Women: 43
I phoned her. It was 1 am. I went over.
Tammie lived in a small bungalow behind a house.
She let me in.
“Be quiet. Don’t wake Dancy. She’s my daughter. She’s 6 years
old and she’s asleep in the bedroom.”
I had a 6-pack of beer. Tammie put it in the refrigerator and came out with two bottles.
“My daughter mustn’t see anything. I still have the two bad teeth which makes my breath bad. We can’t kiss.”
“All right.”
The bedroom door was closed.
“Look,” she said, “I’ve got to take some vitamin B. And I’m going to have to pull my pants down and stab myself in the ass. Look the other way.”
“All right.”
I watched her draw liquid into the syringe. I looked the other way.
“I’ve got to get it all,” she said.
When it was done she turned on a small red radio.
“Nice place you got here.”
“I’m a month behind on the rent.”
“Oh ...”
“It’s all right. The landlord—he lives in the place up front—I can hold him off.” “Good.”
“He’s married, the old fuck. And guess what?” “I can’t.”
“The other day his wife was gone somewhere and the old fuck asked me to come over. I went over and sat down and guess what?”
“He pulled it out.”
“No, he put on dirty movies. He thought that shit would turn me on.”
“It didn’t?”
“I said, ‘Mr. Miller, I have to leave now. I have to pick Dancy up at school.’” Tammie gave me an upper. We talked and talked. And drank beer.
At 6 am Tammie opened the couch we had been sitting on. There was a blanket. We took off our shoes and climbed under the blanket with our clothes on. I held her from the back, my face in all that red hair. I got hard. I dug it into her from behind, through her clothing. I heard her fingers clawing and digging into the edge of the couch.
“I’ve got to go,” I told Tammie.
“Listen, all I’ve got to do is to make Dancy some breakfast and drive her to school. It’s O.K. if she sees you. Just wait here until I get back.”
“I’m going,” I said.
I drove home, drunk. The sun was really up, painful and yellow. . . .
Altre opere di Charles Bukowski...
