Not much happened during the rest of her stay. We drank, we ate, we fucked. There were no arguments. We took long drives down along the shore, ate at seafood cafes. I didn’t bother with writing. There were times when it was best to get away from the machine. A good writer knew when not to write. Anybody could type. Not that I was a good typist; also I couldn’t spell and I didn’t know grammar. But I knew when not to write. It was like fucking. You had to rest the godhead now and then. I had an old friend who occasionally wrote me letters, Jimmy Shannon. He wrote 6 novels a year, all on incest. It was no wonder he was starving. My problem was that I couldn’t rest my cock-godhead like I could my typer– godhead. That was because women were available only in streaks so you had to get as much in as possible before somebody else’s godhead came along. I think the fact that I quit writing for ten years was one of the luckiest things that ever happened to me. (I suppose that some critics would say that it was one of the luckiest things that ever happened to the reader, too.) Ten year’s rest for both sides. What would happen if I stopped drinking for ten years?

The time came to put Iris Duarte back on the plane. It was a morning flight which made it difficult. I was used to rising at noon; it was a fine cure for hangovers and would add 5 years to my life. I felt no sadness while driving her to L.A. International. The sex had been fine; there had been laughter. I could hardly remember a more civilized time, neither of us making any demands, yet there had been warmth, it had not been without feeling, dead meat coupled with dead meat. I detested that type of swinging, the Los Angeles, Hollywood, Bel Air, Malibu, Laguna Beach kind of sex. Strangers when you meet, strangers when you part—a gymnasium of bodies namelessly masturbating each other. People with no morals often considered themselves more free, but mostly they lacked the ability to feel or to love. So they became swingers. The dead fucking the dead. There was no gamble or humor in their game—it was corpse fucking corpse. Morals were restrictive, but they were grounded on human experience down through the centuries. Some morals tended to keep people slaves in factories, in churches and true to the State. Other morals simply made good sense. It was like a garden filled with poisoned fruit and good fruit. You had to know which to pick and eat, which to leave alone.

My experience with Iris had been delightful and fulfilling, yet I wasn’t in love with her nor she with me. It was easy to care and hard not to care. I cared. We sat in the Volks on the upper parking ramp. We had some time. I had the radio on. Brahms.

“Will I see you again?” I asked her.

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you want a drink in the bar?”

“You’ve made an alcoholic out of me, Hank. I’m so weak I can hardly walk.”

“Was it just the booze?”

“No.”

“Then let’s get a drink.”

“Drink, drink, drink! Is that all you can think of?”

“No, but it’s a good way to get through spaces, like this one.” “Can’t you face things straight?”

“I can but I’d rather not.”

“That’s escapism.”

“Everything is: playing golf, sleeping, eating, walking, arguing, jogging, breathing, fucking. ...”

“Fucking?”

“Look, we’re talking like high school children. Let’s get you on the plane.”

It wasn’t going well. I wanted to kiss her but I sensed her reserve. A wall. Iris wasn’t feeling good, I guess, and I wasn’t feeling good.

“All right,” she said, “we’ll check in and then go get a drink. Then I’ll fly away forever: real smooth, real easy, no pain.” “All right!” I said.

And that was just the way it was.

The way back: Century Boulevard east, down to Crenshaw, up 8th Avenue, then Arlington to Wilton. I decided to pick up my laundry and turned right on Beverly Boulevard I drove into the lot behind the Silverette Cleaners and parked the Volks. As I did a young black girl in a red dress walked past. She had a marvelous swing to her ass, a most marvelous motion. Then the building blocked my view. She had the movements; it was as if life had given a few women a supple grace and denied the rest. She had that indescribable grace.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk and watched her from behind. I saw her turn and look back. Then she stood and stared at me, looking back over her shoulder. I walked into the laundry. When I came out with my things she was standing by my Volks. I put the things inside from the passenger’s side. Then I moved around to the driver’s side. She stood in front of me. She was about 27 with a very round face, impassive. We were standing very close together.

“I saw you looking at me. Why were you looking at me?”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean any offense.”

“I want to know why you were looking at me. You were really staring at me.”

“Look, you’re a beautiful woman. You have a beautiful body. I saw you walk by and I looked. I couldn’t help it.” “Do you want a date for tonight?”

“Well, that would be great. But I’ve got a date. I’ve got something going.”

I circled around her and made for the driver’s side. I opened the door and got in. She walked off. As she did I heard her whisper, “Dumb honky asshole.”

I opened the mail—nothing. I needed to regroup. Something needed was missing. I looked in the refrigerator. Nothing. I walked outside, got in the Volks and drove to the Blue Elephant liquor store. I got a fifth of Smirnoff and some 7-UP. As I drove back toward my place, somewhere along the way, I knew I had forgotten cigarettes.

I went south down Western Avenue, took a left on Hollywood Boulevard, then a right on Serrano. I was trying to get to a Sav-On—for smokes. Right on the corner of Serrano and Sunset stood another black girl, a high-yellow in black high heels and a mini-skirt. As she stood there in that short skirt I could see just a touch of blue panty. She began to walk and I drove along beside her. She pretended not to notice me.

“Hey, baby!”

She stopped. I pulled over to the curb. She walked up to the car.

“How you doing?” I asked her.

“All right.”

“Are you a decoy?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I asked her, “how do I know you’re not a cop?”

“How do I know you’re not a cop?”

“Look at my face. Do I look like a cop?”

“All right,” she said, “drive around the corner and park. I’ll get in around the corner.”

I drove around the corner in front of Mr. Famous N.J. Sandwiches. She opened the door and got in.

“What do you want?” she asked. She was in her mid-thirties and one large solid gold tooth stood out in the center of her smile. She’d never be broke.

“Head,” I said.

“Twenty dollars.”

“O.K., let’s go.”

“Drive up Western to Franklin, take a left, go to Harvard and take a right.”
When we got to Harvard it was hard to park. Finally I parked in a red zone and we got out. “Follow me,” she said.

It was a decaying high-rise. Just before we reached the lobby she took a right and I followed her up a cement stairway, watching her ass. It was strange, but everybody had an ass. It was almost sad. But I didn’t want her ass. I followed her down a hallway and then up some more cement steps. We were using some kind of fire escape instead of the elevator. What her reason was I had no idea. But I needed the exercise—if I intended to write big fat novels in my old age like Knut Hamsun.

We finally reached her apartment and she got out her key. I grabbed her hand.

“Wait a minute,” I said.

“What is it?”

“You got a couple of big black bastards in there who are gonna kick my ass and roll me?”

“No, there’s nobody in there. I live with a girl friend and she’s not home. She works at the Broadway Department Store.” “Give me the key.”

I opened the door slowly and then kicked it wide with my foot. I looked inside. I had my steel but I didn’t reach. She closed the door behind us.

“Come on in the bedroom,” she said.

“Wait a minute. ...”

I ripped open a closet door and reaching in felt behind the clothing. Nothing. “What kind of shit are you on, man?”

“I’m not on any kind of shit!”

“Oh Lord ...”

I ran into the bathroom and yanked back the shower curtain. Nothing. I went into the kitchen, pulled back the plastic curtain below the sink. Just a filthy overflowing plastic trash basket. I checked the other bedroom, the closet in there. I looked under the double bed: an empty bottle of Ripple. I walked out.

“Come on back here,” she said.

It was a tiny bedroom, more like an alcove. There was a cot with dirty sheets. The blanket was on the floor. I unzipped and pulled it out.

“$20," she said.

“Get your lips on this motherfucker! Suck it dry!”
$20.

“I know the price. Earn it. Drain my balls.”

“$20 first. ...”

“Oh yeah? I give you the twenty, how do I know you don’t yell for the cops? How do I know your 7-foot basketball-ass brother don’t arrive with his switchblade?”

“$20 first. And don’t worry. I’ll suck you. I’ll suck you good." “I don’t trust you, whore.”

I zipped up and got out of there, fast, I went down all those cement steps. I reached the bottom, jumped into the Volks and drove back to my place.

I started drinking. My stars simply weren’t in order.

The phone rang. It was Bobby. “Did you get Iris on the plane?”

“Yeah, Bobby, and I want to thank you for keeping your hands off for a change.”

“Look, Hank, that’s just in your head. You’re old and you bring all these young chicks over, then you get nervous when a young cat comes around. Your ass gets uptight.”

“Self-doubt . . . lack of confidence, right?”

“Well . . .”

“O.K., Bobby.:’

”Anyhow, Valerie wondered if you wanted to come down for a drink?" “Why not?”

Bobby had some bad shit, real bad shit. We passed it around. Bobby had a lot of new tapes for the stereo. He also had my favorite singer, Randy Newman, and he put Randy on, but only medium-loud, as per my request.

So we listened to Randy and smoked and then Valerie began putting on a fashion show. She had a dozen sexy outfits from Frederick’s. She had 30 pairs of shoes hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

Valerie came prancing out in 8-inch high heels. She could hardly walk. She poked about the room, staggering on her stilts. Her ass poked out and her tiny nipples were hard and stiff, they jutted out under her see-through blouse. She had on a thin gold anklet. She whirled and faced us, made some gentle sexual movements.

“Christ,” said Bobby, “Oh . . . Christ!” “Holy Jesus Christ Mother of God!” I said.

As Valerie went past I reached out and got a handful of ass. I was living. I felt great. Valerie ducked into the crapper for a change of costume.

Each time Valerie came out she looked better, crazier, wilder. The whole process was moving toward some climax.

We drank and smoked and Valerie kept coming back with more. One hell of a show.
She sat on my lap and Bobby snapped some photos.

The night wore on. Then I looked around and Valerie and Bobby were gone. I walked into the bedroom and there was Valerie on the bed, naked except for her spiked high heels. Her body was firm and lean.

Bobby was still dressed and was sucking Valerie’s breasts, going from one to the other. Her nipples stood tall. Bobby looked up at me. “Hey, old man, I’ve heard you brag about how you eat pussy. How’s this?”

Bobby ducked down and spread Valerie’s legs. Her cunt hairs were long and twisted and tangled. Bobby went down there and licked at the clit. He was pretty good but he lacked spirit.

“Wait a minute, Bobby, you’re not doing it right. Let me show you.”

I got down there. I began far back and worked toward it. Then I got there. Valerie responded. Too much so. She wrapped her legs around my head and I couldn’t breathe. My ears were pressed flat. I pulled my head out of there.

“O.K., Bobby, you see?”

Bobby didn’t answer. He turned and walked into the bathroom. I had my shoes and pants off. I liked to show off my legs when I drank. Valerie reached up and pulled me down on the bed. Then she bent over my cock and took it into her mouth. She wasn’t very good compared to most. She began the old head-bob and had very little else to offer beside that. She worked a long time and I felt I wasn’t going to make it. I pulled her head away, put it up on the pillow and kissed her. Then I mounted. I had made about 8 or 10 strokes when I heard Bobby behind us.

“I want you to leave, man.”

“Bobby, what the hell’s wrong?”

“I want you to go back to your place.”

I pulled out, got up, walked into the front room and put on my pants and shoes.

“Hey, Cool Papa,” I said to Bobby, “what’s wrong?”

“I just want you out of here.”

“All right, all right. ...”

I walked back to my place. It seemed a very long time since I had put Iris Duarte on that plane. She must be back in Vancouver by now. Shit. Iris Duarte, goodnight.