Women - Charles Bukowski [238]
“That is a sad story,” I said.
“Listen,” said Edie, “I gotta go. Merry Christmas. Thanks for the drinks.”
She got up and I walked her to the door, opened it. She walked off through the court. I came back and sat down.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” said Sara.
“What is it?”
“If I hadn’t been here you would have fucked her.”
“I hardly know the lady.”
“All that tit! You were terrified! You were afraid to even look at her!”
“What’s she doing wandering around on Christmas Eve?”
“Why didn’t you ask her?”
“She said she was looking for Bobby.”
“If I hadn’t been here you would have fucked her.”
“I don’t know. I have no way of knowing….”
Then Sara stood up and screamed. She began to sob and then she ran into the other room. I poured a drink. The colored lights on the walls blinked off and on.
99
Sara was preparing the turkey dressing and I sat in the kitchen talking to her. We were both sipping white wine.
The phone rang. I went and got it. It was Debra. “I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, wet noodle.”
“Thank you, Debra. And a happy Santa Claus to you.”
We talked awhile, then I went back and sat down.
“Who was that?”
“Debra.”
“How is she?”
“All right, I guess.”
“What did she want?”
“She sent Christmas greetings.”
“You’ll like this organic turkey, and the stuffing is good too. People eat poison, pure poison. America is one of the few countries where cancer of the colon is prevalent.”
“Yeah, my ass itches a lot, but it’s just my hemorrhoids. I had them cut out once. Before they operate they run this snake up your intestine with a little light attached and they peek into you looking for cancer. That snake is pretty long. They just run it up you!”
The phone rang again. I went and got it. It was Cassie. “How are you doing?”
“Sara and I are preparing a turkey.”
“I miss you.”
“Merry Christmas to you too. How’s the job going?”
“All right. I’m off until January 2nd.”
“Happy New Year, Cassie!”
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I’m a little airy. I’m not used to white wine so early in the day.”
“Give me a call some time.”
“Sure.”
I walked back into the kitchen. “It was Cassie. People phone on Christmas. Maybe Drayer Baba will call.”
“He won’t.”
“Why?”
“He never spoke aloud. He never spoke and he never touched money.”
“That’s pretty good. Let me eat some of that raw dressing.”
“O.K.”
“Say—not bad!”
Then the phone rang again. It worked like that. Once it started ringing it kept ringing. I walked into the bedroom and answered it.
“Hello,” I said. “Who’s this?”
“You son-of-a-bitch. Don’t you know?”
“No, not really.” It was a drunken female.
“Guess.”
“Wait. I know! It’s Iris!”
“Yes, Iris. And I’m pregnant!”
“Do you know who the father is?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I guess you’re right. How are things in Vancouver?”
“All right. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
I walked back into the kitchen again.
“It was the Canadian belly dancer,” I told Sara.
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s just full of Christmas cheer.”
Sara put the turkey in the oven and we went into the front room. We talked small talk for some time. Then the phone rang again. “Hello,” I said.
“Are you Henry Chinaski?” It was a young male voice.
“Yes.”
“Are you Henry Chinaski, the writer?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, we’re a gang of guys from Bel Air and we really dig your stuff, man! We dig it so much that we’re going to reward you, man!”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, we’re coming over with some 6-packs of beer.”
“Stick that beer up your ass.”
“What?”