We stopped for liquor, ice and smokes, then went back to the apartment. Her one drink had Cecelia giggling and talking and she was explaining that animals had souls too. Nobody challenged her opinion. It was possible, we knew. What we weren’t sure of was if we had any.
80
We continued drinking. Cecelia had just one more and stopped.
“I want to go out and look at the moon and stars,” she said. “It’s so beautiful out!”
“All right, Cecelia.”
She went outside by the swimming pool and sat in a deck chair.
“No wonder Bill died,” I said. “He starved. She never gives it away.”
“She talked the same way about you at dinner when you went to the men’s room,” said Valerie. “She said, ‘Oh, Hank’s poems are so full of passion, but as a person he’s not that way at all!’”
“Me and God don’t always pick the same horse.”
“You fucked her yet?” asked Bobby.
“No.”
“What was Keesing like?”
“All right. But I really wonder how he stood being with her. Maybe the codeine and pills helped. Maybe she was like a big flower-child-nurse to him.”
“Fuck it,” said Bobby, “let’s drink.”
“Yeah. If I had to choose between drinking and fucking I think I’d have to stop fucking.”
“Fucking can cause problems,” said Valerie.
“When my wife is out fucking somebody else I put on my pyjamas, pull the covers up and go to sleep,” said Bobby.
“He’s cool,” said Valerie.
“None of us quite know how to use sex, what to do with it,” I said. “With most people sex is just a toy—wind it up and let it run.”
“What about love?” asked Valerie.
“Love is all right for those who can handle the psychic overload. It’s like trying to carry a full garbage can on your back over a rushing river of piss.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad!”
“Love is a form of prejudice. I have too many other prejudices.”
Valerie went to the window.
“People are having fun, jumping into the pool, and she’s out there looking at the moon.”
“Her old man just died,” said Bobby. “Give her a break.”
I took my bottle and went to my bedroom. I undressed down to my shorts and went to bed. Nothing was ever in tune. People just blindly grabbed at whatever there was: communism, health foods, zen, surfing, ballet, hypnotism, group encounters, orgies, biking, herbs, Catholicism, weight-lifting, travel, withdrawal, vegetarianism, India, painting, writing, sculpting, composing, conducting, backpacking, yoga, copulating, gambling, drinking, hanging around, frozen yogurt, Beethoven, Bach, Buddha, Christ, TM, H, carrot juice, suicide, handmade suits, jet travel, New York City, and then it all evaporated and fell apart. People had to find things to do while waiting to die. I guess it was nice to have a choice.
I took my choice. I raised the fifth of vodka and drank it straight. The Russians knew something.
The door opened and Cecelia walked in. She looked good with her low-slung powerful body. Most American women were either too thin or without stamina. If you gave them rough use something broke in them and they became neurotic and their men became sport freaks or alcoholics or obsessed with cars. The Norwegians, the Icelanders, the Finns knew how a woman should be built: wide and solid, a big ass, big hips, big white flanks, big heads, big mouths, big tits, plenty of hair, big eyes, big nostrils, and down in the center—big enough and small enough.
“Hello, Cecelia. Come on to bed.”
“It was nice out tonight.”
“I suppose. Come say hello.”
She went into the bathroom. I switched off the bedroom light.
She came out after a while. I felt her climb into bed. It was dark but some light came in through the curtains. I handed her the fifth. She took a tiny sip, then handed the bottle back. We were sitting up, our backs against the headboard and the pillows. We were thigh to thigh.
“Hank, the moon was just a tiny sliver. But the stars were brilliant and beautiful. It makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Some of those stars have been dead for millions of light-years and yet we can still see them.”
I reached around and pulled Cecelia’s head toward me. Her mouth opened. It was wet and it was good.
“Cecelia, let’s fuck.”
“I don’t want to.”
In a way I didn’t want to either. Which is why I had asked.
“You don’t want to? Then why do you kiss like that?”
“I think that people should take the time to get to know each other.”
“Sometimes there’s not that much time.”
“I don’t want to do it.”
I got out of bed. I walked down in my shorts and knocked on Bobby and Valerie’s door.
“What is it?” Bobby asked.
“She won’t fuck me.”
“So?”
“Let’s go for a swim.”
“It’s late. The pool is closed.”
“Closed? There’s water, isn’t there?”
“I mean, the lights are off.”
“That’s all right. She won’t fuck me.”
“You don’t have a bathing suit.”
“I have my shorts.”
“All right, wait a minute….”
Bobby and Valerie came out dressed beautifully in new tight-fitting swim suits. Bobby handed me a Columbian and I took a hit.
“What’s wrong with Cecelia?”
“Christian chemistry.”
We walked to the pool. It was true, the lights were out. Bobby and Valerie dove into the pool in tandem. I sat at the edge of the pool, my legs dangling in. I sucked from the fifth of vodka.
Bobby and Valerie surfaced together. Bobby swam over to the edge of the pool. He pulled at one of my ankles.
“Come on, shit head! Show some guts! DIVE!”
I took another hit of vodka, then set the bottle down. I didn’t dive. I carefully lowered myself over the edge. Then I dropped in. It was strange in the dark water. I sank slowly towards the bottom of the pool. I was 6 feet tall and weighed 225 pounds. I waited to touch bottom and push off. Where was the bottom? There it was, and I was almost out of oxygen. I pushed off. I went back up slowly. Finally I broke the surface of the water.
“Death to all whores who keep their legs closed against me!” I screamed.
A door opened and a man came running out of a ground floor apartment. He was the manager.
“Hey, there is no swimming allowed this time of night! The pool lights are off!”
I paddled toward him, reached the pool edge and looked up at him. “Look, motherfucker, I drink two barrels of beer a day and I’m a professional wrestler. I’m a kindly soul by nature. But I intend to swim and I want those lights turned ON! NOW! I’m only asking you one time!”
I paddled off.
The lights went on. The pool was brilliantly lit. It was magic. I paddled toward the vodka, took it down from the pool edge and had a good one. The bottle was almost empty. I looked down and Valerie and Bobby were swimming in circles around each other underwater. They were good at it, they were lithe and graceful. How odd that everybody was younger than I.
We finished with the pool. I walked to the manager’s door in my wet shorts and knocked. He opened the door. I liked him.
“Hey, buddy, you can flick out the lights now. I’m through swimming. You’re O.K., baby, you’re O.K.”
We walked back to our apartment.
“Have a drink with us,” said Bobby. “I know that you’re unhappy.”
I went in and had two drinks.
Valerie said, “Look, Hank, you and your women! You can’t fuck them all, don’t you know that?”
“Victory or death!”
“Sleep it off, Hank.”
“Goodnight, folks, and thanks….”
I went back to my bedroom. Cecelia was flat o
n her back and she was snoring, “Guzzz, guzzz, guzzz….”
She looked fat to me. I took off my wet shorts, climbed into bed. I shook her.
“Cecelia, you’re SNORING!”
“Oooh, oooh…. I’m sorry….”
“O.K., Cecelia. This is just like being married. I’ll get you in the morning when I’m fresh.”
81
A sound awakened me. It was not quite daylight. Cecelia was moving around getting dressed.
I looked at my watch.
“It’s 5 AM. What are you doing?”
“I want to watch the sun come up. I love sunrises!”
“No wonder you don’t drink.”
“I’ll be back. We can have breakfast together.”
“I haven’t been able to eat breakfast for 40 years.”
“I’m going to watch the sunrise, Hank.”
I found a capped bottle of beer. It was warm. I opened it, drank it. Then I slept.
At 10:30 AM there was a knock on the door.
“Come in….”
It was Bobby, Valerie and Cecelia.
“We just had breakfast together,” said Bobby.
“Now Cecelia wants to take her shoes off and walk along the beach,” said Valerie.
“I’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean before, Hank. It’s so beautiful!”
“I’ll get dressed….”
We walked along the shoreline. Cecelia was happy. When the waves came in and ran over her bare feet she screamed.
“You people go ahead,” I said, “I’m going to find a bar.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Bobby.
“I’ll watch over Cecelia,” Valerie said….
We found the nearest bar. There were only two empty stools. We sat down. Bobby drew a male. I drew a female. Bobby and I ordered our drinks.
The woman next to me was 26, 27. Something had wearied her—her eyes and mouth looked tired—but she still held together in spite of it. Her hair was dark and well-kept. She had on a skirt and she had good legs. Her soul was topaz and you could see it in her eyes. I laid my leg against hers. She didn’t move away. I drained my drink.
“Buy me a drink,” I asked her.
She nodded to the barkeep. He came over.
“Vodka-7 for the gentleman.”
“Thanks….”
“Babette.”
“Thanks, Babette. My name’s Henry Chinaski, alcoholic writer.”
“Never heard of you.”
“Likewise.”
“I run a shop near the beach. Trinkets and crap, mostly crap.”
“We’re even. I write a lot of crap.”
“If you’re such a bad writer, why don’t you quit?”
“I need food, shelter and clothing. Buy me another drink.”
Babette nodded to the barkeep and I had a new drink.
We pressed our legs together.
“I’m a rat,” I told her, “I’m constipated and I can’t get it up.”
“I don’t know about your bowels. But you’re a rat and you can get it up.”
“What’s your phone number?”
Babette reached into her purse for a pen.
Then Cecelia and Valerie walked in.
“Oh,” said Valerie, “there are those bastards. I told you. The nearest bar!”
Babette slid off her stool. She was out the door. I could see her through the blinds on the window. She was walking away, on the boardwalk, and she had a body. It was willow slim. It swayed in the wind and was gone.
82
Cecelia sat and watched us drink. I could see that I repulsed her. I ate meat. I had no god. I liked to fuck. Nature didn’t interest me. I never voted. I liked wars. Outer space bored me. Baseball bored me. History bored me. Zoos bored me.
“Hank,” she said, “I’m going outside for a while.”
“What’s out there?”
“I like to watch the people swim in the pool. I like to see them enjoying themselves.”
Cecelia got up and walked outside.
Valerie laughed. Bobby laughed.
“All right, so I’m not going to get into her panties.”
“Do you want to?” asked Bobby.
“It’s not so much my sex drive that’s offended, it’s my ego.”
“And don’t forget your age,” said Bobby.
“There’s nothing worse than an old chauv pig,” I said.
We drank in silence.
An hour or so later Cecelia returned.
“Hank, I want to go.”
“Where?”
“To the airport. I want to fly to San Francisco. I have all my luggage with me.”
“It’s all right with me. But Valerie and Bobby brought us down in their car. Maybe they don’t want to leave yet.”
“We’ll drive her to L.A.,” said Bobby.
We paid our bill, got into the car, Bobby at the wheel, Valerie next to him and Cecelia and me in the back seat. Cecelia leaned away from me, pressed herself against the door, as far away from me as she could get.
Bobby turned on the tape deck. The music hit the back seat like a wave. Bob Dylan.
Valerie passed back a joint. I took a hit then tried to hand it to Cecelia. She cringed away from me. I reached and fondled one of her knees, squeezed it. She pushed my hand away.
“Hey, how you guys doing back there?” Bobby asked.
“It’s love,” I replied.
We drove for an hour.
“Here’s the airport,” said Bobby.
“You’ve got two hours,” I told Cecelia. “We can go back to my place and wait.”
“That’s all right,” said Cecelia. “I want to go now.”
“But what will you do for two hours at the airport?” I asked.
“Oh,” said Cecelia, “I just love airports!”
We stopped in front of the terminal. I jumped out, unloaded her baggage. As we stood together Cecelia reached up and kissed me on the cheek. I let her walk in alone.
83
I had agreed to give a reading up north. It was the afternoon before the reading and I was sitting in an apartment at the Holiday Inn drinking beer with Joe Washington, the promoter, and the local poet, Dudley Barry, and his boyfriend, Paul. Dudley had come out of the closet and announced he was a homo. He was nervous, fat and ambitious. He paced up and down.
“You gonna give a good reading?”
“I don’t know.”
“You draw the crowds. Jesus, how do you do it? They line up around the block.”
“They like blood-lettings.”
Dudley grabbed Paul by the cheeks of the ass. “I’m gonna ream you out, baby! Then you can ream me!”
Joe Washington stood by the window. “Hey, look, here comes William Burroughs across the way. He’s got the apartment right next to yours. He’s reading tomorrow night.”
I walked to the window. It was Burroughs all right. I turned away and opened a new beer. We were on the second floor. Burroughs walked up the stairway, passed my window, opened his door and went in.
“Do you want to go meet him?” Joe asked.
“No.”
“I’m going to see him for a minute.”
“All right.”
Dudley and Paul were playing grab-ass. Dudley was laughing and Paul was giggling and blushing.
“Why don’t you guys work out in private?”
“Isn’t he cute?” asked Dudley. “I just love young boys!”
“I’m more interested in the female.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Don’t be concerned.”
“Jack Mitchell is running with transvestites. He writes poems about them.”
“At least they look like women.”
“Some of them look better.”
I drank in silence.
Joe Washington returned. “I told Burroughs that you were in the next apartment. I said, ‘Burroughs, Henry Chinaski is in the next apartment.’ He said, ‘Oh, is that so?’ I asked if he wanted to m
eet you. He said, ‘No.’”
“They should have refrigerators in these places,” I said. “This fucking beer is getting warm.”
I walked out to look for an ice machine. As I walked by Burroughs’ place he was sitting in a chair by the window. He looked at me indifferently.
I found the ice machine and came back with the ice and put it in the wash basin and stuck the beers in there.
“You don’t want to get too bombed,” said Joe. “You really start slurring your words.”
“They don’t give a damn. They just want me on the cross.”
“$500 for an hour’s work?” asked Dudley. “You call that a cross?
“Yeah.”
“You’re some Christ!”
Dudley and Paul left and Joe and I went out to one of the local coffeehouses for food and drink. We found a table. The first thing we knew, strangers were pulling chairs up to our table. All men. What shit. There were some pretty girls there but they just looked and smiled, or they didn’t look and they didn’t smile. I figured the ones who didn’t smile hated me because of my attitude towards women. Fuck them.
Jack Mitchell was there and Mike Tufts, both poets. Neither worked for a living despite the fact their poetry paid them nothing. They lived on will power and handouts. Mitchell was really a good poet but his luck was bad. He deserved better. Then Blast Grimly, the singer, walked over. Blast was always drunk. I had never seen him sober. There were a couple of others at the table who I didn’t know.
“Mr. Chinaski?”
It was a sweet little thing in a short green dress.
“Yes?”
“Would you autograph this book?”
It was an early book of poems, poems I had written while working at the post office, It Runs Around the Room and Me. I signed it and made a drawing, handed it back.
“Oh, thanks so much!”
She left. All the bastards sitting around me had killed any chance for action.
Soon there were 4 or 5 pitchers of beer on the table. I ordered a sandwich. We drank 2 or 3 hours, then I went back to the apartment. I finished the beers in the sink and went to sleep.