Women: A Novel

  Nicole’s door was open and Lydia ran up the stairway. Nicole was standing at the top of the stairs. Lydia began hitting Nicole with her large purse. It had long straps and she swung it as hard as she could. “He’s my man! He’s my man! You stay away from my man!”

  Then Lydia ran down past me, out the door and into the street.

  “Good god,” said Nicole, “who was that?”

  “That was Lydia. Let me have a broom and a large paper bag.”

  I went down into the street and began sweeping up the broken glass and placing it in the brown paper bag. That bitch has gone too far this time, I thought. I’ll go and buy more liquor. I’ll stay the night with Nicole, maybe a couple of nights.

  I was bent over picking up the glass when I heard a strange sound behind me. I looked around. It was Lydia in the Thing. She had it up on the sidewalk and was driving straight towards me at about 30 M.P.H. I leaped aside as the car went by, missing me by an inch. The car ran down to the end of the block, bumped down off the curb, continued up the street, then took a right at the next corner and was gone.

  I went back to sweeping up the glass. I got it all swept up and put away. Then I reached down into the original paper bag and found one undamaged bottle of beer. It looked very good. I really needed it. I was about to unscrew the cap when someone grabbed it out of my hand. It was Lydia again. She ran up to Nicole’s door with the bottle and hurled it at the glass. She hurled it with such velocity that it went straight through like a large bullet, not smashing the entire window but leaving just a round hole.

  Lydia ran off and I walked up the stairway. Nicole was still standing there. “For god’s sake, Chinaski, leave with her before she kills everybody!”

  I turned and walked back down the stairway. Lydia was sitting in her car at the curbing with the engine running. I opened the door and got in. She drove off. Neither of us spoke a word.

  24

  I began receiving letters from a girl in New York City. Her name was Mindy. She had run across a couple of my books, but the best thing about her letters was that she seldom mentioned writing except to say that she was not a writer. She wrote about things in general and men and sex in particular. Mindy was 25, wrote in longhand, and the handwriting was stable, sensible, yet humorous. I answered her letters and was always glad to find one of hers in my mailbox. Most people are much better at saying things in letters than in conversation, and some people can write artistic, inventive letters, but when they try a poem or story or novel they become pretentious.

  Then Mindy sent some photographs. If they were faithful she was quite beautiful. We wrote for several more weeks and then she mentioned that she had a 2 week vacation coming up.

  Why don’t you fly out? I suggested.

  All right, she replied.

  We began to phone one another. Finally she gave me her arrival date at L.A. International.

  I’ll be there, I told her, nothing will stop me.

  25

  I kept the date in mind. It was never any problem creating a split with Lydia. I was naturally a loner, content just to live with a woman, eat with her, sleep with her, walk down the street with her. I didn’t want conversation, or to go anywhere except the racetrack or the boxing matches. I didn’t understand t.v. I felt foolish paying money to go into a movie theatre and sit with other people to share their emotions. Parties sickened me. I hated the game-playing, the dirty play, the flirting, the amateur drunks, the bores. But parties, dancing, small talk energized Lydia. She considered herself a sexpot. But she was a little too obvious. So our arguments often grew out of my wish for no-people-at-all versus her wish for as-many-people-as-often-as-possible.

  A couple of days before Mindy’s arrival I started it. We were on the bed together.

  “Lydia, for Christ’s sake, why are you so stupid? Don’t you realize I’m a loner? A recluse? I have to be that way to write.”

  “How can you learn anything about people if you don’t meet them?”

  “I already know all about them.”

  “Even when we go out to eat in a restaurant, you keep your head down, you don’t look at anybody.”

  “Why make myself sick?”

  “I observe people,” she said. “I study them.”

  “Shit!”

  “You’re afraid of people!”

  “I hate them.”

  “How can you be a writer? You don’t observe!”

  “O.K., I don’t look at people, but I earn the rent with my writing. It beats tending sheep.”

  “You’re not going to last. You’ll never make it. You’re doing it all wrong.”

  “That’s why I’m making it.”

  “Making it? Who the hell knows who you are? Are you famous like Mailer? Like Capote?” “They can’t write.”

  “But you can! Only you, Chinaski, can write!”

  “Yes, that’s how I feel.”

  “Are you famous? If you went to New York City, would anybody know you?”

  “Listen I don’t care about that. I just want to go on writing. I don’t need trumpets.”

  “You’d take all the trumpets you could get.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You like to pretend you’re already famous.”

  “I have always acted the same way, even before I wrote.”

  “You’re the most unknown famous man I ever met.”

  “I’m just not ambitious.”

  “You are but you’re lazy. You want it for nothing. When do you write anyhow? When do you do it? You’re always in bed or drunk or at the racetrack.”

  “I don’t know. It’s not important.”

  “What’s important then?”

  “You tell me,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what’s important!” Lydia said. “We haven’t had a party for a long time. I haven’t seen any people for a long time! I LIKE people! My sisters LOVE parties. They’ll drive a thousand miles to go to a party! That’s how we were raised in Utah! There’s nothing wrong with parties. It’s just people LETTING GO and having a good time! You’ve got this crazy idea in your head. You think having fun leads to fucking! Jesus Christ, people are decent! You just don’t know how to have a good time!”

  “I don’t like people,” I said.

  Lydia leaped off of the bed. “Jesus, you make me sick!”

  “All right, then, I’ll give you some room.”

  I swung my legs off the bed and began putting my shoes on.

  “Some room?” Lydia asked. “What do you mean by ‘some room’?”

  “I mean, I am getting the hell out of here!”

  “O.K., but listen to this: if you walk out the door now you won’t see me again!”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  I stood up, walked to the door, opened it, closed it and walked down to the Volks. I started the engine and drove off. I had made some room for Mindy.

  26

  I sat in the airport and waited. You never knew about photos. You could never tell. I was nervous. I felt like vomiting. I lit a cigarette and gagged. Why did I do these things? I didn’t want her now. And Mindy was flying all the way from New York City. I knew plenty of women. Why always more women? What was I trying to do? New affairs were exciting but they were also hard work. The first kiss, the first fuck had some drama. People were interesting at first. Then later, slowly but surely, all the flaws and madness would manifest themselves. I would become less and less to them; they would mean less and less to me.

  I was old and I was ugly. Maybe that’s why it felt so good to stick it into young girls. I was King Kong and they were lithe and tender. Was I trying to screw my way past death? By being with young girls did I hope I wouldn’t grow old, feel old? I just didn’t want to age badly, simply quit, be dead before death itself arrived.

  Mindy’s plane landed and taxied in. I felt I was in danger. Women knew me beforehand because they had read my books. I had exposed myself. On the other hand, I knew nothing of them. I was the real gambler. I could get kil
led, I could get my balls cut off. Chinaski without balls. Love Poems of a Eunuch.

  I stood waiting for Mindy. The passengers came out of the gate.

  Oh, I hope she’s not the one.

  Or her.

  Or especially her.

  Now that one would be fine! Look at those legs, that behind, those eyes….

  One of them moved towards me. I hoped it was her. She was the best of the whole damned lot. I couldn’t be that lucky. She walked up to me and smiled. “I’m Mindy.”

  “I’m glad you’re Mindy.”

  “I’m glad you’re Chinaski.”

  “Do you have to wait for your baggage?”

  “Yes, I brought enough for a long stay!”

  “Let’s wait in the bar.”

  We walked in and found a table. Mindy ordered a vodka and tonic. I ordered a vodka-7. Ah, almost in tune. I lit her cigarette. She looked fine. Almost virginal. It was difficult to believe. She was small, blond and perfectly put together. She was more natural than sophisticated. I found it easy to look at her eyes—blue-green. She wore 2 tiny earrings. And she wore high heels. I had told Mindy that high heels excited me.

  “Well,” she said, “are you frightened?”

  “Not so much anymore. I like you.”

  “You look much better than your photos,” she said. “I don’t think you’re ugly at all.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean you’re handsome, not the way people think of handsome. Your face seems kind. But your eyes—they’re beautiful. They’re wild, crazy, like some animal peering out of a forest on fire. God, something like that. I’m not very good with words.”

  “I think that you’re beautiful,” I said. “And very nice. I feel good around you. I think it’s good that we’re together. Drink up. We need another. You’re like your letters.”

  We had the second drink and went down for the luggage. I was proud to be with Mindy. She walked with style. So many women with good bodies just slouched along like overloaded creatures. Mindy flowed.

  I kept thinking, this is too good. This is simply not possible.

  Back at my place Mindy took a bath and changed clothes. She came out in a light blue dress. She had changed her hair style, just a bit. We sat on the couch together with the vodka and the vodka mix. “Well,” I said, “I’m still scared. I’m going to get a little drunk.”

  “Your place is just the way I thought it would be,” she said.

  She was looking at me, smiling. I reached out and touched her just behind the neck, moved her towards me, and gave her a light kiss.

  The phone rang. It was Lydia. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m with a friend.”

  “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

  “Lydia, our relationship is over,” I said. “You know that.”

  “IT’S A WOMAN, ISN’T IT?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, all right.”

  “All right. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” she said.

  Lydia’s tone had suddenly calmed down. I felt better. Her violence frightened me. She always claimed that I was the jealous one, and I was often jealous, but when I saw things working against me I simply became disgusted and withdrew. Lydia was different. She reacted. She was the Head Cheerleader at the Game of Violence.

  But by her tone I knew that she had given up. That she was not enraged. I knew that voice.

  “That was my ex,” I told Mindy.

  “Is it over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she still love you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then it’s not over.”

  “It’s over.”

  “Should I stay?”

  “Of course. Please.”

  “You’re not just using me? I’ve read all those love poems … to Lydia.”

  “I was in love. And I’m not using you.”

  Mindy pressed her body against me and kissed me. It was a long kiss. My cock rose. I had recently been taking a lot of vitamin ?. I had my own ideas about sex. I was constantly horny and masturbated continually. I’d make love to Lydia and then come back to my place and masturbate in the morning. The thought of sex as something forbidden excited me beyond all reason. It was like one animal knifing another into submission.

  When I came I felt it was in the face of everything decent, white sperm dripping down over the heads and souls of my dead parents. If I had been born a woman I would certainly have been a prostitute. Since I had been born a man, I craved women constantly, the lower the better. And yet women—good women—frightened me because they eventually wanted your soul, and what was left of mine, I wanted to keep. Basically I craved prostitutes, base women, because they were deadly and hard and made no personal demands. Nothing was lost when they left. Yet at the same time I yearned for a gentle, good woman, despite the overwhelming price. Either way I was lost. A strong man would give up both. I wasn’t strong. So I continued to struggle with women, with the idea of women.

  Mindy and I finished the bottle and then went to bed. I kissed her for a while, then apologized, and drew away. I was too drunk to perform. One hell of a great lover. I promised her many great experiences in the near future, then fell asleep with her body pressed against me.

  In the morning I awakened, sickened. I looked at Mindy, naked next to me. Even then, after all the drinking, she was a miracle. Never had I known a young girl so beautiful and at the same time so gentle and intelligent. Where were her men? Where had they failed?

  I went into the bathroom and tried to get cleaned up. I gagged on Lavoris. I shaved and put on some shaving lotion. I wet my hair and combed it. I went to the refrigerator, took a 7-UP, drank it down.

  I went back to the bed and climbed in. Mindy was warm, her body was warm. She seemed to be asleep. I liked that. I rubbed my lips against hers, softly. My cock rose. I felt her breasts against me. I took one and sucked on it. I felt the nipple harden. Mindy stirred. I reached down and felt along her belly, down towards the cunt. I began rubbing her cunt, easily.

  It’s like making a rosebud open, I thought. This has meaning. This is good. It’s like two insects in a garden moving slowly towards each other. The male works his slow magic. The female slowly opens. I like it, I like it. Two bugs. Mindy is opening, she is getting wet. She is beautiful. Then I mounted her. I slid it in, my mouth on hers.

  27

  We drank all day and that night I tried again to make love to Mindy. I was astounded and dismayed to find she had a large pussy. An extra large pussy. I hadn’t noticed it the night before. That was a tragedy. Woman’s greatest sin. I worked and I worked. Mindy lay there as if she was enjoying it. I hoped to god she was. I began to sweat. My back ached. I was dizzy, sick. Her pussy seemed to get larger. I couldn’t feel anything. It was like trying to fuck a large, loose paper bag. I was just barely touching the sides of her cunt. It was agony, it was relentless work without a reward. I felt damned. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I desperately wanted to come. It wasn’t just the drinking. I performed better than most when drinking. I heard my heart. I felt my heart. I felt it in my chest. I felt it in my throat. I felt it in my head. I couldn’t bear it. I rolled off with a gasp.

  “Sorry, Mindy, Jesus Christ, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Hank,” she said.

  I rolled over on my stomach. I stank with sweat. I got up and poured two drinks. We sat upright in bed and drank the drinks, side by side. I couldn’t understand how I had managed to come the first time. We had a problem. All that beauty, all that gentleness, all that goodness, and we had a problem. I was unable to tell Mindy what it was. I didn’t know how to tell her she had a big cunt. Maybe nobody had ever told her.

  “It will be better when I’m not drinking so much,” I told her.

  “Please don’t worry, Hank.”

  “O.K.”

  We went to sleep or we pretended to go to sleep. Finally I did….

  28

  Mindy stayed about
a week. I introduced her to my friends. We went places. But nothing was resolved. I couldn’t climax. She didn’t seem to mind. It was strange.

  Around 10:45 PM one evening Mindy was drinking in the front room and reading a magazine. I was lying on the bed in just my shorts, drunk, smoking, a drink on the chair. I was staring at the blue ceiling, not feeling or thinking about anything.

  There was a knock on the front door.

  Mindy said, “Should I get it?”

  “Sure,” I said, “go ahead.”

  I heard Mindy open the door. Then I heard Lydia’s voice.

  “I just came over to check out my competition.”

  Oh, I thought, this is nice. I’ll get up and pour them both a drink, we’ll all drink together and talk. I like my women to understand each other.

  Then I heard Lydia say: “You’re a cute little thing, aren’t you?”

  Then I heard Mindy scream. And Lydia screamed. I heard scuffling, grunts, bodies flying. Furniture was upset. Mindy screamed again—the scream of one being attacked. Lydia screamed—the tigress at the kill. I leaped out of bed. I was going to separate them. I ran into the front room in my shorts. It was a hair-pulling, spitting, scratching, mad scene. I ran over to pull them apart. I stumbled over one of my shoes on the rug, fell heavily. Mindy ran out the door with Lydia right behind. They ran down the walk toward the street. I heard another scream.

  Several minutes passed. I got up and closed the door. Evidently Mindy had gotten away because suddenly Lydia walked in. She sat down in a chair near the door. She looked at me.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve pissed myself.”