Want something to drink?" Marty asked.

“I’ll have a beer,” I said.

“I’ll have a Stinger,” said Tammie.

“Get a seat for her, put her on the tab,” I told Marty.

“All right. We’ll set her up. We’re S.R.O. We’ve had to turn away 150 and it’s 30 minutes before you go on.”

“I want to introduce Chinaski to the audience,” said Tammie.

“O.K. with you?” asked Marty.

“O.K.”

They had a kid out there with a guitar, Dinky Summers, and the crowd was disemboweling him. Eight years ago Dinky had had a gold record, but nothing since.

Marty got on an intercom and dialed out. “Listen,” he asked, “is that guy as bad as he sounds?” You could hear a woman’s voice over the phone. “He’s terrible.”
Marty hung up.

“We want Chinaski!” they yelled.

“All right,” we could hear Dinky, “Chinaski is next.”

He started singing again. They were drunk. They hooted and hissed. Dinky sang on. He finished his act and got offstage. One could never tell. Some days it was better to stay in bed with the covers pulled up.

There was a knock. It was Dinky in his red, white and blue tennis shoes, white t-shirt, cords and brown felt hat. The hat sat perched on a mass of blonde curls. The t-shirt said, “God is Love.”

Dinky looked at us. “Was I really that bad? I want to know. Was I really that bad?” Nobody answered.

Dinky looked at me. “Hank, was I that bad?”

“The crowd is drunk. It’s carnival time.”

“I want to know if I was bad or not?”

“Have a drink.”

“I gotta go find my girl,” Dinky said. “She’s out there alone.” “Look,” I said, “let’s get it over with.”

“Fine,” said Marty, “go get it on.”

“I’m introducing him,” said Tammie.

I walked out with her. As we approached the stage they saw us and began screaming, cursing. Bottles fell off tables. There was a fist fight. The boys at the post office would never believe this.

Tammie went out to the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “Henry Chinaski couldn’t make it tonight. . . .” There was silence.

Then she said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Henry Chinaski!”
I walked on. They jeered. I hadn’t done anything yet. I took the mike. “Hello, this is Henry Chinaski. . . .”

The place trembled with sound. I didn’t need to do anything. They would do it all. But you had to be careful. Drunk as they were they could immediately detect any false gesture, any false word. You could never underestimate an audience. They had paid to get in; they had paid for drinks; they intended to get something and if you didn’t give it to them they’d run you right into the ocean.

There was a refrigerator on stage. I opened it. There must have been 40 bottles of beer in there. I reached in and got one, twisted the cap off, took a hit. I needed that drink.

Then a man down front hollered, “Hey, Chinaski, we:'repaying for drinks!” It was a fat guy in the front row in a mailman’s outfit.

I went into the refrigerator and took out a beer. I walked over and handed him the beer. Then I walked back, reached in, and got some more beers. I handed them to the people in the first row.

“Hey, how about us?” A voice from near the back.

I took a bottle and looped it through the air. I threw a few more back there. They were good. They caught them all. Then one slipped out of my hand and went high into the air. I heard it smash. I decided to quit. I could see a lawsuit: skull fracture.

There were 20 bottles left.

“Now, the rest of these are mine!”

“You gonna read all night?”

“I’m gonna drink all night. . . .”

Applause, jeers, belches. . . .

“YOU FUCKING HUNK OF SHIT!” some guy screamed. “Thank you, Aunt Tilly,” I answered.

I sat down, adjusted the mike, and started on the first poem. It became quiet. I was in the ring alone with the bull now. I felt some terror. But I had written the poems. I read them out. It was best to open up light, a poem of mockery. I finished it and the walls rocked. Four or five people were fighting during the applause. I was going to luck out. All I had to do was hang in there.

You couldn’t underestimate them and you couldn’t kiss their ass. There was a certain middle ground to be achieved.

I read more poems, drank the beer. I got drunker. The words were harder to read. I missed lines, dropped poems on the floor. Then I stopped and just sat there drinking.

“This is good,” I told them, “you pay to watch me drink.”

I made an effort and read them some more poems. Finally I read them a few dirty ones and wound it up.

“That’s it,” I said.

They yelled for more.

The boys at the slaughterhouse, the boys at Sears Roebuck, all the boys at all the warehouses where I worked as a kid and as a man never would have believed it.
In the office there were more drinks and several fat joints, bombers. Marty got on the intercom to find out about the gate. Tammie stared at Marty. “I don’t like you,” she said. “I don’t like your eyes at all.”

“Don’t worry about his eyes,” I told her. “Let’s just get the money and go.”

Marty made the check out and handed it to me. “Here it is,” he said, "$200. . . .”

“$200!" Tammie screamed at him. “You rotten son-of-a-bitch!” I read the check. “He’s kidding,” I told her, “calm down.”

She ignored me. "$200," she said to Marty, “you rotten . . .” “Tammie,” I said, "it’s $400. . . .”

“Sign the check,” said Marty, “and I’ll give you cash.”

“I got pretty drunk out there,” Tammie told me. “I asked this guy, ‘Can I lean my body against your body?’ He said, ‘O.K.’”

I signed and Marty gave me a stack of bills. I put them in my pocket.

“Look, Marty, I guess we better be leaving.”

“I hate your eyes,” Tammie said to Marty.

“Why don’t you stay and talk awhile?” Marty asked me.

“No, we’ve got to go.

Tammie stood up. ”I have to go to the ladies’ restroom.”
She left.

Marty and I sat there. Ten minutes went by. Marty stood up and said, “Wait, I’ll be right back.”

I sat and waited, 5 minutes, 10 minutes. I walked out of the office and out the back door. I walked to the parking lot and sat in my Volks. Fifteen minutes went by, 20, 25.

I’ll give her 5 more minutes and then I’m leaving, I thought.

Just then Marty and Tammie walked out the back door and into the alley.

Marty pointed. “There he is.” Tammie walked over. Her clothes were all messed up and twisted. She climbed into the back seat and curled up.

I got lost 2 or 3 times on the freeway. Finally I pulled up in front of the court. I awakened Tammie. She got out, ran up the stairs to her place, and slammed the door.