Women: 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.
“Add your ages together,” I said, “and you’ve got me.”
Arlene’s hair was long and black. She sat in the chair by the window combing her hair, making up her face, looking into a large silver mirror, and talking. She was obviously high on pills. Tammie had a near-perfect body and long natural red hair. She was on pills too, but wasn’t as high.
“It will cost you $100 for a piece of ass," Tammie told me.
“I’ll pass.”
Tammie was hard like so many women in their early twenties. Her face was shark-like. I disliked her, right off. They left around 3:30 am and I went to bed alone.
Altre opere di Charles Bukowski...
