Women Read online

"Yes?"

  "This isn't Lydia. This is Bonnie. I'm baby sitting for Lydia. She went out tonight."

  I hung up and walked back to my car.

  15

  Lydia phoned me in the morning. "Whenever you get drunk," she said, "I'm going out dancing. I went to the Red Umbrella last night and I asked men to dance with me. A woman has a right to do that."

  "You're a whore."

  "Yeah? Well, if there's anything worse than a whore it's a bore."

  "If there's anything worse than a bore it's a boring whore."

  "If you don't want my pussy," she said, "I'll give it to somebody else."

  "That's your privilege."

  "After I finished dancing, I went to see Marvin. I wanted to get his girlfriend's address and go see her. Francine. You went to see his girl Francine one night yourself," Lydia said.

  "Look, I never fucked her. I was just too drunk to drive home after a party. We didn't even kiss. She let me sleep on her couch and I went home in the morning."

  "Anyhow, after I got to Marvin's, I decided not to ask for Francine's address."

  Marvin's parents had money. He had a house down by the seashore. Marvin wrote poetry, better poetry than most. I liked Marvin.

  "Well, I hope you had a good time," I said and hung up.

  I had no sooner hung up when the phone rang again. It was Marvin. "Hey, guess who came by real late last night? Lydia. She knocked on the window and I let her in. She gave me a hard-on."

  "O.K., Marvin. I understand. I'm not blaming you."

  "You're not pissed?"

  "Not at you."

  "All right then…"

  I took the sculpted head and loaded it into my car. I drove over to Lydia 's and put the head on her doorstep. I didn't ring the bell. I started to walk away. Lydia came out.

  "Why are you such an ass?" she asked.

  I turned. "You are not selective. One man's the same as another to you. I'm not going to eat your shit."

  "I'm not going to eat your shit either!" she screamed and slammed the door.

  I walked to my car, got in and started it. I put it in first. It didn't move. I tried second. Nothing. Then I went back to first. I checked to be sure the brake was off. It wouldn't move. I tried reverse. The car moved backwards. I braked and tried first again. The car wouldn't move. I was still very angry with Lydia. I thought, well, I'll drive the fucking thing home backwards. Then I thought about the cops stopping me and asking me what the hell

  I was doing. Well, officers, I had a fight with my girl and this was the only way I could get home.

  I didn't feel so angry with Lydia anymore. I climbed out and went to her door. She had taken my head inside. I knocked.

  Lydia opened the door. "Look," I asked, "are you some kind of witch?"

  "No, I'm a whore, remember?"

  "You've got to drive me home. My car will only run backwards. The goddamned thing is hexed."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Come on, I'll show you."

  Lydia followed me out to the car. "The gears have been working fine. Then all of a sudden the car will only run backwards. I was going to drive it home that way."

  I got in. "Now watch."

  I started the car and put it in first, let out the clutch. It jumped forward. I put it in second. It went into second and moved faster. I put it into third. It moved nicely forward. I made a U-turn and parked on the other side of the street. Lydia walked over.

  "Listen," I said, "you've got to believe me. A minute ago the car would only run backwards. Now it's all right. Please believe me."

  "I believe you," she said. "God did it. I believe in that sort of thing."

  "It must mean something."

  "It does."

  I got out of the car. We walked into her house.

  "Take off your shirt and shoes," she said, "and lay down on the bed. First I want to squeeze your blackheads."

  16

  The ex-Japanese wrestler who was into real estate sold Lydia 's house. She had to move out. There was Lydia, Tonto, Lisa and the dog, Bugbutt. In Los Angeles most landlords hang out the same sign: ADULTS ONLY. With two children and a dog it was very difficult. Only Lydia 's good looks could help her. A male landlord was needed.

  I drove them all around town. It was useless. Then I stayed out of sight in the car. It still didn't work. As we drove along Lydia screamed out the window, "Isn't there anybody in this town who will rent to a woman with two kids and a dog?"

  Unexpectedly a vacancy occurred in my court. I saw the people moving out and I went right down and talked to Mrs. O'Keefe.

  "Listen," I said, "my girlfriend needs a place to live. She has two kids and a dog but they're all well-behaved. Will you let them move in?"

  "I've seen that woman," said Mrs. O'Keefe. "Haven't you noticed her eyes? She's crazy."

  "I know she's crazy. But I care for her. She has some good qualities, really."

  "She's too young for you! What are you going to do with a young woman like that?"

  I laughed.

  Mr. O'Keefe walked up behind his wife. He looked at me through the screen door. "He's pussy-whipped, that's all. It's quite simple, he's pussy-whipped."

  "How about it?" I asked.

  "All right," said Mrs. O'Keefe. "Move her in…"

  So Lydia rented a U-Haul and I moved her in. It was mostly clothes, all the heads she had sculpted, and a large washing machine.

  "I don't like Mrs. O'Keefe," she told me. "Her husband looks all right, but I don't like her."

  "She's a good Catholic sort. And you need a place to live."

  "I don't want you drinking with those people. They're out to destroy you."

  "I'm only paying 85 bucks a month rent. They treat me like a son. I have to have a beer with them now and then."

  "Son, shit! You're almost as old as they are."

  About three weeks passed. It was late one Saturday morning. I had not slept at Lydia 's the night before. I bathed and had a beer, got dressed. I disliked weekends. Everybody was out on the streets. Everybody was playing Ping-Pong or mowing their lawn or polishing their car or going to the supermarket or the beach or to the park. Crowds everywhere. Monday was my favorite day. Everybody was back on the job and out of sight. I decided to go to the racetrack despite the crowd. That would help kill Saturday. I ate a hard-boiled egg, had another beer and stepping out on my porch, locked the door. Lydia was outside playing with Bugbutt, the dog.

  "Hi," she said.

  "Hi," I said. "I'm going to the track."

  Lydia walked over to me. "Listen, you know what the racetrack does to you."

  She meant that I was always too tired to make love after going to the racetrack.

  "You were drunk last night," she continued. "You were horrible. You frightened Lisa. I had to run you out."

  "I'm going to the racetrack."

  "All right, you go ahead and go to the racetrack. But if you do I won't be here when you get back."

  I got into my car which was parked on the front lawn. I rolled down the windows and started the motor. Lydia was standing in the driveway. I waved goodbye to her and pulled out into the street. It was a nice summer day. I drove down to Hollywood Park. I had a new system. Each new system brought me closer and closer to wealth. It was simply a matter of time.

  I lost $40 and drove home. I parked my car on the lawn and got out. As I walked around the porch to my door Mr. O'Keefe walked up the driveway. "She's gone!"

  "What?"

  "Your girl. She moved out."

  I didn't answer.

  "She rented a U-Haul and loaded her stuff in it. She was mad. You know that big washing machine?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, that thing's heavy. I couldn't lift it. She wouldn't let the boy help her. She just lifted the thing and put it in the U-Haul. Then she got the kids, the dog, and drove off. She had a week's rent left."

  "All right, Mr. O'Keefe. Thanks."

  "You coming down to drink tonight?"

  "I don't know
."

  "Try to make it."

  I unlocked the door and went inside. I had lent her an air-conditioner. It was sitting in a chair outside of the closet. There was a note on it and a pair of blue panties. The note was in a wild scrawl:

  "Bastard, here is your air-conditioner. I am gone. I am gone for good, you son-of-a-bitch! When you get lonely you can use these panties to jack-off into. Lydia."

  I went to the refrigerator and got a beer. I drank the beer and then walked over to the air-conditioner. I picked up the panties and stood there wondering if it would work. Then I said, "Shit!" and threw them on the floor.

  I went to the phone and dialed Dee Dee Bronson. She was in. "Hello?" she said.

  "Dee Dee," I said, "this is Hank…"

  I7

  Dee Dee had a place in the Hollywood Hills. Dee Dee shared the place with a friend, another lady executive, Bianca. Bianca took the top floor and Dee Dee the bottom. I rang the bell. It was 8:30 pm when Dee Dee opened the door. Dee Dee was about 40, had black, cropped hair, was Jewish, hip, freaky. She was New York City oriented, knew all the names: the right publishers, the best poets, the most talented cartoonists, the right revolutionaries, anybody, everybody. She smoked grass continually and acted like it was the early 1960's and Love-In Time, when she had been mildly famous and much more beautiful.

  A long series of bad love affairs had finally done her in. Now I was standing at her door. There was a good deal left of her body. She was small but buxom and many a young girl would have loved to have her figure.

  I followed her in. "So Lydia split?" Dee Dee asked.

  "I think she went to Utah. The 4th of July dance in Muleshead is coming up. She never misses it."

  I sat down in the breakfast nook while Dee Dee uncorked a red wine. "Do you miss her?"

  "Christ, yes. I feel like crying. My whole gut is chewed up. I might not make it."

  "You'll make it. We'll get you over Lydia. We'll pull you through."

  "Then you know how I feel?"

  "It has happened to most of us a few times."

  "That bitch never cared to begin with."

  "Yes, she did. She still does."

  I decided it was better to be there in Dee Dee's large home in the Hollywood Hills than to be sitting all alone back in my apartment and brooding.

  "It must be that I'm just not good with the ladies," I said.

  "You're good enough with the ladies," Dee Dee said. "And you're a helluva writer."

  "I'd rather be good with the ladies."

  Dee Dee was lighting a cigarette. I waited until she was finished, then I leaned across the table and gave her a kiss. "You make me feel good. Lydia was always on the attack."

  "That doesn't mean what you think it means."

  "But it can get to be unpleasant."

  "It sure as hell can."

  "Have you found a boyfriend yet?"

  "Not yet."

  "I like this place. But how do you keep it so neat and clean?"

  "We have a maid."

  "Oh?"

  "You'll like her. She's big and black and she finishes her work as fast as she can after I leave. Then she goes to bed and eats cookies and watches t.v. I find cookie crumbs in my bed every night. I'll have her fix you breakfast after I leave tomorrow morning."

  "All right."

  "No, wait. Tomorrow's Sunday. I don't work Sundays. We'll eat out. I know a place. You'll like it."

  "All right."

  "You know, I think I've always been in love with you."

  "What?"

  "For years. You know, when I used to come and see you, first with Bernie and later with Jack, I would want you. But you never noticed me. You were always sucking on a can of beer or you were obsessed with something."

  "Crazy, I guess, near crazy. Postal Service madness. I'm sorry I didn't notice you."

  "You can notice me now."

  Dee Dee poured another glass of wine. It was good wine. I liked her. It was good to have a place to go when things went bad. I remembered the early days when things would go bad and there wasn't anywhere to go. Maybe that had been good for me. Then. But now I wasn't interested in what was good for me. I was interested in how I felt and how to stop feeling bad when things went wrong. How to start feeling good again.

  "I don't want to fuck you over, Dee Dee," I said. "I'm not always good to women."

  "I told you I love you."

  "Don't do it. Don't love me."

  "All right," she said, "I won't love you, I'll almost love you. Will that be all right?"

  "It's much better than the other."

  We finished our wine and went to bed…

  18

  In the morning Dee Dee drove me to the Sunset Strip for breakfast. The Mercedes was black and shone in the sun. We drove past the billboards and the nightclubs and the fancy restaurants. I slouched low in my seat, coughing over my cigarette. I thought, well, things have been worse. A scene or two flashed through my head. One winter in Atlanta I was freezing, it was midnight, I had no money, no place to sleep, and I walked up the steps of a church hoping to get inside and get warm. The church door was locked. Another time in El Paso, sleeping on a park bench, I was awakened in the morning by some cop smacking the soles of my shoes with his club. Still, I kept thinking about Lydia. The good parts of our relationship felt like a rat walking around and gnawing at the inside of my stomach.

  Dee Dee parked outside a fancy eating place. There was a sun patio with chairs and tables where people sat eating, talking, and drinking coffee. We passed a black man in boots, jeans, and with a heavy silver chain coiled around his neck. His motorcycle helmet, goggles and gloves were on the table. He was with a thin blond girl in a peppermint jumpsuit who sat sucking on her little ringer. The place was crowded. Everybody looked young, scrubbed, bland. Nobody stared at us. Everybody was talking quietly.

  We went inside and a pale slim boy with tiny buttocks, tight silver pants, an 8-inch studded belt and shiny gold blouse seated us. His ears were pierced and he wore tiny blue earrings. His pencil-thin mustache looked purple.

  "Dee Dee," he said, "what is happening?"

  "Breakfast, Donny."

  "A drink, Donny," I said.

  "I know what he needs, Donny. Give him a Golden Flower, double."

  We ordered breakfast and Dee Dee said, "It will take a while to prepare. They cook everything to order here."

  "Don't spend too much, Dee Dee."

  "It all goes on the expense account."

  She took out a little black book. "Now, let's see. Who am I taking to breakfast? Elton John?"

  "Isn't he in Africa…"

  "Oh, that's right. Well, how about Cat Stevens?"

  "Who's that?"

  "You don't know?"

  "No."

  "Well, I discovered him. You can be Cat Stevens."

  Donny brought the drink and he and Dee Dee talked. They seemed to know the same people. I didn't know any of them. It took a lot to excite me. I didn't care. I didn't like New York. I didn't like Hollywood. I didn't like rock music. I didn't like anything. Maybe I was afraid. That was it-I was afraid. I wanted to sit alone in a room with the shades down. I feasted upon that. I was a crank. I was a lunatic. And Lydia was gone.

  I finished my drink and Dee Dee ordered another. I began to feel like a kept man and it felt great. It helped my blues. There is nothing worse than being broke and having your woman leave you. Nothing to drink, no job, just the walls, sitting there staring at the walls and thinking. That's how women got back at you, but it hurt and weakened them too. Or so I like to believe.

  The breakfast was good. Eggs garnished with various fruits… pineapple, peaches, pears… some grated nuts, seasoning. It was a good breakfast. We finished and Dee Dee ordered me another drink. The thought of Lydia still remained inside of me, but Dee Dee was nice. Her conversation was decisive and entertaining. She was able to make me laugh, which I needed. My laughter was all there inside of me waiting to roar out: HAHAHAHAHA, o my god o my HAHAHAH
A. It felt so good when it happened. Dee Dee knew something about life. Dee Dee knew that what happened to one happened to most of us. Our lives were not so different-even though we liked to think so.

  Pain is strange. A cat killing a bird, a car accident, a fire… Pain arrives, BANG, and there it is, it sits on you. It's real. And to anybody watching, you look foolish. Like you've suddenly become an idiot. There's no cure for it unless you know somebody who understands how you feel, and knows how to help.

  We went back to the car. "I know just where to take you to cheer you up," said Dee Dee. I didn't answer. I was being catered to as if I was an invalid. Which I was.

  I asked Dee Dee to stop at a bar. One of hers. The bartender knew her.

  "This," she told me as we entered, "is where a lot of the script writers hang out. And some of the little-theatre people."

  I disliked them all immediately, sitting around acting clever and superior. They nullified each other. The worst thing for a writer is to know another writer, and worse than that, to know a number of other writers. Like flies on the same turd.

  "Let's get a table," I said. So there I was, a $65 a week writer sitting in a room with other writers, $1000 a week writers. Lydia, I thought, I am getting there. You'll be sorry. Some day I'll go into fancy restaurants and I'll be recognized. They'll have a special table for me in the back near the kitchen.

  We got our drinks and Dee Dee looked at me. "You give good head. You give the best head I ever had."

  " Lydia taught me. Then I added a few touches of my own."

  A dark young boy jumped up and came over to our table. Dee Dee introduced us. The boy was from New York, wrote for the Village Voice and other New York newspapers. He and Dee Dee name-dropped a while and then he asked her, "What's your husband do?"

  "I got a stable," I said. "Fighters. Four good Mexican boys. Plus one black boy, a real dancer. What do you weigh?"

  "158. Were you a fighter? Your face looks like you caught a few."

  "I've caught a few. We can put you in at 135. I need a southpaw lightweight."

  "How'd you know I was a southpaw?"

  "You're holding your cigarette in your left hand. Come on down to the Main Street gym. Monday am. We'll start your training. Cigarettes are out. Put that son of a bitch out!"