I went up to Tammie’s place with my cardboard cartons. First I got the items she mentioned. Then I found other things—other dresses and blouses, shoes, an iron, a hair dryer, Dancy’s clothing, dishes and flatware, a photo album. There was a heavy rattan chair which belonged to her. I took all the things down to my place. I had eight or ten cartons full of stuff. I stacked them against my front room wall.

The next day I drove down to the train station to pick Tammie and Dancy up.

“You’re looking good,” Tammie said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“We’re going to live at Mother’s. You might as well drive us there. I can’t fight that eviction. Besides, who wants to stay where they’re not wanted?”

“Tammie, I moved most of your things. They’re in cardboard cartons at my place.” “All right. Can I leave them there a while?”

“Sure.”

Then Tammie’s mother went to Denver, to see the sister, and the night she left I went to Tammie’s to get drunk. Tammie was on pills. I didn’t take any. When I got into the fourth 6-pack I said, “Tammie, I don’t see what you see in Bobby. He’s nothing.”

She crossed her legs, and swung her foot back and forth.

“He thinks his small talk is charming,” I said.

She kept swinging her foot.

“Movies, t.v., grass, comic books, dirty photos, that’s his gas tank.” Tammie swung her foot harder.

“Do you really care for him?”

She kept swinging her foot.

“You fucking bitch!” I said.

I walked to the door, slammed it behind me, and got into the Volks. I raced through traffic, weaving in and out, destroying my clutch and gear shift.

I got back to my place and started loading the cartons of her stuff into my Volks. Also record albums, blankets, toys. The Volks, of course, didn’t hold too much.

I speeded back to Tammie’s. I pulled up and double-parked, put the red warning lights on. I pulled the boxes out of the car and stacked them on the porch. I covered them with blankets and toys, rang the bell and drove off.

When I came back with the second load the first load was gone. I made another stack, rang the bell and wheeled off like a missile.

When I came back with the third load the second was gone. I made a new stack and rang the bell. Then I was off again into the early morning.

When I got back to my place I had a vodka and water and looked at what was left. There was the heavy rattan chair and the stand-up hair dryer. I could only make one more run. It was either the chair or the dryer. The Volks couldn’t consume both.

I decided on the rattan chair. It was 4 am. I was double-parked in front of my place with the warning lights on. I finished the vodka and water. I was getting drunker and weaker. I picked up the rattan, it was really heavy, and carried it down the walk to my car. I sat it down and opened the door opposite the driver’s side. I jammed the rattan chair in. Then I tried to close the door. The chair was sticking out. I tried to pull the chair out of the car. It was stuck. I cursed, and pushed it further in. One leg of the rattan poked through the windshield and stuck out, pointing at the sky. The door still wouldn’t close. It wasn’t even close. I tried to push the leg of the chair further through the windshield so that I could close the door. It wouldn’t budge. The chair was jammed in tight. I tried to pull it out. It wouldn’t move. Desperately I pulled and pushed, pulled and pushed. If the police came, I was finished. After some time I wearied. I climbed in the driver’s side. There were no parking spaces in the street. I drove the car down to the pizza parlor parking lot, the open door swinging back and forth. I left it there with the door open, the ceiling light on. (The ceiling light wouldn’t shut off.) The windshield was smashed, the chair leg poking out into the moonlight. The whole scene was indecent, mad. It smacked of murder and assassination. My beautiful car.

I walked down the street and back to my place. I poured another vodka and water and phoned Tammie.

“Look, baby, I’m in a jam. I’ve got your chair stuck through my windshield and I can’t get it out and I can’t get it in and the door won’t close. The windshield is smashed. What can I do? Help me, for Christ’s sake!”

“You’ll think of something, Hank.” She hung up.

I dialed again. “Baby. . . .”

She hung up. Then next the phone was off the hook: bzzzz, bzzzzzz, bzzzz. . . .

I stretched out on the bed. The phone rang.

“Tammie. . . .”

“Hank, this is Valerie. I just came home. I want to tell you that your car is parked in the pizza parlor with the door open.” “Thanks, Valerie, but I can’t close the door. There is a rattan chair stuck through the windshield.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice that.”

“I appreciate your phoning.”

I fell asleep. It was one worried sleep. They were going to tow me away. I was going to get booked.

I awakened at 6:20 am, got dressed and walked to the pizza parlor. The car was still there. The sun was coming up.

I reached in and grabbed the rattan. It still wouldn’t budge. I was furious, and began pulling and yanking, cursing. The more impossible it seemed, the madder I got. Suddenly there was a cracking of wood. I was inspired, energized. A piece of wood broke off in my hands. I looked at it, tossed it into the street, went back to my task. Something else broke off. The days in the factories, the days of unloading boxcars, the days of lifting cases of frozen fish, the days of carrying murdered cattle on my shoulders were paying off. I had always been strong but equally lazy. Now I was tearing that chair to pieces. Finally I ripped it out of the car. I attacked it in the parking lot. I smashed it to bits, I broke it in pieces. Then I picked up the pieces and stacked them neatly on somebody’s front lawn.

I got in the Volks and found an empty parking space near my court. All I had to do now was find a junkyard on Santa Fe Avenue and buy myself a new windshield. That could wait. I went back in, drank two glasses of ice water and went to bed.