Randy Evans was sitting next to me. I could see he was watching Lydia too. He began talking. He talked and he talked. Thankfully I couldn't hear him, the stereo was too loud.
I watched Lydia dance with the boy with the ringlets. Lydia could move it. Her movements lurked upon the sexual. I looked at the other girls and they didn't seem to be dancing that way; but, I thought, that's only because I know Lydia and I don't know them.
Randy kept on talking even though I didn't answer. The dance ended and Lydia came back and sat down next to me.
"Ooooh, I'm pooped! I think I'm out of shape."
Another record dropped into place and Lydia got up and joined the boy with the golden ringlets. I kept drinking beer and wine.
There were many records. Lydia and the boy danced and danced-center stage as the others moved around them, each dance more intimate than the last.
I kept drinking the beer and the wine.
A wild loud dance was in progress… The boy with the golden ringlets raised both hands above his head. Lydia pressed against him. It was dramatic, erotic. They held their hands high over their heads and pressed their bodies together. Body against body. He kicked his feet back, one at a time. Lydia imitated him. They stared into each other's eyes. I had to admit they were good. The record went on and on. Finally, it ended.
Lydia came back and sat down next to me. "I'm really pooped," she said.
"Look, I said, "I think I've had too much to drink. Maybe we ought to get out of here."
"I've watched you pouring it down."
"Let's go. There'll be other parties."
We got up to leave. Lydia said something to Harry and Diana. When she came back we walked toward the door. As I opened it the boy with the golden ringlets came up to me. "Hey, man, what do you think of me and your girl?"
"You're O.K."
When we got outside I began vomiting, all the beer and the wine came up. It poured and splattered into the brush-across the sidewalk-a gusher in the moonlight. Finally I straightened up and wiped my mouth with my hand.
"That guy worried you, didn't he?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It almost seemed like a fuck, maybe better."
"It didn't mean anything, it was just dancing."
"Suppose that I grabbed a woman on the street like that? Would music make it all right?"
"You don't understand. Each time I finished dancing I came back and sat down next to you."
"O.K., O.K.," I said, "wait a minute."
I puked up another gusher on somebody's dying brush. We walked down the hill out of the Echo Park district toward Hollywood Boulevard.
We got into the car. It started and we drove west down Hollywood toward Vermont.
"You know what we call guys like you?" asked Lydia.
"No."
"We call them," she said, "party-poopers."
7
We came in low over Kansas City, the pilot said the temperature was 20 degrees, and there I was in my thin California sports coat and shirt, lightweight pants, summer stockings, and holes in my shoes. As we landed and taxied toward the ramp everybody was reaching for overcoats, gloves, hats, mufflers. I let them all get off and then climbed down the portable stairway. There was Frenchy leaning against a building and waiting. Frenchy taught drama and collected books, mostly mine. "Welcome to Kansas Shitty, Chinaski!" he said and handed me a bottle of tequila. I took a good gulp and followed him into the parking lot. I had no baggage, just a portfolio full of poems. The car was warm and pleasant and we passed the bottle.
The roadways were frozen over with ice.
"Not everybody can drive on this fucking kind of ice," said Frenchy. "You got to know what you're doing."
I opened the portfolio and began reading Frenchy a love poem Lydia had handed me at the airport:
"… your purple cock curved like a…
"… when I squeeze your pimples, bullets of puss like sperm…"
"Oh SHIT!" hollered Frenchy. The car went into a spin. Frenchy worked at the steering wheel.
"Frenchy," I said, lifting the tequila bottle and taking a hit, "we're not going to make it."
We spun off the road and into a three foot ditch which divided the highway. I handed him the bottle.
We got out of the car and climbed out of the ditch. We thumbed passing cars, sharing what was left of the bottle. Finally a car stopped. A man in his mid-twenties, drunk, was at the wheel. "Where you fellows going?"
"A poetry reading," said Frenchy.
"A poetry reading?"
"Yeah, at the University."
"All right, get in."
He was a liquor salesman. The back seat of his car was packed with cases of beer.
"Have a beer," he said, "and get me one too."
He got us there. We drove right up into the campus center and parked on the lawn in front of the auditorium. We were only 15 minutes late. I got out, vomited, then we all walked in together. We had stopped for a pint of vodka to get me through the reading.
I read about 20 minutes, then put the poems down. "This shit bores me," I said, "let's talk to each other."
I ended up screaming things at the audience and they screamed back at me. That audience wasn't bad. They were doing it for free. After about another 30 minutes a couple of professors got me out of there. "We've got a room for you, Chinaski," one of them said, "in the women's dormitory."
"In the women's dorm?"
"That's right, a nice room."
… It was true. Up on the third floor. One of the profs had brought a fifth of whiskey. Another gave me a check for the reading, plus air fare, and we sat around and drank the whiskey and talked. I blacked out. When I came to everybody was gone and there was half a fifth left. I sat there drinking and thinking, hey, you're Chinaski, Chinaski the legend. You've got an image. Now you're in the women's dorm. Hundreds of women in this place, hundreds of them.
All I had on were my shorts and stockings. I walked out into the hall up to the nearest door. I knocked.
"Hey, I'm Henry Chinaski, the immortal writer! Open up! I wanna show you something!"
I heard the girls giggling.
"O.K. now," I said, "how many of you are in there? 2? 3? It doesn't matter. I can handle 3! No problem! Hear me? Open up! I have this HUGE purple thing! Listen, I'll beat on the door with it!"
I took my fist and beat on the door. They kept giggling.
"So. You're not going to let Chinaski in, eh? Well, FUCK YOU!"
I tried the next door. "Hey, girls! This is the best poet of the last 18 hundred years! Open the door! I'm gonna show you something! Sweet meat for your vaginal lips!"
I tried the next door.
I tried all the doors on that floor and then I walked down the stairway and worked all the doors on the second floor and then all the doors on the first. I had the whiskey with me and I got tired. It seemed like hours since I had left my room. I drank as I walked along. No luck.
I had forgotten where my room was, which floor it was on. All I wanted, finally, was to get back to my room. I tried all the doors again, this time silently, very conscious of my shorts and stockings. No luck. "The greatest men are the most alone."
Back on the third floor I twisted a doorknob and the door opened. There was my portfolio of poems… the empty drinking glasses, ashtrays full of cigarette stubs… my pants, my shirt, my shoes, my coat. It was a wonderful sight. I closed the door, sat down on the bed and finished the bottle of whiskey that I had been carrying with me.
I awakened. It was daylight. I was in a strange clean place with two beds, drapes, t.v., bath. It appeared to be a motel room. I got up and opened the door. There was snow and ice out there. I closed the door and looked around. There was no explanation. I had no idea where I was. I was terribly hung over and depressed. I reached for the telephone and placed a long distance call to Lydia in Los Angeles.
"Baby, I don't know where I am!"
"I thought you went to Kansas City?"
"I did. But now I don't know where I am, you understand? I opened the door and looked and there's nothing but frozen roads, ice, snow!"