Lydia liked parties. And Harry was a party-giver. So we were on our way to Harry Ascot’s. Harry was the editor of Retort, a little magazine. His wife wore long see-through dresses, showed her panties to the men, and went barefoot.

“The first thing I liked about you,” said Lydia, “was that you didn’t have a t.v. in your place. My ex-husband looked at t.v. every night and all through the weekend. We even had to arrange our lovemaking to fit the t.v. schedule.”

“Umm. . . .”

“Another thing I liked about your place was that it was filthy. Beer bottles all over the floor. Lots of trash everywhere. Dirty dishes, and a shit-ring in your toilet, and the crud in your bathtub. All those rusty razorblades laying around the bathroom sink. I knew that you would eat pussy.”

“You judge a man according to his surroundings, right?”

“Right. When I see a man with a tidy place I know there’s something wrong with him. And if it’s too tidy, he’s a fag.”

We drove up and got out. The apartment was upstairs. The music was loud. I rang the bell. Harry Ascot answered the door. He had a gentle and generous smile. “Come in,” he said.

The literary crowd was in there drinking wine and beer, talking, gathered in clusters. Lydia was excited. I looked around and sat down. Dinner was about to be served. Harry was a good fisherman, he was a better fisherman than he was a writer, and a much better fisherman than he was an editor. The Ascots lived on fish while waiting for Harry’s talents to start bringing in some money.

Diana, his wife, came out with the plates of fish and passed them around. Lydia sat next to me.

“Now,” she said, “this is how you eat a fish. I’m a country girl. Watch me.”

She opened that fish, she did something with her knife to the backbone. The fish was in two neat pieces.

“Oh, I really liked that,” said Diana. “Where did you say you were from?”

“Utah. Muleshead, Utah. Population ioo. I grew up on a ranch. My father was a drunk. He’s dead now. Maybe that’s why I’m with him. ...” She jerked a thumb at me.
We ate.

After the fish was consumed Diana carried the bones away. Then there was chocolate cake and strong (cheap) red wine.

“Oh, this cake is good,” said Lydia, “can I have another piece?”

“Sure, darling,” said Diana.

“Mr. Chinaski,” said a dark-haired girl from across the room, “I’ve read translations of your books in Germany. You’re very popular in Germany.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “I wish they’d send me some royalties. . . .”

“Look,” said Lydia, “let’s not talk about literary crap. Let’s do something!” She leaped up and did a bump and a grind. “LET’S DANCE!”

Harry Ascot put on his gentle and generous smile and walked over and turned up the stereo. He turned it up as loud as it would go.

Lydia danced around the room and a young blond boy with ringlets glued to his forehead joined her. They began dancing together. Others got up and danced. I sat there.

Randy Evans was sitting next to me. I could see he was watching Lydia too. He began talking. He talked and he talked. Thankfully I couldn’t hear him, the stereo was too loud.

I watched Lydia dance with the boy with the ringlets. Lydia could move it. Her movements lurked upon the sexual. I looked at the other girls and they didn’t seem to be dancing that way; but, I thought, that’s only because I know Lydia and I don’t know them.

Randy kept on talking even though I didn’t answer. The dance ended and Lydia came back and sat down next to me. “Ooooh, I’m pooped! I think I’m out of shape.”
Another record dropped into place and Lydia got up and joined the boy with the golden ringlets. I kept drinking beer and wine.

There were many records. Lydia and the boy danced and danced—center stage as the others moved around them, each dance more intimate than the last.
I kept drinking the beer and the wine.

A wild loud dance was in progress. . . . The boy with the golden ringlets raised both hands above his head. Lydia pressed against him. It was dramatic, erotic. They held their hands high over their heads and pressed their bodies together. Body against body. He kicked his feet back, one at a time. Lydia imitated him. They stared into each other’s eyes. I had to admit they were good. The record went on and on. Finally, it ended.

Lydia came back and sat down next to me. “I’m really pooped,” she said.

“Look, I said, ”I think I’ve had too much to drink. Maybe we ought to get out of here." “I’ve watched you pouring it down.”

“Let’s go. There’ll be other parties.”

We got up to leave. Lydia said something to Harry and Diana. When she came back we walked toward the door. As I opened it the boy with the golden ringlets came up to me. “Hey, man, what do you think of me and your girl?”

“You’re O.K.”

When we got outside I began vomiting, all the beer and the wine came up. It poured and splattered into the brush—across the sidewalk—a gusher in the moonlight. Finally I straightened up and wiped my mouth with my hand.

“That guy worried you, didn’t he?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It almost seemed like a fuck, maybe better.”

“It didn’t mean anything, it was just dancing.”

“Suppose that I grabbed a woman on the street like that? Would music make it all right?” “You don’t understand. Each time I finished dancing I came back and sat down next to you.” “O.K., O.K.,” I said, “wait a minute.”

I puked up another gusher on somebody’s dying brush. We walked down the hill out of the Echo Park district toward Hollywood Boulevard.

We got into the car. It started and we drove west down Hollywood toward Vermont. “You know what we call guys like you?” asked Lydia.

“No.”

“We call them,” she said, “party-poopers.”