Women - Charles Bukowski [57]
“Tammie, we’re in New York. Let’s get off.”
She moved quickly. I had the two shopping bags and the dresses. She went through the exit wiggling the cheeks of her ass. I followed her.
61
Our man was there to meet us, Gary Benson. He also wrote poetry and drove a cab. He was very fat but at least he didn’t look like a poet, he didn’t look North Beach or East Village or like an English teacher, and that helped because it was very hot in New York that day, nearly 110 degrees. We got the baggage and got into his car, not his cab, and he explained to us why it was almost useless to own a car in New York City. That’s why there were so many cabs. He got us out of the airport and he started driving and talking, and the drivers of New York City were just like New York City—nobody gave an inch or a damn. There was no compassion or courtesy: fender jammed against fender, they drove on. I understood it: anybody who gave an inch would cause a traffic jam, a disturbance, a murder. Traffic flowed endlessly like turds in a sewer. It was marvelous to see, and none of the drivers were angry, they were simply resigned to the facts.
But Gary did like to talk shop. “If it’s O.K. with you I’d like to tape you for a radio show, I’d like to do an interview.”
“All right, Gary, let’s say tomorrow after the reading.”
“I’m going to take you to see the poetry coordinator now. He has everything organized. He’ll show you where you’re staying and so forth. His name is Marshall Benchly and don’t tell him I told you but I hate his guts.”
We drove along and then we saw Marshall Benchly standing in front of a brownstone. There was no parking. He leaped in the car and Gary drove off. Benchly looked like a poet, a private-income poet who had never worked for a living; it showed. He was affected and bland, a pebble.
“We’ll take you to your place,” he said.
He proudly recited a long list of people who had stayed at my hotel. Some of the names I recognized, others I didn’t.
Gary drove into the unloading zone in front of the Chelsea Hotel. We got out. Gary said, “See you at the reading. And see you tomorrow.”
Marshall took us inside and we went up to the desk clerk. The Chelsea certainly wasn’t much, maybe that’s where it got its charm.
Marshall turned and handed me the key. “It’s Room 1010, Janis Joplin’s old room.”
“Thanks.”
“Many great artists have stayed in 1010.”
He walked us over to the tiny elevator.
“The reading’s at 8. I’ll pick you up at 7:30. We’ve been sold out for two weeks. We’re selling some standing-room tickets but we’ve got to be careful because of the fire department.”
“Marshall, where’s the nearest liquor store?”
“Downstairs and take a right.”
We said goodbye to Marshall and took the elevator up.
62
It was hot that night at the reading, which was to be held at St. Mark’s Church. Tammie and I sat in what was used as the dressing room. Tammie found a full-length mirror leaning against the wall and began combing her hair. Marshall took me out in back of the church. They had a burial ground back there. Little cement tombstones sat on the earth and carved on the tombstones were inscriptions. Marshall walked me around and showed me the inscriptions. I always got nervous before a reading, very tense and unhappy. I almost always vomited. Then I did. I vomited on one of the graves.
“You just vomited on Peter Stuyvesant,” Marshall said.
I walked back into the dressing room. Tammie was still looking at herself in the mirror. She looked at her face and her body, but mostly she was worried about her hair. She piled it on top of her head, looked at it that way and then let it fall back down.
Marshall put his head into the room. “Come on, they’re waiting!”
“Tammie’s not ready,” I told him.
Then she piled her hair up on top of her head again and looked at herself. Then she let it fall. Then she stood close to the mirror and looked at her eyes.