It was noon the next day when the phone rang. It was Lydia again.

“Well, did she come back with the champagne?”

“Who?”

“Your whore.”

“Yes, she came back. ...”

“Then what happened?”

“We drank the champagne. It was good stuff.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, you know, shit ...”

I heard a long insane wail like a wolverine shot in the arctic snow and left to bleed and die alone. . . .

She hung up.

I slept most of the afternoon and that night I drove out to the harness races.

I lost $32, got into the Volks and drove back. I parked, walked up on the porch and put the key into the door. All the lights were on. I looked around. Drawers were ripped out and overturned on the floor, the bed covers were on the floor. All my books were missing from the bookcase, including the books I had written, 20 or so. And my typewriter was gone and my toaster was gone and my radio was gone and my paintings were gone.

Lydia, I thought.

All she’d left me was my t.v. because she knew I never looked at it.

I walked outside and there was Lydia’s car, but she wasn’t in it. “Lydia,” I said. “Hey, baby!”

I walked up and down the street and then I saw her feet, both of them, sticking out from behind a small tree up against an apartment house wall. I walked up to the tree and said, “Look, what the hell’s the matter with you?”

Lydia just stood there. She had two shopping bags full of my books and a portfolio of my paintings. “Look, I’ve got to have my books and paintings back. They belong to me.”

Lydia came out from behind the tree—screaming. She took the paintings out and started tearing them. She threw the pieces in the air and when they fell to the ground she stomped on them. She was wearing her cowgirl boots.

Then she took my books out of the shopping bags and started throwing them around, out into the street, out on the lawn, everywhere.

“Here are your paintings! Here are your books! AND DON’T TELL ME ABOUT YOUR WOMEN! DON’T TELL ME ABOUT YOUR WOMEN!”

Then Lydia ran down to my court with a book in her hand, my latest, The Selected Works of Henry Chinaski. She screamed, “So you want your books back? So you want your books back? Here are your goddamned books! AND DON’T TELL ME ABOUT YOUR WOMEN!”

She started smashing the glass panes in my front door. She took The Selected Works of Henry Chinaski and smashed pane after pane, screaming, “You want your books back? Here are your goddamned books! AND DON’T TELL ME ABOUT YOUR WOMEN! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR WOMEN!”

I stood there as she screamed and broke glass. Where are the police? I thought. Where?

Then Lydia ran down the court walk, took a quick left at the trash bin and ran down the driveway of the apartment house next door. Behind a small bush was my typewriter, my radio and my toaster.

Lydia picked up the typewriter and ran out into the center of the street with it. It was a heavy old-fashioned standard machine. Lydia lifted the typer high over her head with both hands and smashed it in the street. The platen and several other parts flew off. She picked the typer up again, raised it over her head and screamed, “DON’T TELL ME ABOUT YOUR WOMEN!” and smashed it into the street again.

Then Lydia jumped into her car and drove off. Fifteen seconds later the police cruiser drove up. “It’s an orange Volks. It’s called the Thing, looks like a tank. I don’t remember the license number, but the letters are HZY, like HAZY, got it?”
“Address?”

I gave them her address. . . .

Sure enough, they brought her back. I heard her in the back seat, wailing, as they drove up.

“STAND BACK!” said one cop as he jumped out. He followed me up to my place. He walked inside and stepped on some broken glass. For some reason he shone his flashlight on the ceiling and the ceiling mouldings.

“You want to press charges?” the cop asked me.

“No. She has children. I don’t want her to lose her kids. Her ex-husband is trying to get them from her. But please tell her that people aren’t supposed to go around doing this sort of thing.”

“O.K.,” he said, “now sign this.”

He wrote it down in hand in a little notebook with lined paper. It said that I, Henry Chinaski, would not press charges against one Lydia Vance.

I signed it and he left.

I locked what was left of the door and went to bed and tried to sleep.

In an hour or so the phone rang. It was Lydia. She was back home.

“YOU-SON-OF-A-BITCH, YOU EVER TELL ME ABOUT YOUR WOMEN AGAIN AND I’LL DO THE SAME THING ALL OVER AGAIN!”

She hung up.