I stayed five days and nights. Then I couldn’t get it up any more. Joanna drove me to the airport. She had bought me a new piece of luggage and some new clothing. I hated that Dallas-Fort Worth airport. It was the most inhuman airport in the U.S. Joanna waved me off and I was in the air. . . .

The trip to Los Angeles was without incident. I disembarked, wondering about the Volks. I took the elevator up in the parking area and didn’t see it. I figured it must have been towed away. Then I walked around to the other side—and there it was. All I had was a parking ticket.

I drove home. The apartment looked the way it always had—bottles and trash everywhere. I’d have to clean it up a bit. If anybody saw it that way they’d have me committed.

There was a knock. I opened the door. It was Tammie. “Hi!” she said. “Hello.”
“You must have been in an awful hurry when you left. All the doors were unlocked. The back door was wide open. Listen, promise you won’t tell if I tell you something?”

“All right.”

“Arlene went in and used your phone, long distance.”

“All right.”

“I tried to stop her but I couldn’t. She was on pills.”

“All right.”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Galveston.”

“Why did you go flying off like that? You’re crazy.”

“I’ve got to leave again Saturday.”

“Saturday? What’s today?”

“Thursday.”

“Where are you going?”

“New York City.”

“Why?”

“A reading. They sent the tickets two weeks ago. And I get a percentage of the gate.”

“Oh, take me with you! I’ll leave Dancy with Mother. I want to go!”

“I can’t afford to take you. It’ll eat up my profits. I’ve had some heavy expenses lately.”

“I’ll be good! I’ll be so good! I’ll never leave your side! I really missed you.”

“I can’t do it, Tammie.”

She went to the refrigerator and got a beer. “You just don’t give a fuck. All those love poems, you didn’t mean it.” “I meant it when I wrote them.”

The phone rang. It was my editor. “Where’ve you been?”

“Galveston. Research.”

“I hear you’re reading in New York City this Saturday.”

“Yes, Tammie wants to go, my girl.”

“Are you taking her?”

“No, I can’t afford it.”

“How much is it?”

“$316 round trip.”

“Do you really want to take her?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“All right, go ahead. I’ll mail you a check.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what to say. ...”

“Forget it. Just remember Dylan Thomas.”

“They won’t kill me.”

We said goodbye. Tammie was sucking on her beer.

“All right,” I told her, “you’ve got two or three days to pack.”

“You mean, I’m going?”

“Yes, my editor is paying your way.”

Tammie leaped up and grabbed me. She kissed me, grabbed my balls, pulled at my cock. “You’re the sweetest old fuck!”

New York City. Outside of Dallas, Houston, Charleston, and Atlanta, it was the worst place I had ever been. Tammie pushed up against me and my cock rose. Joanna Dover hadn’t gotten it all. . . .