I was sitting with an anarchist from Beverly Hills, Ben Solvnag, who was writing my biography when I heard her footsteps on the court walk. I knew the sound—they were always fast and frantic and sexy—those tiny feet. I lived near the rear of the court. My door was open. Tammie ran in.
We were both into each other’s arms, hugging and kissing.
Ben Solvnag said goodbye and was gone.
“Those sons of bitches confiscated my stuff, all my stuff! I couldn’t make the rent! That dirty son-of-a-bitch!”
“I’ll go over there and kick his ass. We’ll get your stuff back.”
“No, he has guns! All kinds of guns!”
“Oh.”
“My daughter is at my mother’s.”
“How about something to drink?”
“Sure.”
“What?”
“Extra dry champagne.”
“O.K.”
The door was still open and the afternoon sunlight came in through her hair—it was so long and so red it burned. “Can I take a bath?” she asked. “Of course.” “Wait for me,” she said.
In the morning we talked about her finances. She had money coming in: child support plus a couple of unemployment checks with more to come.
“There’s a vacancy in the place in back, right above me.”
“How much is it?”
“$105 with half of the utilities paid.”
“Oh hell, I can make that. Do they take children? A child?”
“They will. I’ve got pull. I know the managers.”
By Sunday she was moved in. She was right above me. She could look into my kitchen where I typed my things on the breakfast nook table.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
