I had agreed to give a reading up north. It was the afternoon before the reading and I was sitting in an apartment at the Holiday Inn drinking beer with Joe Washington, the promoter, and the local poet, Dudley Barry, and his boyfriend, Paul. Dudley had come out of the closet and announced he was a homo. He was nervous, fat and ambitious. He paced up and down.

“You gonna give a good reading?”

“I don’t know.”

“You draw the crowds. Jesus, how do you do it? They line up around the block.”

“They like blood-lettings.”

Dudley grabbed Paul by the cheeks of the ass. “I’m gonna ream you out, baby! Then you can ream me!”

Joe Washington stood by the window. “Hey, look, here comes William Burroughs across the way. He’s got the apartment right next to yours. He’s reading tomorrow night.”

I walked to the window. It was Burroughs all right. I turned away and opened a new beer. We were on the second floor. Burroughs walked up the stairway, passed my window, opened his door and went in.

“Do you want to go meet him?” Joe asked.

“No.”

“I’m going to see him for a minute.”

“All right.”

Dudley and Paul were playing grab-ass. Dudley was laughing and Paul was giggling and blushing.

“Why don’t you guys work out in private?”

“Isn’t he cute?” asked Dudley. “I just love young boys!”

“I’m more interested in the female.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Don’t be concerned.”

“Jack Mitchell is running with transvestites. He writes poems about them.”

“At least they look like women.”

“Some of them look better.”

I drank in silence.

Joe Washington returned. “I told Burroughs that you were in the next apartment. I said, ‘Burroughs, Henry Chinaski is in the next apartment.’ He said, ‘Oh, is that so?’ I asked if he wanted to meet you. He said, ‘No.’”

“They should have refrigerators in these places,” I said. “This fucking beer is getting warm.”

I walked out to look for an ice machine. As I walked by Burroughs’ place he was sitting in a chair by the window. He looked at me indifferently.

I found the ice machine and came back with the ice and put it in the wash basin and stuck the beers in there. “You don’t want to get too bombed,” said Joe. “You really start slurring your words.”

“They don’t give a damn. They just want me on the cross.”

“$500 for an hour’s work?" asked Dudley. “You call that a cross?” “Yeah.”

“You’re some Christ!”

Dudley and Paul left and Joe and I went out to one of the local coffeehouses for food and drink. We found a table. The first thing we knew, strangers were pulling chairs up to our table. All men. What shit. There were some pretty girls there but they just looked and smiled, or they didn’t look and they didn’t smile. I figured the ones who didn’t smile hated me because of my attitude towards women. Fuck them.
Jack Mitchell was there and Mike Tufts, both poets. Neither worked for a living despite the fact their poetry paid them nothing. They lived on will power and handouts. Mitchell was really a good poet but his luck was bad. He deserved better. Then Blast Grimly, the singer, walked over. Blast was always drunk. I had never seen him sober. There were a couple of others at the table who I didn’t know.

“Mr. Chinaski?”

It was a sweet little thing in a short green dress.

“Yes?”

“Would you autograph this book?”

It was an early book of poems, poems I had written while working at the post office, It Runs Around the Room and Me. I signed it and made a drawing, handed it back.

“Oh, thanks so much!”

She left. All the bastards sitting around me had killed any chance for action.
Soon there were 4 or 5 pitchers of beer on the table. I ordered a sandwich. We drank 2 or 3 hours, then I went back to the apartment. I finished the beers in the sink and went to sleep.

I don’t remember much about the reading but I awakened in bed the next day, alone. Joe Washington knocked about 11 am. “Hey, man, that was one of your best readings!” “Really? You’re not shitting me?” “No, you were right there. Here’s the check.” “Thanks, Joe.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to meet Burroughs?” I’m sure. “He’s reading tonight. You going to stay for his reading?” “I gotta get back to L.A., Joe.” “You ever heard him read?” “Joe, I want to take a shower and get out of here. You’re going to drive me to the airport?” “Sure.”

When we left Burroughs was sitting in his chair by the window. He gave no indication of having seen me. I glanced at him and walked on. I had my check. I was anxious to make the racetrack. . . .