. Maybe later.”
“What do you prefer? I’ll get something for when we get back to my place. I want you to feel comfortable and relaxed.”
“I’m sure Bill is looking down at us now and he’s feeling happy.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes!”
We got the baggage and walked toward the parking lot.
78
That night I managed to get 2 or 3 drinks into Cecelia. She forgot herself and crossed her legs high and I saw some good heavy flank. Durable. A cow of a woman, cow’s breasts, cow’s eyes. She could handle plenty. Keesing had had a good eye.
She was against the killing of animals, she didn’t eat meat. I guess she had enough meat. Everything was beautiful, she told me, we had all this beauty in the world and all we had to do was reach out and touch it, it was all there and all ours for the taking.
“You’re right, Cecelia,” I said. “Have another drink.”
“It makes me giddy.”
“What’s wrong with a little bit of giddy?”
Cecelia crossed her legs again and her thighs flashed. They flashed way up high.
Bill, you can’t use it now. You were a good poet, Bill, but what the hell, you left more behind than your writing. And your writing never had thighs and flanks like this.
Cecelia had another drink, then stopped. I kept going.
Where did all the women come from? The supply was endless. Each one of them was individual, different. Their pussies were different, their kisses were different, their breasts were different, but no man could drink them all, there were too many of them, crossing their legs, driving men mad. What a feast!
“I want to go to the beach. Will you take me to the beach, Hank?” Cecelia asked.
“Tonight?”
“No, not tonight. But sometime before I leave.”
“All right.”
Cecelia talked about how the American Indian had been abused. Then she told me that she wrote, but she never submitted it, she just kept a notebook. Bill