I didn’t have any pyjamas. I walked toward the bed. She was in a nightie. “Hank,” she said, “we have about 6 days when it’s safe, then we’ll have to think of something else.”
I got into bed with her. The little girl-woman was ready. I pulled her towards me. Luck was mine again, the gods were smiling. The kisses became more intense. I placed her hand on my cock and then pulled up her nightie. I began to play with her cunt. Katherine with a cunt? The clit came out and I touched it gently, again and again. Finally, I mounted. My cock entered halfway. It was very tight. I moved it back and forth, then pushed. The remainder of my cock slid in. It was glorious. She gripped me. I moved and her grip held. I tried to control myself. I stopped stroking and waited to cool off. I kissed her, working her lips apart, sucking at the upper lip. I saw her hair spread wide across the pillow. Then I gave up trying to please her and simply fucked her, ripping viciously. It was like murder. I didn’t care; my cock had gone crazy. All that hair, her young and beautiful face. It was like raping the Virgin Mary. I came. I came inside of her, agonizing, feeling my sperm enter her body, she was helpless, and I shot my come deep into her ultimate core—body and soul—again and again….
Later on, we slept. Or Katherine slept. I held her from the back. For the first time I thought of marriage. I knew that there certainly were flaws in her that had not surfaced. The beginning of a relationship was always the easiest. After that the unveiling began, never to stop. Still, I thought of marriage. I thought of a house, a dog and a cat, of shopping in supermarkets. Henry Chinaski was losing his balls. And didn’t care.
At last I slept. When I awakened in the morning Katherine was sitting on the edge of the bed brushing those yards of red-brown hair. Her large dark eyes looked at me as I awakened. “Hello, Katherine,” I said, “will you marry me?”
“Please don’t,” she said, “I don’t like it.”
“I mean it.”
“Oh, shit, Hank!”
“What?”
“I said, ‘shit,’ and if you talk that way I’m taking the first plane out.”
“All right.”
“Hank?”
“Yes?”
I looked at Katherine. She kept brushing her long hair. Her large brown eyes looked at me, and she was smiling. She said, “It’s just sex, Hank, it’s just sex!” Then she laughed. It wasn’t a sardonic laugh, it was really joyful. She brushed her hair and I put my arm around her waist and rested my head against her leg. I wasn’t quite sure of anything.
37
I took women either to the boxing matches or to the racetrack. That Thursday night I took Katherine to the boxing matches at the Olympic auditorium. She had never been to a live fight. We got there before the first bout and sat at ringside. I drank beer and smoked and waited.
“It’s strange,” I told her, “that people will sit here and wait for two men to climb up there into that ring and try to punch each other out.”
“It does seem awful.”
“This place was built a long time ago,” I told her as she looked around the ancient arena. “There are only two restrooms, one for men, the other for women, and they are small. So try to go before or after intermission.”
“All right.”
The Olympic was attended mostly by Latinos and lower class working whites, with a few movie stars and celebrities. There were many good Mexican fighters and they fought with their hearts. The only bad fights were when whites or blacks fought, especially the heavyweights.
Being there with Katherine felt strange. Human relationships were strange. I mean, you were with one person a while, eating and sleeping and living with them, loving them, talking to them, going places together, and then it stopped. Then there was a short period when you weren’t with anybody, then another woman arrived, and you ate with her and fucked her, and it all seemed so normal, as if you had been waiting just for her and she had been waiting for you. I never felt right being alone; sometimes it felt good but it never felt right.
The first fight was a good one, lots of blood and courage. There was something to be learned about writing from watching boxing matches or going to the racetrack. The message wasn’t clear but it helped me. That was the important part: the message wasn’t clear. It was wordless, like a house burning, or an earthquake or a flood, or a woman getting out of a car, showing her legs. I didn’t know what other writers needed; I didn’t care, I couldn’t read them anyway. I was locked into my own habits, my own prejudices. It wasn’t bad being dumb if the ignorance was all your own. I knew that some day I would write about Katherine and that it would be hard. It was easy to write about whores, but to write about a good woman was much more difficult.
The second fight was good, too. The crowd screamed and roared and swilled beer. They had temporarily escaped the factories, the warehouses, the slaughterhouses, the car washes—they’d be back in captivity the next day but now they were out—they were wild with freedom. They weren’t thinking about the slavery of poverty. Or the slavery of welfare and food stamps. The rest of us would be all right until the poor learned how to make atom bombs in their basements.
All the fights were good. I got up and went to the restroom. When I got back Katherine was very still. She looked more like she should be attending a ballet or a concert. She looked so delicate and yet she was such a marvelous fuck.
I kept drinking and Katherine would grab one of my hands when a fight became exceptionally brutal. The crowd loved knockouts. They screamed when one of the fighters was on the way out. They were landing those punches. Maybe they were punching out their bosses or their wives. Who knew? Who cared? More beer.
I suggested to Katherine that we leave before the final bout. I’d had enough.
“All right,” she said.
We walked up the narrow aisle, the air blue with smoke. There was no whistling, no obscene gestures. My scarred and battered face was sometimes an asset.
We walked back to the small parking lot under the freeway. The ‘67 blue Volks was not there. The ‘67 model was the last good Volks—and the young men knew it.
“Hepburn, they stole our fucking car.”
“Oh Hank, surely not!”
“It’s gone. It was sitting there.” I pointed. “Now it’s gone.”
“Hank, what will we do?”
“We’ll take a taxi. I really feel bad.”
“Why do people do that?”
“They have to. It’s their way out.”
We went into a coffee shop and I phoned for a cab. We ordered coffee and doughnuts. While we had been watching the fights they had pulled the coathanger and hotwire trick. I had a saying, “Take my woman, but leave my car alone.” I would never kill a man who took my woman; I might kill a man who took my car.
The cab came. At my place, luckily, there was beer and some vodka. I had given up all hope of staying sober enough to make love. Katherine knew it. I paced up and down talking about my ‘67 blue Volks. The last good model. I couldn’t even call the police. I was too drunk. I’d have to wait until morning, until noon.
“Hepburn,” I told her, “it’s not your fault, you didn’t steal it!”
“I wish I had, you’d have it now.”
I thought of 2 or 3 young kids racing my blue baby down along the Coast Highway, smoking dope, laughing, opening it up. Then I thought of all the junkyards along Santa Fe Avenue. Mountains of bumpers, windshields, doorhandles, wiper motors, engine parts, tires, wheels, hoods, jacks, bucket seats, front wheel bearings, brake shoes, radios, pistons, valves, carburetors, cam shafts, transmissions, axles—my car soon would be just a pile of accessories.
That night I slept up against Katherine, but my heart was sad and cold.
38
Luckily I had auto insurance that paid for a rental car. I drove Katherine to the racetrack in it. We sat in the sundeck at Hollywood Park near the stretch turn. Katherine said she didn’t want to bet but I took her inside and showed her the toteboard and the betting windows.
I put 5
win on a 7 to 2 shot with early lick, my favorite kind of horse. I always figured if you’re going to lose you might as well lose in front; you had the race won until somebody beat you. The horse went wire to wire, pulling away at the end. It paid $9.40 and I was $17.50 ahead.
The next race she remained in her seat while I went to make my bet. When I came back she pointed to a man two rows below us. “See that man there?”
“Yes.”
“He told me he won $2,000 yesterday and that he’s $25,000 ahead for the meet.”
“Don’t you want to bet? Maybe we all can win.”
“Oh no, I don’t know anything about it.”
“It’s simple: you give them a dollar and they give you 84 cents back. It’s called the ‘take.’ The state and the track split it about even. They don’t care who wins the race, their take is out of the total mutual pool.”
In the second race my horse, the 8 to 5 favorite, ran second. A longshot had nosed me at the wire. It paid $45.80.
The man two rows down turned and looked at Katherine. “I had it,” he told her, “I had ten on the nose.”
“Oooh,” she told him, smiling, “that’s good.”
I turned to the third race, an affair for 2-year-old maiden colts and geldings. At 5 minutes to post I checked the tote and went to bet. As I walked away I saw the man two rows down turn and begin talking to Katherine. There were at least a dozen of them at the track every day, who told attractive women what big winners they were, hoping that somehow they would end up in bed with them. Maybe they didn’t even think that far; maybe they only hoped vaguely for something without being quite sure what it was. They were addled and dizzied, taking the 10-count. Who could hate them? Big winners, but if you watched them bet, they were usually at the 2 dollar window, their shoes down at the heels and their clothing dirty. The lowest of the breed.
I took the even money shot and he won by 6 and paid $4.00. Not much, but I had him ten win. The man turned around and looked at Katherine. “I had it,” he told her. “$100 to win.”
Katherine didn’t answer. She was beginning to understand. Winners didn’t shoot off their mouths. They were afraid of getting murdered in the parking lot.
After the fourth race, a $22.80 winner, he turned again and told Katherine, “I had that one, ten across.”
She turned away. “His face is yellow, Hank. Did you see his eyes? He’s sick.”
“He’s sick on the dream. We’re all sick on the dream, that’s why we’re out here.”
“Hank, let’s go.”
“All right.”
That night she drank half a bottle of red wine, good red wine, and she was sad and quiet. I knew she was connecting me with the racetrack people and the boxing crowd, and it was true, I was with them, I was one of them. Katherine knew that there was something about me that was not wholesome in the sense of wholesome is as wholesome does. I was drawn to all the wrong things: I liked to drink, I was lazy, I didn’t have a god, politics, ideas, ideals. I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. It didn’t make for an interesting person. I didn’t want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone. On the other hand, when I got drunk I screamed, went crazy, got all out of hand. One kind of behavior didn’t fit the other. I didn’t care.
The fucking was very good that night, but it was the night I lost her. There was nothing I could do about it. I rolled off and wiped myself on the sheet as she went into the bathroom. Overhead a police helicopter circled over Hollywood.
39
The next night Bobby and Valerie came over. They had recently moved into my apartment building and now lived across the court. Bobby had on his tight knit shirt. Everything always fitted Bobby perfectly, his pants were snug and just the right length, he wore the right shoes and his hair was styled. Valerie also dressed mod but not quite as consciously. People called them the “Barbie Dolls.” Valerie was all right when you got her alone, she was intelligent and very energetic and damned honest. Bobby, too, was more human when he and I were alone, but when a new woman was around he became very dull and obvious. He would direct all his attention and conversation to the woman, as if his very presence was an interesting and marvelous thing, but his conversation became predictable and dull. I wondered how Katherine would handle him.
They sat down. I was in a chair near the window and Valerie sat between Bobby and Katherine on the couch. Bobby began. He bent forward and ignoring Valerie directed his attention to Katherine.
“Do you like Los Angeles?” he asked.
“It’s all right,” answered Katherine.
“Are you going to stay here much longer?”
“A while longer.”
“You’re from Texas?”
“Yes.”
“Are your parents from Texas?”
“Yes.”
“Anything good on t.v. out there?”
“It’s about the same.”
“I’ve got an uncle in Texas.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, he lives in Dallas.”
Katherine didn’t answer. Then she said, “Excuse me, I’m going to make a sandwich. Does anybody want anything?”
We said we didn’t. Katherine got up and went into the kitchen. Bobby got up and followed her. You couldn’t quite hear his words, but you could tell that he was asking more questions. Valerie stared at the floor. Katherine and Bobby were in the kitchen a long time. Suddenly Valerie raised her head and began talking to me. She spoke very rapidly and nervously.
“Valerie,” I stopped her, “we needn’t talk, we don’t have to talk.”
She put her head down again.
Then I said, “Hey, you guys have been in there a long time. Are you waxing the floor?”
Bobby laughed and began tapping his foot in rhythm on the floor.
Finally Katherine came out followed by Bobby. She walked over to me and showed me her sandwich: peanut butter on cracked wheat with sliced bananas and sesame seeds.
“It looks good,” I told her.
She sat down and began eating her sandwich. It became quiet. It remained quiet. Then Bobby said, “Well, I think we’d better go….” They left. After the door closed Katherine looked at me and said, “Don’t think anything, Hank. He was just trying to impress me.”
“He’s done that with every woman I’ve known since I’ve known him.”
The phone rang. It was Bobby. “Hey, man, what have you done to my wife?”
“What’s the matter?”
“She just sits here, she’s completely depressed, she won’t talk!”
“I haven’t done anything to your wife.”
“I don’t understand it!”
“Goodnight, Bobby.” I hung up.
“It was Bobby,” I told Katherine. “His wife is depressed.”
“Really?”
“It seems so.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a sandwich?”
“Can you make me one just like yours?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I’ll take it.”
40
Katherine stayed 4 or 5 more days. We had reached the time of the month when it was risky for Katherine to fuck. I couldn’t stand rubbers. Katherine got some contraceptive foam. Meanwhile, the police had recovered my Volks. We went down to where it was impounded. It was intact and in good shape except for a dead battery. I had it hauled to a Hollywood garage where they put it in order. After a last goodbye in bed I drove Katherine to the airport in the blue Volks, TRV 469.
It wasn’t a happy day for me. We sat not saying much. Then they called her flight and we kissed.
“Hey, they all saw this young girl kissing this old man.”
“I don’t give a damn….”
Katherine kissed me again.
“You’re going to miss your flight,” I said.
“Come see me, Hank. I have a nice house. I live alone. Come see me.”
“I will.”
“Write!”
“I will….”
Katherine walked into the boarding tunnel and was gone.
I walked back to the parking lot, got in the Volks, thinking, I’ve still got this. What the hell, I haven’t lost everything.
It started.
41
That evening I started drinking. It wasn’t going to be easy without Katherine. I found some things she had left behind—earrings, a bracelet.
I’ve got to get back to the typewriter, I thought. Art takes discipline. Any asshole can chase a skirt. I drank, thinking about it.
At 2:10 AM the phone rang. I was drinking my last beer.
“Hello?”
“Hello.” It was a woman’s voice, a young woman.
“Yes?”
“Are you Henry Chinaski?”
“Yes.”
“My girlfriend admires your writing. It’s her birthday and I told her I’d phone you. We were surprised to find you in the phonebook.”
“I’m listed.”
“Well, it’s her birthday and I thought it might be nice if we could come to see you.”
“All right.”
“I told Arlene that you probably had women all over the place.”
“I’m a recluse.”
“Then it’s all right if we come over?”
I gave them the address and directions.
“Only one thing, I’m out of beer.”
“We’ll get you some beer. My name’s Tammie.”
“It’s after 2 AM.”
“We’ll get some beer. Cleavage can work wonders.”
They arrived in 20 minutes with the cleavage but without the beer.
“That son-of-a-bitch,” said Arlene. “He always gave it to us before. This time he seemed scared.”
“Fuck him,” said Tammie. They both sat down and announced their ages. “I’m 32,” said Arlene. “I’m 23,” said Tammie.