I was sitting in my shorts one afternoon a week later. There was a tender little knock on the door. “Just a moment,” I said. I put on a robe and opened the door.

“We’re two girls from Germany. We’ve read your books.” One looked to be about 19, the other maybe 22.

I had two or three books out in Germany in limited editions. I had been born in Germany in 1920, in Andernach. The house I had lived in during my childhood was now a brothel. I couldn’t speak German. But they spoke English.

“Come in.”

They sat on the couch.

“I’m Hilda,” said the 19 year old.

“I’m Gertrude,” said the 22 year old.

“I’m Hank.”

“We thought your books were very sad and very funny,” said Gertrude.

“Thank you.”

I went in and poured 3 vodka-7s. I loaded their drinks, and I loaded mine.

“We’re on our way to New York City. We thought we would stop by,” said Gertrude.
They went on to say they’d been in Mexico. They spoke good English. Gertrude was heavier, almost a butterball; she was all breasts and ass. Hilda was thin, looked like she was under some kind of strain . . . constipated and odd, but attractive.

As I drank I crossed my legs. My robe fell apart. “Oh,” said Gertrude, “you have sexy legs!” “Yes,” said Hilda.

“I know it,” I said.

The girls stayed right along with me on the drinks. I went and concocted three more. When I sat down again I made sure that my robe covered me properly.

“You girls can stay here for a few days, rest up.”

They didn’t answer.

“Or you don’t have to stay,” I said. “It’s all right. We can just talk awhile. I don’t want to make any demands on you.” “I’ll bet you know a lot of women,” said Hilda. “We’ve read your books.”

“I write fiction.”

“What’s fiction?”

“Fiction is an improvement on life.”

“You mean you lie?” asked Gertrude.

“A little. Not too much.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” asked Hilda.

“No. Not now.”

“We’ll stay,” said Gertrude.

“There’s only one bed.”

“That’s all right.”

“Just one other thing ...”

“What?”

“I must sleep in the middle.”

“That’s all right.”

I kept mixing drinks and soon we ran out. I phoned the liquor store. “I want ...”

“Wait, my friend,” he said, "we don’t start making home deliveries until 6 pm.”

“Really? I push $200 a month down your throat. . . .”

“Who is this?”

“Chinaski.”

“Oh, Chinaski. . . . What is it you wanted?”

I told the man. Then, “You know how to get here?”

“Oh, yes.”

He arrived in 8 minutes. It was the fat Australian who was always sweating. I took the two cartons and set them on a chair. “Hello, ladies,” said the fat Australian.
They didn’t answer.

“What’s the bill, Arbuckle?”

“Well, it comes to $17.94.”

I gave him a twenty. He started digging for change.

“You know better than that. Buy yourself a new home.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Then he leaned toward me and asked in a lower voice, “My God, how do you do it?”

“Typing,” I said.

“Typing?”

“Yes, about 18 words a minute.”

I pushed him back outside and closed the door.

That night I got in bed with them, with me in between. We were all drunk and first I grabbed one and kissed and fondled her, then I turned and grabbed the other. I went back and forth and it was very rewarding. Later I concentrated on one for a long time, then turned and went to the other. Each waited patiently. I was confused. Gertrude was hotter, Hilda was younger. I reamed butt, laid on top of each of them but didn’t stick it in. I finally decided on Gertrude. But I couldn’t do it. I was too drunk. Gertrude and I went to sleep, her hand holding my cock, my hands on her breasts. My cock went down, her breasts remained firm.

It was very hot the next day and there was more drinking. I phoned out for food. I turned the fan on. There wasn’t much talking. Those German girls liked their drinks. Then they both went out and sat on the old couch on my front porch—Hilda in shorts and bra and Gertrude in a tight pink underslip without bra or panties. Max, the mailman, came by. Gertrude accepted my mail for me. Poor Max nearly fainted. I could see the envy and disbelief in his eyes. But, then, he had job security. . . .

Around 2 pm Hilda announced that she was going for a walk. Gertrude and I went inside. Finally it did happen. We were on the bed and we played our openers. After a while we got down to it. I mounted and it went in. But it went in sharply to the left, like there was a curve. I could only remember one other woman like that—but it had been good. Then I got to thinking, she’s fooling me, I’m not really in there. So I pulled it out and stuck it back in. It went in and took a hard left turn again. What shit. Either she had a fucked up pussy or I wasn’t penetrating. I persuaded myself to believe she had a fucked up pussy. I pumped and worked while it bent around that hard left turn.

I worked and worked. Then it felt as if I were hitting bone. It was shocking. I gave up and rolled off. “Sorry,” I said, “I just don’t seem to have it today.”

Gertrude didn’t answer.

We both got up and dressed. Then we went into the front room and sat and waited on Hilda. We drank and waited. Hilda took a long time. A long, long time. She finally arrived.

“Hello,” I said.

“Who are all these black men in your neighborhood?” she asked.

“I don’t know who they are.”

“They said I could make $2,000 a week.”

“Doing what?”

“They didn’t say.”

The German girls stayed 2 or 3 days more. I still kept hitting that left turn in Gertrude even when I was sober. Hilda told me she was on Tampax, so she was no help.

They finally collected their things and I got them into my car. They had large canvas bags that they carried over their shoulders. German hippies. I followed their instructions. Turn here, turn there. We climbed higher and higher into the Hollywood Hills. We were in rich territory. I had forgotten that some people lived quite well while most others ate their own shit for breakfast. When you lived where I lived you began to believe that every place else was like your own crummy place.

“Here it is,” said Gertrude.

The Volks was at the bottom of a long winding driveway. Up there somewhere was a house, a large, large house with all the things in it, and around it, that such houses have.

“You had better let us walk up,” said Gertrude. “Sure,” I said.

They got out. I turned the Volks around. They stood at the entrance and waved to me, their canvas backpacks slung over their shoulders. I waved back. Then I drove off, put it into neutral, and glided down out of the mountains.