Women - Charles Bukowski [222]
I drove up to her house and took in my basket of health. She was in the kitchen. I sat down with the wine and the basket.
“I’m here, Sara!”
She came out of the kitchen. Ron was gone but she had his stereo on full blast. I had always hated stereos. When you lived in poor neighborhoods you continually heard other people’s sounds, including their fucking, but the most obnoxious thing was to be forced to listen to their music at full volume, the total vomit of it for hours. In addition they usually left their windows open, confident that you too would enjoy what they enjoyed.
Sara had Judy Garland on. I liked Judy Garland, a little, especially her appearance at the New York Met. But suddenly she seemed very loud, screaming her sentimental horseshit.
“For Christ’s sake, Sara, turn it down!”
She did, but not very much. She opened one of the bottles of wine and we sat down at the table across from each other. I felt strangely irritable.
Sara reached into the basket and found the bee secretion. She was excited. She took the lid off and tasted it. “This is so powerful,” she said. “It’s the essence…. Care for some?”
“No, thanks.”
“I’m making us dinner.”
“Good. But I should take you out.”
“I’ve already got it started.”
“All right then.”
“But I need some butter. I’ll have to go out and get some. Also I’m going to need cucumbers and tomatoes for the store tomorrow.”
“I’ll get them. It’s your birthday.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to try some bee secretion?”
“No, thanks, it’s all right.”
“You can’t imagine how many bees it took to fill this jar.”
“Happy birthday. I’ll get the butter and things.”
I had another wine, got in the Volks and drove to a small grocery. I found the butter, but the tomatoes and cucumbers looked old and shriveled. I paid for the butter and drove about looking for a larger market. I found one, got some tomatoes and cucumbers then drove back. As I walked up the driveway to her place I heard it. She had the stereo on full volume again. As I walked closer and closer I began to sicken; my nerves were stretched to the breaking point, then snapped. I walked into the house with just the bag of butter in my hand; I had left the tomatoes and cucumbers in the car. I don’t know what she was playing; it was so loud that I couldn’t distinguish one sound from another.
Sara walked out of the kitchen. “GOD DAMN YOU!” I screamed.
“What is it?” Sara asked.
“I CAN’T HEAR!”
“What?”
“YOU’RE PLAYING THAT FUCKING STEREO TOO LOUD! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“What?”
“I’M LEAVING!”
“No!”
I turned and banged out of the screen door. I walked out to the Volks and saw the bag of tomatoes and cucumbers I had forgotten. I picked them up and walked back up the driveway. We met.
I pushed the bag at her. “Here.”
Then I turned and walked off. “You rotten rotten rotten son-of-a-bitch!” she screamed.
She threw the bag at me. It hit me in the middle of the back. She turned and ran off into her house. I looked at the tomatoes and cucumbers scattered on the ground in the moonlight. For a moment I thought of picking them up. Then I turned and walked away.
93
The reading in Vancouver went through, $500 plus air fare and lodging. The sponsor, Bart McIntosh, was nervous about crossing the border. I was to fly to Seattle, he’d meet me there and we’d drive over the border, then after the reading I’d fly from Vancouver to L.A. I didn’t quite understand what it all meant but I said all right.
So there I was in the air again, drinking a double vodka-7. I was in with the salesmen and businessmen. I had my small suitcase with extra shirts,