Women - Charles Bukowski [35]
There was no answer.
I tried it again: “LYDIA!”
My voice sounded very mournful. The voice of a coward.
I moved on. It would be nice, I thought, to be back with the sisters, hearing them laugh about sex and men and dancing and parties. It would be so nice to hear Glendoline’s voice. It would be nice to run my hand through Lydia’s long hair. I’d faithfully take her to every party in town. I’d even dance with all the women and make brilliant jokes about everything. I’d endure all that subnormal driveling shit with a smile. I could almost hear myself. “Hey, that’s a great dance tune! Who wants to really go? Who wants to boogie on out?”
I kept walking through the bog. Finally I reached dry land. I got to a road. It was just an old dirt road, but it looked good. I could see tire marks, hoof prints. There were even wires overhead that carried electricity somewhere. All I had to do was follow those wires. I walked along the road. The sun was high in the sky, it must have been noon. I walked along feeling foolish.
I came to a locked gate across the road. What did that mean? There was a small entry at one side of the gate. Evidently the gate was a cattle guard. But where were the cattle? Where was the owner of the cattle? Maybe he only came around every six months.
The top of my head began to ache. I reached up and felt where I had been blackjacked in a Philadelphia bar 30 years before. Some scar tissue remained. Now the scar tissue, baked by the sun, was swollen. It stood up like a small horn. I broke a piece off and threw it in the road.
I walked another hour, then decided to turn back. It meant having to walk all the way back yet I felt it was the thing to do. I took my shirt off and draped it over my head. I stopped once or twice and screamed, “LYDIA!” There was no reply.
Some time later I got back to the gate. All I had to do was walk around it but there was something in the way. It stood in front of the gate, about 15 feet from me. It was a small doe, a fawn, a something.
I moved slowly toward it. It didn’t budge. Was it going to let me by? It didn’t seem to fear me. I guessed it sensed my confusion, my cowardice. I approached closer and closer. It wouldn’t get out of the way. It had large beautiful brown eyes, more beautiful than the eyes of any woman I had ever seen. I couldn’t believe it. I was within 3 feet of it, ready to back off, when it bolted. It ran off the road and into the woods. It was in excellent shape; it could really run.
As I walked further along the road I heard the sound of running water. I needed water. You couldn’t live very long without water. I left the road and moved toward the sound of rushing water. There was a little hill covered with grass and as I topped the hill there it was: water spilling out of several cement pipes in the face of a dam and into some kind of reservoir. I sat down at the edge of the reservoir and took off my shoes and stockings, pulled up my pants, and stuck my legs into the water. Then I poured water over my head. Then I drank—but not too much or too fast—just like I’d seen it done in the movies.
After recovering a bit I noticed a pier that went out over the reservoir. I walked out on the pier and came to a large metal box bolted to the side of the pier. It was locked with a padlock. There was probably a telephone in there! I could phone for help!
I went and found a large rock and started smashing it against the lock. It wouldn’t give. What the hell would Jack London do? What would Hemingway do? Jean Genet?
I kept smashing the rock against the lock. Sometimes I missed and my hand hit the lock or the metal box itself. Skin ripped, blood flowed. I gathered myself and gave the lock one final blow. It opened. I took it off and opened the metal box. There was no telephone. There were a series of switches and some heavy cables. I reached in, touched a wire, and