Women - Charles Bukowski [227]
I sipped on the wine and waited. 3 o’clock, 4 o’clock, 5 o’clock. Finally I remembered to put my clothes on. I was sitting with a drink in my hand when Debra’s car pulled up in front of the house. I waited. She opened the door. She had a bag of groceries. She looked very good.
“Hi!” she said, “How’s my ex-wet noodle?”
I walked up to her and put my arms around her. I started to tremble and cry.
“Hank, what’s wrong?”
Debra dropped the bag of groceries to the floor. Our dinner. I grabbed her and held her to me. I was sobbing. The tears flowed like wine. I couldn’t stop. Most of me meant it, the other part was running away.
“Hank, what is it?”
“I can’t be with you Thanksgiving.”
“Why? Why? What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong is that I am a GIANT HUNK OF SHIT!”
My guilt screwed inside me and I had a spasm. It hurt something awful.
“A belly dancer is flying down from Canada to spend Thanksgiving with me.”
“A belly dancer?”
“Yes.”
“Is she beautiful?”
“Yes, she is. I’m sorry, I’m sorry….”
Debra pushed me off.
“Let me put the groceries away.”
She picked up the bag and walked into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open and close.
“Debra,” I said, “I’m leaving.”
There was no sound from the kitchen. I opened the front door and walked out. The Volks started. I turned the radio on, the headlights on and drove back to L.A.
94
Wednesday night found me at the airport waiting for Iris. I sat around and looked at the women. None of them—except for one or two—looked as good as Iris. There was something wrong with me: I did think of sex a great deal. Each woman I looked at I imagined being in bed with. It was an interesting way to pass airport waiting time. Women: I liked the colors of their clothing; the way they walked; the cruelty in some faces; now and then the almost pure beauty in another face, totally and enchantingly female. They had it over us: they planned much better and were better organized. While men were watching professional football or drinking beer or bowling, they, the women, were thinking about us, concentrating, studying, deciding—whether to accept us, discard us, exchange us, kill us or whether simply to leave us. In the end it hardly mattered; no matter what they did, we ended up lonely and insane.
I had bought Iris and myself a turkey, an 18-pounder. It was on my sink, thawing out. Thanksgiving. It proved you had survived. another year with its wars, inflation, unemployment, smog, presidents. It was a grand neurotic gathering of clans: loud drunks, grandmothers, sisters, aunts, screaming children, would-be suicides. And don’t forget indigestion. I wasn’t different from anyone else: there sat the 18 pound bird on my sink, dead, plucked, totally disembowled. Iris would roast it for me.
I had received a letter in the mail that afternoon. I took it out of my pocket and re-read it. It had been mailed from Berkeley:
Dear Mr. Chinaski:
You don’t know me but I’m a cute bitch. I’ve been going with sailors and one truck driver but they don’t satisfy me. I mean, we fuck and then there’s nothing more. There’s no substance to those sons of bitches. I’m 22 and I have a 5 year old daughter, Aster. I live with a guy but there’s no sex, we just live together. His name is Rex. I’d like to come see you. My mom could watch Aster. Enclosed is a photo of me. Write me if you feel like it. I’ve read some of your books. They are hard to find in bookstores. What I like about your writing is that you are so easy to understand. And you’re funny too.
yours,
Tanya
Then Iris’ plane landed. I stood at the window and watched her get off. She still looked good. She had come all the way from Canada to see me. She had one suitcase. I waved to her as she filed through the entranceway with the others. She had to pass through customs, then she was pressed up against me. We kissed and I got half a hard-on. She was in a dress, a practical tight-fitting blue dress, high heels and she wore a small hat cocked on her head. It was rare to see a woman in a dress. All the women in Los