We got back to 1010. I had my check. I’d left word that we didn’t want to be disturbed. Tammie and I sat drinking. I’d read 5 or 6 love poems about her.

“They knew who I was,” she said. “Sometimes I giggled. It was embarassing.”

They had known who she was all right. She glistened with sex. Even the roaches and the ants and the flies wanted to fuck her.

There was a knock on the door. Two people had slipped through, a poet and his woman. The poet was Morse Jenkins from Vermont. His woman was Sadie Everet. He had four bottles of beer.

He wore sandals and old torn bluejeans; turquoise bracelets; a chain around his throat; he had a beard, long hair; orange blouse. He talked, and he talked. And walked around the room.

There is a problem with writers. If what a writer wrote was published and sold many, many copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold a medium number of copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold very few copies, the writer thought he was great. If what the writer wrote never was published and he didn’t have the money to publish it himself, then he thought he was truly great. The truth, howevet, was that there was very little greatness. It was almost nonexistent, invisible. But you could be sure that the worst writers had the most confidence, the least self-doubt. Anyway, writers were to be avoided, and I tried to avoid them, but it was almost impossible. They hoped for some sort of brotherhood, some kind of togetherness. None of it had anything to do with writing, none of it helped at the typewriter.

“I sparred with Clay before he became Ali,” said Morse. Morse jabbed and shuffled, danced. “He was pretty good, but I gave him a workout.”

Morse shadow-boxed about the room.

“Look at my legs!” he said. “I’ve got great legs!”

“Hank’s got better legs than you have,” said Tammie.

Being a leg-man, I nodded.

Morse sat down. He pointed a beer bottle at Sadie. “She works as a nurse. She supports me. But I’m going to make it someday. They’ll hear from me!”

Morse would never need a mike at his readings.

He looked at me. “Chinaski, you’re one of the two or three best living poets. You’re really making it. You write a tough line. But I’m coming on too! Let me read you my shit. Sadie, hand me my poems.”

“No,” I said, “wait! I don’t want to hear them.”

“Why not, man? Why not?”

“There’s been too much poetry tonight, Morse. I just want to lay back and forget it.”

“Well, all right. . . . Listen, you never answer my letters.”

“I’m not a snob, Morse. But I get 75 letters a month. If I answered them that’s all I would ever do.”

“I’ll bet you answer the women!”

“That depends. ...”

“All right, man, I’m not bitter. I still like your stuff. Maybe I’ll never be famous but I think I will and I think you’ll be glad you met me. Come on, Sadie, let’s go. . . .”
I walked them to the door. Morse grabbed my hand. He didn’t pump it, and neither of us quite looked at the other. “You’re a good old guy,” he said.

“Thanks, Morse. ...”

And then they were gone.