Four or five days passed. The phone rang. It was Tammie.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Listen, Hank. You know that little bridge you cross in your car when you drive to my mother’s place?”
“Yes.”
“Well, right by there they’re having a yard sale. I went in and saw this typewriter. It’s only 20 bucks and it’s in good working order. Please get it for me, Hank.”
“What do you want with a typewriter?”
“Well, I’ve never told you, but I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”
“Tammie. . . .”
“Please, Hank, just this one last time. I’ll be your friend for life.”
“No.”
“Hank. . . .”
“Oh, shit, well, all right.”
“I’ll meet you at the bridge in 15 minutes. I want to hurry before it’s taken. I’ve found a new apartment and Filbert and my brother are helping me move. . . .”
Tammie wasn’t at the bridge in 15. minutes or in 25 minutes. I got back in the Volks and drove over to Tammie’s mother’s apartment. Filbert was loading cartons into Tammie’s car. He didn’t see me. I parked a half a block away.
Tammie came out and saw my Volks. Filbert was getting into his car. He had a Volks, too, a yellow one. Tammie waved to him and said, “See you later!”
Then she walked down the street toward me. When she got near my car she stretched out in the center of the street and lay there. I waited. Then she got up, walked to my car, got in.
I pulled away. Filbert was sitting in his car. I waved to him as we drove my. He didn’t wave back. His eyes were sad. It was just beginning for him.
“You know,” Tammie said, “I’m with Filbert now.”
I laughed. It welled out of me.
“We’d better hurry. The typer might be gone.”
“Why don’t you let Filbert buy the fucking thing?”
“Look, if you don’t want to do it just stop the car and let me out!” I stopped the car and opened the door.
“Listen, you son-of-a-bitch, you told me you’d buy that typer! If you don’t, I’m going to start screaming and breaking your windows!”
“All right. The typer is yours.”
We drove to the place. The typer was still there.
“This typewriter has spent its whole life up to now in an insane asylum,” the lady told us.
“It’s going to the right person,” I replied.
I gave the lady a twenty and we drove back. Filbert was gone.
“Don’t you want to come in for a while?” Tammie asked.
“No, I’ve got to go.”
She was able to carry the typer in without help. It was a portable.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
