Women - Charles Bukowski [226]
“You should have told her you had an engagement.”
“I didn’t….”
“You didn’t have the guts.”
“Iris has got a lovely body….”
“There are other things in life besides lovely bodies.”
“Anyway, now I have to tell Debra I can’t spend Thanksgiving with her and I don’t know how.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Debra’s bed.”
“Where’s Debra?”
“She’s at work.” I couldn’t hold back a sob.
“You’re nothing but a big-ass crybaby.”
“I know. But I’ve got to tell her. It’s driving me crazy.”
“You got in this mess by yourself. You’ll have to get out by yourself.”
“I thought you’d help me, I thought you might tell me what to do.”
“You want me to change your diapers? You want me to phone her for you?”
“No, it’s all right. I’m a man. I’ll phone her myself. I’m going to phone her right now. I’m going to tell her the truth. I’m going to get the fucking thing over with!”
“That’s good. Let me know how it goes.”
“It was my childhood, you see. I never knew what love was….”
“Phone me back later.”
Sara hung up.
I poured another wine. I couldn’t understand what had happened to my life. I had lost my sophistication, I had lost my worldliness, I had lost my hard protective shell. I had lost my sense of humor in the face of other people’s problems. I wanted them all back. I wanted things to go easily for me. But somehow I knew they wouldn’t come back, at least not right away. I was destined to continue feeling guilty and unprotected.
I tried telling myself that feeling guilty was just a sickness of some sort. That it was men without guilt who made progress in life. Men who were able to lie, to cheat, men who knew all the shortcuts. Cortez. He didn’t fuck around. Neither did Vince Lombardi. But no matter how much I thought about it, I still felt bad. I decided to get it over with. I was ready. The confessional booth. I’d be a Catholic again. Get it on, off and out, then wait for forgiveness. I finished the wine and dialed Debra’s office.
Tessie answered. “Hi, baby! This is Hank! How’s it going?”
“Everything’s fine, Hank. How are you doing?”
“All is well. Listen, you’re not pissed at me, are you?”
“No, Hank. It was a little gross, hahaha, but it was fun. It’s our secret, anyhow.”
“Thanks. You know, I’m really not…”
“I know.”
“Well, listen, I wanted to speak to Debra. Is she there?”
“No, she’s in court, transcribing.”
“When will she be back?”
“She usually doesn’t return to the office after she goes to court. In case she does, is there any message?”
“No, Tessie, thank you.”
That did it. I couldn’t even make amends. Constipation of Confession. Lack of Communication. I had Enemies in High Places.
I drank another wine. I had been ready to clear the air and let everything hang out. Now I had to sit on it. I felt worse and worse. Depression, suicide was often the lack of a proper diet. But I had been eating well. I remembered the old days, living on one candy bar a day, sending out hand-printed stories to Atlantic Monthly and Harper’s. All I thought about was food. If the body didn’t eat, the mind starved too. But I had been eating damned good, for a change, and drinking damned good wine. That meant that what I was thinking was probably the truth. Everybody imagined themselves special, privileged, exempt. Even an ugly old crone watering a geranium on her front porch. I had imagined myself special because I had come out of the factories at the age of 50 and become a poet. Hot shit. So I pissed on everybody just like those bosses and managers had pissed on me when I was helpless. It came to the same thing. I was a drunken spoiled rotten fucker with a very minor minor fame.
My analysis didn’t cure the burn.
The phone rang. It was Sara.
“You said you’d phone. What happened?”
“She wasn’t in.”
“Not in?”
“She’s in court.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to wait. And tell her.”
“All right.”
“I shouldn’t have laid all this shit on you.”
“It’s all right.”
“I want to see you again.”
“When? After the belly dancer?”
“Well, yes.”
“Thanks but no thanks.”
“I’ll phone you….”
“All right. I’ll get your