Women

by Charles Bukowski

  I ran up. Tammie was stretched out on the bed, all that glorious red hair flared out on the pillow. She saw me.

  "I've been shot," she said weakly. "I've been shot."

  She pointed to a spot on her bluejeans. She was not joking anymore. She was terrified.

  There was a red stain, but it was dry. Tammie liked to use my paints. I reached down and touched the dry stain. She was all right, except for the pills.

  "Listen," I told her, "you're all right, don't worry…"

  As I walked out the door Bobby came pounding up the stairs. "Tammie, Tammie, what's wrong? Are you all right?"

  Bobby evidently had had to get dressed, which explained the time lag.

  As he bounced past me I told him quickly, "Jesus Christ, man, you're always in my life."

  He ran into Tammie's apartment followed by the guy next door, a used car salesman and a certified nut.

  Tammie came down a few days later with an envelope.

  "Hank, the manager just served me with an eviction notice."

  She showed it to me.

  I read it carefully. "It looks like they mean it," I said.

  "I told her I'd pay the back rent but she said, 'We want you out of here, Tammie!'"

  "You can't let the rent go too long."

  "Listen, I have the money. I just don't like to pay."

  Tammie was completely contrary in her ways. Her car wasn't registered, the license plate tabs had long ago expired, and she drove without a driver's license. She left her car parked for days in yellow zones, red zones, white zones, reserved parking lots… When the police stopped her drunk or high or without her i. d., she talked to them, and they always let her go. She tore up the parking tickets whenever she got them.

  "I'll get the owner's phone number." (We had an absentee landlord.) "They can't kick my ass out of here. Do you have his phone number?"

  "No."

  Just then Irv, who owned a whorehouse, and who also acted as bouncer at the local massage parlor walked by. Irv was 6 foot 3 and on ATD. He also had a better mind than the first 3,000 people you'd pass on the street.

  Tammie ran out: "Irv! Irv!"

  He stopped and turned. Tammie swung her breasts at him. "Irv, do you have the owner's phone number?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Irv, I need the owner's phone number. Give me his number and I'll suck you off!"

  "I don't have the number."

  He walked up to his door and put his key into the lock.

  "Come on, Irv, I'll suck you off if you tell me!"

  "You really mean it?" he asked hesitating, looking at her.

  Then he opened the door, walked in and closed it.

  Tammie ran up to another door and beat on it. Richard opened the door cautiously, with the chain on it. He was bald, lived alone, was religious, about 45 and looked at television continually. He was as pink and clean as a woman. He complained continually about the noise from my place-he couldn't sleep, he said. The management told him to move. He hated me. Now there was one of my women at his door. He kept the chain on.

  "What do you want?" he hissed.

  "Look, baby, I want the owner's phone number… You've lived here for years. I know you have his phone number. I need it."

  "Go away," he said.

  "Look, baby, I'll be nice to you… A kiss, a nice big kiss for you!"

  "Harlot!" he said "Strumpet!"

  Richard slammed the door.

  Tammie walked on in. "Hank?"

  "Yes?"

  "What's a strumpet? I know what a trumpet is, but what's a strumpet?"

  "A strumpet, my dear, is a whore."

  "Why that dirty son-of-a-bitch!"

  Tammie walked outside and continued to beat on the doors of the other apartments. Either they were out or they didn't answer. She came back. "It's not fair! Why do they want me out of here? What have I done?"

  "I don't know. Think back. Maybe there's something."

  "I can't think of anything."

  "Move in with me."

  "You couldn't stand the kid."

  "You're right."

  The days passed. The owner remained invisible, he didn't like to deal with the tenants. The manager stood behind the eviction notice. Even Bobby became less visible, ate t.v. dinners, smoked his grass and listened to his stereo. "Hey, man," he told me, "I don't even like your old lady! She's busting up our friendship, man!"

  "Right on, Bobby…"

  I drove to the market and got some empty cardboard cartons. Then Tammie's sister, Cathy, went crazy in Denver-after losing a lover-and Tammie had to go see her, with Dancy. I drove them down to the train depot. I put them on the train.

  69

  That evening the phone rang. It was Mercedes. I had met her after giving a poetry reading at Venice Beach. She was about 28, fair body, pretty good legs, a blonde about 5~feet-5, a blue-eyed blonde. Her hair was long and slightly wavy and she smoked continuously. Her conversation was dull, and her laugh was loud and false, most of the time.

  I had gone to her place after the reading. She lived off the boardwalk in an apartment. I'd played the piano and she'd played the bongos. There was a jug of Red Mountain. There were joints. I got too drunk to leave. I had slept there that night and left in the morning.

  "Look," said Mercedes, "I work right in your neighborhood now. I thought I might come by to see you."

  "All right."

  I hung up. The phone rang again. It was Tammie.

  "Look, I've decided to move out. I'll be home in a couple of days. Just get my yellow dress out of the apartment, the one you like, and my green shoes. All the rest is crap. Leave it."

  "O.K."

  "Listen, I'm flat broke. We don't have any money for food."

  "I'll wire you 40 bucks in the morning, Western Union."

  "You're sweet…"

  I hung up. Fifteen minutes later Mercedes was there. She had on a very short skirt, was wearing sandals and a low-cut blouse. Also small blue earrings.

  "You want some grass?" she asked.

  "Sure."

  She took the grass and the papers out of her purse and started rolling some joints. I broke out the beer and we sat on the couch and smoked and drank.

  We didn't talk much. I played with her legs and we drank and smoked quite a long time.

  Finally we undressed and went to bed, first Mercedes, then me. We began kissing and I rubbed her cunt. She grabbed my cock. I mounted. Mercedes guided it in. She had a good grip down there, very tight. I teased her a while, pulling it almost all the way out and moving the head back and forth. Then I slid it all the way in, slowly, in lazy fashion. Then suddenly I rammed her 4 or 5 times, and her head bounced on the pillow. "Arrrrggg… " she said. Then I eased up and stroked.

  It was a very hot night and we both sweated. Mercedes was high on the beer and the joints. I decided to finish her off with a flourish. Show her a thing or two.

  I pumped on and on. Five minutes. Ten minutes more. I couldn't come. I began to fail, I was getting soft.

  Mercedes got worried. "Make it!" she demanded. "Oh, make it, baby!"

  That didn't help at all. I rolled off.

  It was an unbearably hot night. I took the sheet and wiped off the sweat. I could hear my heart pounding as I lay there. It sounded sad. I wondered what Mercedes was thinking.

  I lay dying, my cock limp.

  Mercedes turned her head toward me. I kissed her. Kissing is more intimate than fucking. That's why I never liked my girlfriends to go around kissing men. I'd rather they fucked them.

  I kept kissing Mercedes and since I felt that way about kissing I hardened again. I climbed on top of her, kissing her as if it was my last hour on earth.

  My cock slid in.

  This time I knew I was going to make it. I could feel the miracle of it.

  I was going to come in her cunt, the bitch. I was going to pour my juices into her and there was nothing she could do to stop me.

  She was mine. I was a conquering army, I was a rapist
, I was her master, I was death.

  She was helpless. Her head rolled, she gripped me and gasped, as she made sounds…

  "Arrrgg, uuggg, oh oh… oooff… oooooh!"

  My cock fed on it.

  I made a strange sound, then I came.

  In five minutes she was snoring. We both were snoring.

  In the morning we showered and dressed. "I'll take you to breakfast," I said.

  "All right," Mercedes answered. "By the way, did we fuck last night?"

  "My god! Don't you remember? We must have fucked for 50 minutes!"

  I couldn't believe it. Mercedes looked unconvinced.

  We went to a place around the corner. I ordered eggs over easy with bacon and coffee, wheat toast. Mercedes ordered hotcakes and ham, cofifee.

  The waitress brought our orders. I took a bite of egg. Mercedes poured syrup over her hotcakes.

  "You're right," she said, "you must have fucked me. I can feel the semen running down my leg."

  I decided not to see her again.

  70

  I went up to Tammie's place with my cardboard cartons. First I got the items she mentioned. Then I found other things-other dresses and blouses, shoes, an iron, a hair dryer, Dancy's clothing, dishes and flatware, a photo album. There was a heavy rattan chair which belonged to her. I took all the things down to my place. I had eight or ten cartons full of stuff. I stacked them against my front room wall.

  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 smashed. What can I do? Help me, for Christ's sake!"

  "You'll think of something, Hank."

  She hung up.

  I dialed again. "Baby…"

  She hung up. Then next the phone was off the hook: bzzzz, bzzzzzz, bzzzz…

  I stretched out on the bed. The phone rang.

  "Tammie…"

  "Hank, this is Valerie. I just came home. I want to tell you that your car is parked in the pizza parlor with the door open."

  "Thanks, Valerie, but I can't close the door. There is a rattan chair stuck through the windshield."

  "Oh, I didn't notice that."

  "I appreciate your phoning."

  I fell asleep. It was one worried sleep. They were going to tow me away. I was going to get booked.

  I awakened at 6:20 am, got dressed and walked to the pizza parlor. The car was still there. The sun was coming up.

  I reached in and grabbed the rattan. It still wouldn't budge. I was furious, and began pulling and yanking, cursing. The more impossible it seemed, the madder I got. Suddenly there was a cracking of wood. I was inspired, energized. A piece of wood broke off in my hands. I looked at it, tossed it into the street, went back to my task. Something else broke off. The days in the factories, the days of unloading boxcars, the days of lifting cases of frozen fish, the days of carrying murdered cattle on my shoulders were paying off. I had always been strong but equally lazy. Now I was tearing that chair to pieces. Finally I ripped it out of the car. I attacked it in the parking lot. I smashed it to bits, I broke it in pieces. Then I picked up the pieces and stacked them neatly on somebody's front lawn.

  I got in the Volks and found an empty parking space near my court. All I had to do now was find a junkyard on Santa Fe Avenue and buy myself a new windshield. That could wait. I went back in, drank two glasses of ice water and went to bed.

  71

  Four or five days passed. The phone rang. It was Tammie.

  "What do you want?" I asked.

  "Listen, Hank. You know that little bridge you cross in your car when you drive to my mother's place?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, right by there they're having a yard sale. I went in and saw this typewriter. It's only 20 bucks and it's in good working order. Please get it for me, Hank."

  "What do you want with a typewriter?"

  "Well, I've never told you, but I've always wanted to be a writer."

  "Tammie…"

  "Please, Hank, just this one last time. I'll be your friend for life."

  "No."

  "Hank…"

  "Oh, shit, well, all right."

  "I'll meet you at the bridge in 15 minutes. I want to hurry before it's taken. I've found a new apartment and Filbert and my brother are helping me move…"

  Tammie wasn't at the bridge in 15. minutes or in 25 minutes. I got back in the Volks and drove over to Tammie's mother's a
partment. Filbert was loading cartons into Tammie's car. He didn't see me. I parked a half a block away.

  Tammie came out and saw my Volks. Filbert was getting into his car. He had a Volks, too, a yellow one. Tammie waved to him and said, "See you later!"

  Then she walked down the street toward me. When she got near my car she stretched out in the center of the street and lay there. I waited. Then she got up, walked to my car, got in.

  I pulled away. Filbert was sitting in his car. I waved to him as we drove my. He didn't wave back. His eyes were sad. It was just beginning for him.

  "You know," Tammie said, "I'm with Filbert now."

  I laughed. It welled out of me.

  "We'd better hurry. The typer might be gone."

  "Why don't you let Filbert buy the fucking thing?"

  "Look, if you don't want to do it just stop the car and let me out!"

  I stopped the car and opened the door.

  "Listen, you son-of-a-bitch, you told me you'd buy that typer! If you don't, I'm going to start screaming and breaking your windows!"

  "All right. The typer is yours."

  We drove to the place. The typer was still there.

  "This typewriter has spent its whole life up to now in an insane asylum," the lady told us.

  "It's going to the right person," I replied.

  I gave the lady a twenty and we drove back. Filbert was gone.

  "Don't you want to come in for a while?" Tammie asked.

  "No, I've got to go."

  She was able to carry the typer in without help. It was a portable.

  72

  I drank for the next week. I drank night and day and wrote 25 or 30 mournful poems about lost love.

  It was Friday night when the phone rang. It was Mercedes. "I got married," she said, "to Little Jack. You met him at the party that night you read in Venice. He's a nice guy and he's got money. We're moving to the Valley."

  "All right, Mercedes, luck with it all."

  "But I miss drinking and talking with you. Suppose I come over tonight?"

  "All right."

  She was there in 15 minutes, rolling joints and drinking my beer.