Women - Charles Bukowski [93]
“All right. Don’t have too many.”
I had that one and another. I found a small empty booth and sat there. I really didn’t want to go. I hardly remembered what Sara looked like.
I finished the drink and drove to her place. I got out, opened the screen door and walked in. Sara was behind the counter. She saw me. “Hi, Henry!” she said, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” She was preparing something. Four or five guys sat or stood around. Some sat on a couch. Others sat on the floor. They were all in their mid-twenties, they were all the same, they were dressed in little walking shorts, and they just sat. Now and then one of them would cross his legs or cough. Sara was a fairly handsome woman, lean, and she moved around briskly. Class. Her hair was red-blond. It looked very good.
“We’ll take care of you,” she told me.
“All right,” I said.
There was a bookcase. Three or four of my books were in it. I found some Lorca and sat down and pretended to read. That way I wouldn’t have to see the guys in their walking shorts. They looked as if nothing had ever touched them—all well-mothered, protected, with a soft sheen of contentment. None of them had ever been in jail, or worked hard with their hands, or even gotten a traffic ticket. Skimmed-milk jollies, the whole bunch.
Sara brought me a health food sandwich. “Here, try this.”
I ate the sandwich as the guys lolled about. Soon one got up and walked out. Then another. Sara was cleaning up. There was only one left. He was about 22 and he sat on the floor. He was gangly, his back bent like a bow. He had on glasses with heavy black rims. He seemed more lonely and daft than the others. “Hey, Sara,” he said, “let’s go out and have some beers tonight.”
“Not tonight, Mike. How about tomorrow night?”
“All right, Sara.”
He stood up and walked to the counter. He put a coin down and picked up a health food cookie. He stood at the counter eating the health food cookie. When he finished it he turned and walked out.
“Did you like the sandwich?” Sara asked.
“Yes, it wasn’t bad.”
“Could you bring in the table and the chairs from the sidewalk?”
I brought in the table and the chairs.
“What do you want to do?” she asked.
“Well, I don’t like bars. The air is bad. Let’s get something to drink and go to your place.”
“All right. Help me carry the garbage out.”
I helped her carry the garbage out. Then she locked up.
“Follow my van. I know a store that stocks good wine. Then you can follow me to my place.”
She had a Volks van and I followed her. There was a poster of a man in the back window of her van. “Smile and rejoice,” he advised me, and at the bottom of the poster was his name, Drayer Baba.
We opened a bottle of wine and sat on the couch in her house. I liked the way her house was furnished. She had built all her furniture herself, including the bed. Photos of Drayer Baba were everywhere. He was from India and had died in 1971, claiming to be God.
While Sara and I sat there drinking the first bottle of wine the door opened and a young man with snaggled teeth, long hair and a very long beard walked in. “This is Ron, my roommate,” said Sara.
“Hello, Ron. Want a wine?”
Ron had a wine with us. Then a fat girl and a thin man with a shaved head walked in. They were Pearl and Jack. They sat down. Then another young man walked in. His name was Jean John. Jean John sat down. Then Pat walked in. Pat had a black beard and long hair. He sat down on the floor at my feet.
“I’m a poet,” he said.
I took a swallow of wine.
“How do you go about getting published?” he asked me.
“You submit it to the editors.”
“But I’m unknown.”
“Everybody starts out unknown.”
“I give readings 3 nights a week. And I’m an actor so I read very well. I figure if I read my stuff enough somebody might want to publish it.”
“It’s not impossible.”
“The problem is that when I read nobody shows up.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I’m going to print my own book.”
“Whitman did.”
“Will you read some of your poems?”
“Christ, no.”
“Why not?”
“I just want to drink.”
“You talk about drinking