Women

by Charles Bukowski

  Be a man, old man. Enter.

  My skin was ivory white. I felt very old, very soft. I moved out into the ice water. I went in up to my waist, then I took a deep breath and leaped forward. I was all the way in! The mud swirled up from the bottom and got into my ears, my mouth, my hair. I stood there in the muddy water, my teeth chattering.

  I waited a long time for the water to settle and clear. Then I walked back out. I got dressed and made my way along the edge of the lake. When I got to the end of the lake I heard a sound like that of a waterfall. I went into a forest, moving toward the sound. I had to climb around some rocks across a gully. The sound came closer and closer. The flies and mosquitoes swarmed all over me. The flies were large and angry and hungry, much larger than city flies, and they knew a meal when they saw one.

  I pushed my way through some thick brush and there it was: my first real honest-to-Christ waterfall. The water just poured down the mountain and over a rocky ledge. It was beautiful. It kept coming and coming. That water was coming from somewhere. And it was running off somewhere. There were 3 or 4 streams that probably led to the lake.

  Finally I got tired of watching it and decided to go back. I also decided to take a different route back, a shortcut. I worked my way down to the opposite side of the lake and cut off toward camp. I knew about where it was. I still had my red notebook. I stopped and wrote another poem, less meditative, then I went on. I kept walking. The camp didn't appear. I walked some more. I looked around for the lake. I couldn't find the lake, I didn't know where it was. Suddenly it hit me: I was LOST. Those horny sex bitches had driven me out of my mind and now I was LOST. I looked around. There was the backdrop of mountains and all around me were trees and brush. There was no center, no starting point, no connection between anything. I felt fear, real fear. Why had I let them take me out of my city, my Los Angeles? A man could call a cab there, he could telephone. There were reasonable solutions to reasonable problems.

  Vance Pastures stretched out around me for miles and miles. I threw away my red notebook. What a way for a writer to die! I could see it in the newspaper:

  HENRY CHINASKI, MINOR

  POET, FOUND DEAD IN

  UTAH WOODS

  Henry Chinaski, former post office clerk turned writer, was found in a decomposed state yesterday afternoon by forest ranger W. K. Brooks Jr. Also found near the remains was a small red notebook which evidently contained Mr. Chinaski's last written work.

  I walked on. Soon I was in a soggy area full of water. Every now and then one of my legs would sink to the knee in the bog and I'd have to haul myself out.

  I came to a barbed wire fence. I knew immediately that I shouldn't climb the fence. I knew that it was the wrong thing to do, but there seemed no alternative. I climbed over the fence and stood there, cupped both hands around my mouth and screamed: " LYDIA!"

  There was no answer.

  I tried it again: " LYDIA!"

  My voice sounded very mournful. The voice of a coward.

  I moved on. It would be nice, I thought, to be back with the sisters, hearing them laugh about sex and men and dancing and parties. It would be so nice to hear Glendoline's voice. It would be nice to run my hand through Lydia 's long hair. I'd faithfully take her to every party in town. I'd even dance with all the women and make brilliant jokes about everything. I'd endure all that subnormal driveling shit with a smile. I could almost hear myself. "Hey, that's a great dance tune! Who wants to really go? Who wants to boogie on out?"

  I kept walking through the bog. Finally I reached dry land. I got to a road. It was just an old dirt road, but it looked good. I could see tire marks, hoof prints. There were even wires overhead that carried electricity somewhere. All I had to do was follow those wires. I walked along the road. The sun was high in the sky, it must have been noon. I walked along feeling foolish.

  I came to a locked gate across the road. What did that mean? There was a small entry at one side of the gate. Evidently the gate was a cattle guard. But where were the cattle? Where was the owner of the cattle? Maybe he only came around every six months.

  The top of my head began to ache. I reached up and felt where I had been blackjacked in a Philadelphia bar 30 years before. Some scar tissue remained. Now the scar tissue, baked by the sun, was swollen. It stood up like a small horn. I broke a piece off and threw it in the road.

  I walked another hour, then decided to turn back. It meant having to walk all the way back yet I felt it was the thing to do. I took my shirt off and draped it over my head. I stopped once or twice and screamed, " LYDIA!" There was no reply.

  Some time later I got back to the gate. All I had to do was walk around it but there was something in the way. It stood in front of the gate, about 15 feet from me. It was a small doe, a fawn, a something.

  I moved slowly toward it. It didn't budge. Was it going to let me by? It didn't seem to fear me. I guessed it sensed my confusion, my cowardice. I approached closer and closer. It wouldn't get out of the way. It had large beautiful brown eyes, more beautiful than the eyes of any woman I had ever seen. I couldn't believe it. I was within 3 feet of it, ready to back off, when it bolted. It ran off the road and into the woods. It was in excellent shape; it could really run.

  As I walked further along the road I heard the sound of running water. I needed water. You couldn't live very long without water. I left the road and moved toward the sound of rushing water. There was a little hill covered with grass and as I topped the hill there it was: water spilling out of several cement pipes in the face of a dam and into some kind of reservoir. I sat down at the edge of the reservoir and took off my shoes and stockings, pulled up my pants, and stuck my legs into the water. Then I poured water over my head. Then I drank-but not too much or too fast-just like I'd seen it done in the movies.

  After recovering a bit I noticed a pier that went out over the reservoir. I walked out on the pier and came to a large metal box bolted to the side of the pier. It was locked with a padlock. There was probably a telephone in there! I could phone for help!

  I went and found a large rock and started smashing it against the lock. It wouldn't give. What the hell would Jack London do? What would Hemingway do? Jean Genet?

  I kept smashing the rock against the lock. Sometimes I missed and my hand hit the lock or the metal box itself. Skin ripped, blood flowed. I gathered myself and gave the lock one final blow. It opened. I took it off and opened the metal box. There was no telephone. There were a series of switches and some heavy cables. I reached in, touched a wire, and got a terrible shock. Then I pulled a switch. I heard the roar of water. Out of 3 or 4 of the holes in the concrete face of the dam shot giant white jets of water. I pulled another switch. Three or four other holes opened up, releasing tons of water. I pulled a third switch and the whole dam let loose. I stood and watched the water pouring forth. Maybe I could start a flood and cowboys would come on horses or in rugged little pickup trucks to rescue me. I could see the headline:

  HENRY CHINASKI, MINOR POET, FLOODS UTAH COUNTRYSIDE IN ORDER TO SAVE HIS SOFT LOS ANGELES ASS.

  I decided against it. I threw all the switches back to normal, closed the metal box, and hung the broken lock back on it.

  I left the reservoir, found another road up the way, and began following it. This road seemed more used than the other. I walked along. I had never been so tired. I could hardly see. Suddenly there was a little girl about 5 years old walking towards me. She wore a little blue dress and white shoes. She looked frightened when she saw me. I tried to look pleasant and friendly as I edged towards her.

  "Little girl, don't go away. I won't hurt you. I'M LOST! Where are your parents? Little girl, take me to your parents!"

  The little girl pointed. I saw a trailer and a car parked up ahead. "HEY, I'm LOST!" I shouted. "CHRIST, AM I GLAD TO SEE YOU."

  Lydia stepped around the side of the trailer. Her hair was done up in red curlers. "Come on, city boy," she said. "Follow me home."

  "I'm so glad to see you, baby, kiss m
e!"

  "No. Follow me."

  Lydia took off running about 20 feet in front of me. It was hard keeping up.

  "I asked those people if they had seen a city boy around," she called back over her shoulder. "They said, No."

  " Lydia, I love you!"

  "Come on! You're slow!"

  "Wait, Lydia, wait!"

  She vaulted over a barbed wire fence. I couldn't make it. I got tangled in the wire. I couldn't move. I was like a trapped cow. " LYDIA!"

  She came back with her red curlers and started helping me get loose from the barbs. "I tracked you. I found your red notebook. You got lost deliberately because you were pissed."

  "No, I got lost out of ignorance and fear. I am not a complete person-I'm a stunted city person. I am more or less a failed drizzling shit with absolutely nothing to offer." "Christ," she said, "don't you think I know that?" She freed me from the last barb. I lurched after her. I was back with Lydia again.

  31

  It was 3 or 4 days before I had to fly to Houston to give a reading. I went to the track, drank at the track, and afterwards I went to a bar on Hollywood Boulevard. I went home at 9 or 10 pm. As I moved through the bedroom towards the bathroom I tripped over the telephone cord. I fell against the corner of the bed frame-an edge of steel like a knife blade. When I got up I found I had a deep gash just above the ankle. The blood ran into the rug and I left a bloody trail as I went to the bathroom. The blood ran over the tiles and I left red footprints as I walked about.

  There was a knock on the door and I let Bobby in. "Jesus Christ, man, what happened?"

  "It's DEATH," I said. "I'm bleeding to death…"

  "Man," he said, "you better do something about that leg."

  Valerie knocked. I let her in too. She screamed. I poured Bobby and Valerie and myself drinks. The phone rang. It was Lydia.

  " Lydia, baby, I'm bleeding to death!"

  "Is this one of your dramatic trips again?"

  "No, I'm bleeding to death. Ask Valerie."

  Valerie took the phone. "It's true, his ankle is cut open. There's blood everywhere and he won't do anything about it. You better come over…"

  When Lydia arrived I was sitting on the couch. "Look, Lydia: DEATH!" Tiny veins were hanging out of the wound like strings of spaghetti. I yanked at some of them. I took my cigarette and tapped ashes into the wound. "I'm a MAN! Hell, I'm a MAN!"

  Lydia went and got some hydrogen peroxide and poured it into the wound. It was nice. White foam gushed out of the wound. It sizzled and bubbled. Lydia poured some more in.

  "You better go to a hospital," Bobby said.

  "I don't need a fucking hospital," I said. "It will cure itself…"

  The next morning the wound looked horrible. It was still open and seemed to be forming a nice crust. I went to the drugstore for some more hydrogen peroxide, some bandages, and some epsom salts. I filled the tub full of hot water and epsom salts and got in. I began thinking about myself with only one leg. There were advantages:

  HENRY CHINASKI IS,

  WITHOUT A DOUBT, THE

  GREATEST ONE-LEGGED

  POET IN THE WORLD

  Bobby came by that afternoon. "You know what it costs to get a leg amputated?" "$12,000." After Bobby left I phoned my doctor.

  I went to Houston with a heavily bandaged leg. I was taking antibiotic pills in an attempt to cure the infection. My doctor mentioned that any drinking would nullify the good the antibiotic pills had.

  At the reading, which was at the modern art museum, I went on sober. After I read a few poems somebody in the audience asked, "How come you're not drunk?"

  "Henry Chinaski couldn't make it," I said. "I'm his brother Efram."

  I read another poem and then confessed about the antibiotics. I also told them it was against museum rules to drink on the premises. Somebody from the audience came up with a beer. I drank it and read some more. Somebody else came up with another beer. Then the beers began to flow. The poems got better.

  There was a party and a dinner afterwards at a cafe. Almost directly across the table from me was absolutely the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She looked like a young Katherine Hepburn. She was about 22, and she just radiated beauty. I kept making wisecracks, calling her Katherine Hepburn. She seemed to like it. I didn't expect anything to come of it. She was with a girlfriend. When it came time to leave I said to the museum director, a woman named Nana, at whose house I was staying, "I'm going to miss her. She was too good to believe."

  "She's coming home with us."

  "I don't believe it."

  … but later there she was, at Nana's place, in the bedroom with me. She had on a sheer nightgown, and she sat on the edge of the bed combing her very long hair and smiling at me. "What's your name?" I asked.

  "Laura" she said.

  "Well, look, Laura, I'm going to call you Katherine."

  "All right," she said.

  Her hair was reddish-brown and so very long. She was small but well proportioned. Her face was the most beautiful thing about her.

  "Can I pour you a drink?" I asked.

  "Oh no, I don't drink. I don't like it."

  Actually, she frightened me. I couldn't understand what she was doing there with me. She didn't appear to be a groupie. I went to the bathroom, came back and turned out the light. I could feel her getting into bed next to me. I took her in my arms and we began kissing. I couldn't believe my luck. What right had I? How could a few books of poems call this forth? There was no way to understand it. I certainly was not about to reject it. I became very aroused. Suddenly she went down and took my cock in her mouth. I watched the slow movement of her head and body in the moonlight. She wasn't as good at it as some, but it was the very fact of her doing it that was amazing. Just as I was about to come I reached down and buried my hand in that mass of beautiful hair, pulling at it in the moonlight as I came in Katherine's mouth.

  32

  Lydia met me at the airport. She was horny as usual. "Jesus Christ," she said. "I'm hot! I play with myself but it doesn't do any good."

  We were driving back to my place.

  " Lydia, my leg is still in terrible shape. I just don't know if I can handle it with this leg."

  "What?"

  "It's true. I don't think I can fuck with my leg the way it is."

  "What the hell good are you then?"

  "Well, I can fry eggs and do magic tricks."

  "Don't be funny. I'm asking you, what the hellgood are you?"

  "The leg will heal. If it doesn't they'll cut if off. Be patient."

  "If you hadn't been drunk you wouldn't have fallen and cut your leg. It's always the bottle!"

  "It's not always the bottle, Lydia. We fuck about 4 times a week. For my age that's pretty good."

  "Sometimes I think you don't even enjoy it."

  " Lydia, sex isn't everything! You are obsessed. For Christ's sake, give it a rest."

  "A rest until your leg heals? How am I going to make it meanwhile?"

  "I'll play Scrabble with you."

  Lydia screamed. The car began to swerve all over the street. "YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! I'LL KILL YOU!"

  She crossed the double yellow line at high speed, directly into oncoming traffic. Horns sounded and cars scattered. We drove on against the flow of traffic, cars approaching us peeling off to the left and right. Then just as abruptly Lydia swerved back across the double line into the lane we had just vacated.

  Where are the police? I thought. Why is it that when Lydia does something the police become nonexistent?

  "All right," she said. "I'm taking you home and that's it. I've had it. I'm going to sell my house and move to Phoenix. Glen-doline lives in Phoenix now. My sisters warned me about living with an old fuck like you."

  We drove the remainder of the way without talking. When we reached my place I took out my suitcase, looked at Lydia, said, "Goodbye." She was crying without making a sound, her whole face was wet. Suddenly she drove off toward Western Avenue. I walked into t
he court. Back from another reading…

  I checked the mail and then phoned Katherine who lived in Austin, Texas. She seemed truly glad to hear from me, and it was good to hear that Texas accent, that high laughter. I told her that I wanted her to come visit me, that I'd pay air fare both ways. We'd go to the racetrack, we'd go to Malibu, we'd… whatever she wanted. "But, Hank, don't you have a girlfriend?"

  "No, none. I'm a recluse."

  "But you're always writing about women in your poems."

  "That's past. This is present."

  "But what about Lydia?"

  " Lydia?"

  "Yes, you told me all about her."

  "What did I tell you?"

  "You told me how she beat up two other women. Would you let her beat me up? I'm not very big, you know."

  "It can't happen. She's moved to Phoenix. I tell you, Katherine, you are the exceptional woman I've been looking for. Please, trust me."

  "I'll have to make arrangements. I have to get somebody to take care of my cat."

  "All right. But I want you to know that everything is clear here."

  "But, Hank, don't forget what you told me about your women."

  "Told you what?"

  "You said, 'They always come back.'"

  "That's just macho talk."

  "I'll come," she said. "As soon as I get things straight here I'll make a reservation and let you know the details."

  When I was in Texas Katherine had told me about her life. I was only the third man she had slept with. There had been her husband, an alcoholic track star, and me. Her ex-husband, Arnold, was into show business and the arts in some way. Exactly how it worked I didn't know. He was continually signing contracts with rock stars, painters and so forth. The business was $60,000 in debt, but flourishing. One of those situations where the further you were in debt the better off you were.