“That is a sad story,” I said.
“Listen,” said Edie, “I gotta go. Merry Christmas. Thanks for the drinks.”
She got up and I walked her to the door, opened it. She walked off through the court. I came back and sat down.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” said Sara.
“What is it?”
“If I hadn’t been here you would have fucked her.”
“I hardly know the lady.”
“All that tit! You were terrified! You were afraid to even look at her!”
“What’s she doing wandering around on Christmas Eve?”
“Why didn’t you ask her?”
“She said she was looking for Bobby.”
“If I hadn’t been here you would have fucked her.”
“I don’t know. I have no way of knowing. . . .”
Then Sara stood up and screamed. She began to sob and then she ran into the other room. I poured a drink. The colored lights on the walls blinked off and on.
99
Sara was preparing the turkey dressing and I sat in the kitchen talking to her. We were both sipping white wine.
The phone rang. I went and got it. It was Debra. “I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, wet noodle.”
“Thank you, Debra. And a happy Santa Claus to you.”
We talked awhile, then I went back and sat down.
“Who was that?”
“Debra.”
“How is she?”
“All right, I guess.”
“What did she want?”
“She sent Christmas greetings.”
“You’ll like this organic turkey, and the stuffing is good too. People eat poison, pure poison. America is one of the few countries where cancer of the colon is prevalent.”
“Yeah, my ass itches a lot, but it’s just my hemorrhoids. I had them cut out once. Before they operate they run this snake up your intestine with a little light attached and they peek into you looking for cancer. That snake is pretty long. They just run it up you!”
The phone rang again. I went and got it. It was Cassie. “How are you doing?”
“Sara and I are preparing a turkey.”
“I miss you.”
“Merry Christmas to you too. How’s the job going?”
“All right. I’m off until January 2nd.”
“Happy New Year, Cassie!”
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I’m a little airy. I’m not used to white wine so early in the day.”
“Give me a call some time.”
“Sure.”
I walked back into the kitchen. “It was Cassie. People phone on Christmas. Maybe Drayer Baba will call.”
“He won’t.”
“Why?”
“He never spoke aloud. He never spoke and he never touched money.”
“That’s pretty good. Let me eat some of that raw dressing.”
“O.K.”
“Say—not bad!”
Then the phone rang again. It worked like that. Once it started ringing it kept ringing. I walked into the bedroom and answered it.
“Hello,” I said. “Who’s this?”
“You son-of-a-bitch. Don’t you know?”
“No, not really.” It was a drunken female.
“Guess.”
“Wait. I know! It’s Iris!”
“Yes, Iris. And I’m pregnant!”
“Do you know who the father is?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I guess you’re right. How are things in Vancouver?”
“All right. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
I walked back into the kitchen again.
“It was the Canadian belly dancer,” I told Sara.
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s just full of Christmas cheer.”
Sara put the turkey in the oven and we went into the front room. We talked small talk for some time. Then the phone rang again. “Hello,” I said.
“Are you Henry Chinaski?” It was a young male voice.
“Yes.”
“Are you Henry Chinaski, the writer?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, we’re a gang of guys from Bel Air and we really dig your stuff, man! We dig it so much that we’re going to reward you, man!
“Oh?”
“Yeah, we’re coming over with some 6-packs of beer.”
“Stick that beer up your ass.”
“What?”
“I said, 'Stick it up your ass!’”
I hung up.
“Who was that?” asked Sara.
“I just lost 3 or 4 readers from Bel Air. But it was worth it.”
The turkey was done and I pulled it out of the oven, put it on a platter, moved the typer and all my papers off the kitchen table, and placed the turkey there. I began carving as Sara came in with the vegetables. We sat down. I filled my plate, Sara filled hers. It looked good.
“I hope that one with the tits doesn’t come by again,” said Sara. She looked very upset at the thought.
“If she does I’ll give her a piece.”
“What?”
I pointed to the turkey. “I said, 'I’ll give her a piece.’ You can watch.”
Sara screamed. She stood up. She was trembling. Then she ran into the bedroom. I looked at my turkey. I couldn’t eat it. I had pushed the wrong button again. I walked into the front room with my drink and sat down. I waited 15 minutes and then I put the turkey and the vegetables in the refrigerator.
Sara went back to her place the next day and I had a cold turkey sandwich about 3 pm. About 5 pm there was a terrific pounding on the door. I opened it up. It was Tammie and Arlene. They were cruising on speed. They walked in and jumped around, both of them talking at once.
“Got anything to drink?”
“Shit, Hank, ya got anything to drink?”
“How was your fucking Christmas?”
“Yeah. How was your fucking Christmas, man?”
“There’s some beer and wine in the icebox,” I told them.
(You can always tell an old-timer: he calls a refrigerator an icebox.)
They danced into the kitchen and opened the icebox.
“Hey, here’s a turkey!”
“We’re hungry, Hank! Can we have some turkey?”
“Sure.”
Tammie came out with a leg and bit into it. “Hey, this is an awful turkey! It needs spices!”
Arlene came out with slices of meat in her hands. “Yeah, this needs spices. It’s too mellow! You got any spices?”
“In the cupboard,” I said.
They jumped back into the kitchen and began sprinkling on the spices.
“There! That’s better!”
“Yeah, it tastes like something now!”
“Organic turkey, shit!”
“Yeah, it’s shit!”
“I want some more!”
“Me too. But it needs spices.”
Tammie came out and sat down. She had just about finished the leg. Then she took the leg bone, bit and broke it in half, and started chewing the bone. I was astonished. She was eating the leg bone, spitting splinters out on the rug.
“Hey, you’re eating the bone!”
“Yeah, it’s good!”
Tammie ran back into the kitchen for some more.
Soon they both came out, each of them with a bottle of beer.
“Thanks, Hank.”
“Yeah, thanks, man.”
They sat there sucking at the beers.
“Well,” said Tammie, “we gotta get going.”
“Yeah, we’re going out to rape some junior high school boys!”
“Yeah!”
The both jumped up and they were gone out the door. I walked into the kitchen and looked into the refrig. That turkey looked like it had been mauled by a tiger—the carcass had simply been ripped apart. It looked obscene.
Sara drove over the next evening.
“How’s the turkey?” she asked.
“O.K.”
She walked in and opened the refrigerator door. She screamed. Then she ran out.
“My god, what happened?”
“Tammie and Arlene came by. I don’t think they had eaten for a week.”
“Oh, it’s sickening. It hurts my heart!”
“I’m sorry. I should have stopped them. They were on uppers.”
“Well, there’s just one thing I can do.”
“What’s that?”
“I can make you a nice turkey soup. I’ll go get some vegetables.”
“All right.” I gave her a twenty.
Sara prepared the soup that night. It was delicious. When she left in the morning she gave me instructions on how to heat it up.
Tammie knocked on the door around 4 pm. I let her in and she walked straight to the kitchen. The refrigerator door opened. “Hey, soup, huh?” “Yeah.”
“Is it any good?” “Yeah.”
“Mind if I try some?” “O.K.”
I heard her put it on the stove. Then I heard her dipping in there.
“God! This stuff is mild! It needs spices!”
I heard her spooning the spices in. Then she tried it.
“That’s better! But it needs more! I’m Italian, you know. Now . . . there . . . that’s better! Now I’ll let it heat up. Can I have a beer?”
“All right.”
She came in with her bottle and sat down.
“Do you miss me?” she asked.
“You’ll never know.”
“I think I’m going to get my job back at the Play Pen.”
“Great.”
“Some good tippers come in that place. One guy he tipped me 5 bucks each night. He was in love with me. But he never asked me out. He just ogled me. He was strange. He was a rectal surgeon and sometimes he masturbated as he watched me walking around. I could smell the stuff on him, you know.”
“Well, you got him off. . . .”
“I think the soup is ready. Want some?”
“No thanks.”
Tammie went in and I heard her spooning it out of the pot. She was in there a long time. Then she came out.
“Could you lend me a five until Friday?”
“No.”
“Then lend me a couple of bucks.”
“No.”
“Just give me a dollar then.”
I gave Tammie a pocketful of change. It came to a dollar and thirty-seven cents.
“Thanks,” she said.
“It’s all right.”
Then she was gone out of the door.
Sara came by the next evening. She seldom came by this often, it was something about the holiday season, everybody was lost, half-crazy, afraid. I had the white wine ready and poured us both a drink.
“How’s the Inn going?” I asked her.
“Business is crappy. It hardly pays to stay open.”
“Where are your customers?”
“They’ve all left town; they’ve all gone somewhere.”
“All our schemes have holes in them.”
“Not all of them. Some people just keep making it and making it.”
“True.”
“How’s the soup?”
“Just about finished.”
“Did you like it?”
“I didn’t have too much.”
Sara walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.
“What happened to the soup? It looks strange.”
I heard her tasting it. Then she ran to the sink and spit it out.
“Jesus, it’s been poisoned! What happened? Did Tammie and Arlene come back and eat soup too?”
“Just Tammie.”
Sara didn’t scream. She just poured the remainder of the soup into the sink and ran the garbage disposal. I could hear her sobbing, trying not to make any sound. That poor organic turkey had had a rough Christmas.
100
New Year’s Eve was another bad night for me to get through. My parents had always delighted in New Year’s Eve, listening to it approach on the radio, city by city, until it arrived in Los Angeles. The firecrackers went off and the whistles and horns blew and the amateur drunks vomited and husbands flirted with other men’s wives and the wives flirted with who ever they could. Everybody kissed and played grab-ass in the bathrooms and closets and sometimes openly, especially at midnight, and there were terrible family arguments the next day not to mention the Tournament of Roses Parade and the Rose Bowl game.
Sara arrived early New Year’s Eve. She got excited about things like Magic Mountain, outer space movies, Star Trek, and over certain rock bands, creamed spinach, and pure food, but she had better basic common sense than any woman I had ever met.
Perhaps only one other, Joanna Dover, could match her good sense and kind spirit. Sara was better looking and much more faithful than any of my other current women, so this new year was not going to be so bad after all.
I had just been wished a “Happy New Year” by a local idiot news broadcaster on t.v. I disliked being wished a “Happy New Year” by some stranger. How did he know who I was? I might be a man with a 5-year-old child wired to the ceiling and gagged, hanging by her ankles as I slowly sliced her to pieces.
Sara and I had begun to celebrate and drink but it was difficult to get drunk when half the world was straining to get drunk along with you.
“Well,” I said to Sara, “it ain’t been a bad year. Nobody murdered me.”
“And you’re still able to drink every night and get up at noon every day.”
“If I can just hold out another year.”
“Just an old alcoholic bull.”
There was a knock on the door. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Dinky Summers, the folk rock man and his girl friend Janis.
“Dinky!” I hollered. “Hey, shit, man, what’s happening?”
“I don’t know, Hank. I just thought we’d drop by.”
“Janis this is Sara. Sara . . . Janis.”
Sara went out and got two more glasses. I poured. The talk wasn’t much.
“I’ve written about ten new pieces. I think I’m getting better.”
“I think he is too,” said Janis, “really.”
“Hey look, man, that night I opened your act. . . . Tell me, Hank, was I that bad?”
“Listen, Dinky, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I was drinking more than I was listening. I was thinking of myself having to go out there and I was getting ready to face it, it makes me puke.”
“But I just love to get up in front of the crowd and when I get over to them and they like my stuff I’m in heaven.”
“Writing’s different. You do it alone, it has nothing to do with a live audience.”
“You might be right.”
“I was there,” said Sara. “Two guys had to help Hank up on
stage. He was drunk and he was sick.”
“Listen, Sara,” asked Dinky, “Was my act that bad?”
“No, it wasn’t. They were just impatient for Chinaski. Everything else irritated them.”
“Thanks, Sara.”
“Folk rock just doesn’t do much for me,” I said.
“What do you like?”
“Almost all the German classical composers plus a few of the Russians.”
“I’ve written about ten new pieces.”
“Maybe we can hear some?” asked Sara.
“But you don’t have your guitar, do you?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s got it,” said Janis, “it’s always with him!”