On Thursday night Bobby phoned again. “Hey, man, what are you doing?”

“Not much.”

“Mind if I come down and have a few beers?”

“I’d rather not have any visitors tonight.”

“Oh, come on, man, I’ll just stay for a few beers. . . .”

“No, I’d rather not.”

“WELL, FUCK YOU THEN!” he screamed.

I hung up and went into the other room.

“Who was that?” Tammie asked.

“Just somebody who wanted to come by.”

“That was Bobby, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You treat him mean. He gets lonely when his wife is at work. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Tammie jumped up and ran into the bedroom and started dialing. I had just bought her a fifth of champagne. She hadn’t opened it. I took it and hid it in the broom closet.

“Bobby,” she said over the phone, “this is Tammie. Did you just phone? Where’s your wife? Listen, I’ll be right down.” She hung up and came out of the bedroom. “Where’s the champagne?”

“Fuck off,” I said, “you’re not taking it down there and drinking it with him.”

“I want that champagne. Where is it?”

“Let him furnish his own.”

Tammie picked up a pack of cigarettes from the coffee table and ran out the door.
I got out the champagne, uncorked it and poured myself a glass. I was no longer writing love poems. In fact, I wasn’t writing at all. I didn’t feel like writing.

The champagne went down easy. I drank glass after glass.

Then I took my shoes off and walked down to Bobby’s place. I looked through the blinds. They were sitting very close together on the couch, talking.
I walked back. I finished the last of the champagne and started in on the beer.

The phone rang. It was Bobby. “Look,” he said, “Why don’t you come down and have a beer with Tammie and me?”

I hung up.

I drank some more beer and smoked a couple of cheap cigars. I got drunker and
drunker. I walked down to Bobby’s apartment. I knocked. He opened the door.

Tammie was down at the end of the couch snorting coke, using a McDonald’s spoon. Bobby put a beer in my hand. “The trouble,” he told me, “is that you’re insecure, you lack confidence in yourself.”

I sucked at the beer.

“That’s right, Bobby’s right,” said Tammy.

“Something hurts inside of me.”

“You’re just insecure,” said Bobby, “it’s quite simple.”

I had two phone numbers for Joanna Dover. I tried the one in Galveston. She answered. “It’s me, Henry.” “You sound drunk.” “I am. I want to come see you.”

“When?” “Tomorrow.” “All right.”

“Will you meet me at the airport?” “Sure, baby.” “I’ll get a flight and call you back.”

I got flight 707, leaving L. A. International the next day at 12:15 pm. I relayed the information to Joanna Dover. She said she’d be there.

The phone rang. It was Lydia.

“I thought I’d tell you,” she said, “that I sold the house. I’m moving to Phoenix. I’ll be gone in the morning.” “All right, Lydia. Good luck.”

“I had a miscarriage. I almost died, it was awful. I lost so much blood. I didn’t want to bother you about it.” “Are you all right now?”

“I’m all right. I just want to get out of this town, I’m sick of this town.”

We said goodbye.

I opened another beer. The front door opened and Tammie walked in. She walked in wild circles, looking at me. “Did Valerie get home?” I asked. “Did you cure Bobby’s loneliness?”

Tammie just kept circling around. She looked very good in her long gown, whether she had been fucked or not. “Get out of here,” I said.

She made one more circle, ran out the door and up to her place.

I couldn’t sleep. Luckily, I had some more beer. I kept drinking beer and finished the last bottle about 4:30 am. I sat and waited until 6 am, then went out and got some more.

Time went slowly. I walked around. I didn’t feel good but I started singing songs. I sang songs and walked around—from bathroom to bedroom to the front room to the kitchen and back, singing songs.

I looked at the clock. 11:15 am. The airport was an hour away. I was dressed. I had on shoes but no stockings. All I took was a pair of reading glasses which I stuffed into my shirt pocket. I ran out the door without baggage.

The Volks was in front. I got in. The sunlight was very bright. I put my head down on the steering wheel a moment. I heard a voice from the court, “Where the hell does he think he’s going like that?”

I started the car, turned the radio on and drove off. I had trouble steering. My car kept pulling across the double yellow line and into the oncoming traffic. They honked and I pulled back.

I got to the airport. I had 15 minutes left. I had run red lights, stop signs, had exceeded the speed limit, grossly, all the way. I had 14 minutes. The parking lot was full. I couldn’t find a space. Then I saw a place in front of an elevator, just large enough for a Volks. A sign read, NO PARKING. I parked. As I locked the car my reading glasses fell out of my pocket and broke on the pavement.

I ran down the stairway and across the street to the airline reservations desk. It was hot. The sweat rolled off me. “Reservation for Henry Chinaski. ...” The clerk wrote out the ticket and I paid cash. “By the way,” said the clerk, “I’ve read your books.”

I ran up to security. The buzzer went off. Too much change, 7 keys and my pocketknife. I put them on the plate and walked through again.
Five minutes. Gate 42.

Everyone had boarded. I walked on. Three minutes. I found my seat, strapped in. The flight captain was talking over the intercom.

We taxied down the runway, we were in the air. We swung out over the ocean and made the big turn.