Women - Charles Bukowski [66]
The next day I drove down to the train station to pick Tammie and Dancy up.
“You’re looking good,” Tammie said.
“Thanks,” I said.
“We’re going to live at Mother’s. You might as well drive us there. I can’t fight that eviction. Besides, who wants to stay where they’re not wanted?”
“Tammie, I moved most of your things. They’re in cardboard cartons at my place.”
“All right. Can I leave them there a while?”
“Sure.”
Then Tammie’s mother went to Denver, to see the sister, and the night she left I went to Tammie’s to get drunk. Tammie was on pills. I didn’t take any. When I got into the fourth 6-pack I said, “Tammie, I don’t see what you see in Bobby. He’s nothing.”
She crossed her legs, and swung her foot back and forth.
“He thinks his small talk is charming,” I said.
She kept swinging her foot.
“Movies, t.v., grass, comic books, dirty photos, that’s his gas tank.”
Tammie swung her foot harder.
“Do you really care for him?”
She kept swinging her foot.
“You fucking bitch!” I said.
I walked to the door, slammed it behind me, and got into the Volks. I raced through traffic, weaving in and out, destroying my clutch and gear shift.
I got back to my place and started loading the cartons of her stuff into my Volks. Also record albums, blankets, toys. The Volks, of course, didn’t hold too much.
I speeded back to Tammie’s. I pulled up and double-parked, put the red warning lights on. I pulled the boxes out of the car and stacked them on the porch. I covered them with blankets and toys, rang the bell and drove off.
When I came back with the second load the first load was gone. I made another stack, rang the bell and wheeled off like a missile.
When I came back with the third load the second was gone. I made a new stack and rang the bell. Then I was off again into the early morning.
When I got back to my place I had a vodka and water and looked at what was left. There was the heavy rattan chair and the stand-up hair dryer. I could only make one more run. It was either the chair or the dryer. The Volks couldn’t consume both.
I decided on the rattan chair. It was 4 AM. I was double-parked in front of my place with the warning lights on. I finished the vodka and water. I was getting drunker and weaker. I picked up the rattan, it was really heavy, and carried it down the walk to my car. I sat it down and opened the door opposite the driver’s side. I jammed the rattan chair in. Then I tried to close the door. The chair was sticking out. I tried to pull the chair out of the car. It was stuck. I cursed, and pushed it further in. One leg of the rattan poked through the windshield and stuck out, pointing at the sky. The door still wouldn’t close. It wasn’t even close. I tried to push the leg of the chair further through the windshield so that I could close the door. It wouldn’t budge. The chair was jammed in tight. I tried to pull it out. It wouldn’t move. Desperately I pulled and pushed, pulled and pushed. If the police came, I was finished. After some time I wearied. I climbed in the driver’s side. There were no parking spaces in the street. I drove the car down to the pizza parlor parking lot, the open door swinging back and forth. I left it there with the door open, the ceiling light on. (The ceiling light wouldn’t shut off.) The windshield was smashed, the chair leg poking out into the moonlight. The whole scene was indecent, mad. It smacked of murder and assassination. My beautiful car.
I walked down the street and back to my place. I poured another vodka and water and phoned Tammie.
“Look, baby, I’m in a jam. I’ve got your chair stuck through my windshield and I can’t get it out and I can’t get it in and the door won’t close. The windshield is