"Shoot."
"Who was your favorite author?"
"Fante."
"Who?"
"John F-a-n-t-e. Ask the Dust. Wait Until Spring, Bandini."
"Where can we find his books?"
"I found them in the main library, downtown. Fifth and Olive, isn't it?"
"Why did you like him?"
"Total emotion. A very brave man."
"Who else?"
"Celine."
"Why?"
"They ripped out his guts and he laughed, and he made them laugh too. A very brave man."
"Do you believe in bravery?"
"I like to see it anywhere, in animals, birds, reptiles, humans."
"Why?"
"Why? It makes me feel good. It's a matter of style in the face of no chance at all."
"Hemingway?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Too grim, too serious. A good writer, fine sentences. But for him, life was always total war. He never let go, he never danced."
They folded up their notebooks and vanished. Too bad. I had meant to tell them that my real influences were Gable, Cagney, Bogart and Errol Flynn.
Next thing I knew I was sitting with three handsome women, Sara, Cassie, and Debra. Sara was 32,3 classy wench, good style and a heart. She had red-blond hair that fell straight down, and she had wild eyes, slightly insane. She also carried an overload of compassion that was real enough and which obviously cost her something. Debra was Jewish with large brown eyes and a generous mouth, heavily smeared with blood-red lipstick. Her mouth glistened and beckoned to me. I guessed she was somewhere between 30 and 35, and she reminded me of how my mother looked in 1935 (although my mother had been much more beautiful). Cassie was tall with long blond hair, very young, expensively dressed, modish, hip, "in," nervous, beautiful. She sat closest to me, squeezing my hand, rubbing her thigh against mine. As she squeezed my hand I became aware that her hand was much larger than mine. (Although I am a large man I am embarrassed by my small hands. In my barroom brawls as a young man in Philadelphia I had quickly found out the importance of hand size. How I had managed to win 30 percent of my fights was amazing.) Anyway, Cassie felt she had an edge on the other two, and I wasn't sure but that I agreed.
Then I had to read, and I had a luckier night. It was the same crowd, but my mind was on my work. The crowd got warmer and warmer, wilder and enthusiastic. Sometimes it was them who made it happen, sometimes it was you. Usually the latter. It was like climbing into the prize ring: you should feel you owed them something or you shouldn't be in there. I jabbbed and crossed and shuffled, and in the last round I really opened up and knocked out the referee. Performance is performance. Because I had bombed the night before my success must have seemed very strange to them. It certainly seemed strange to me.
Cassie was waiting in the bar. Sara slipped me a love note with her phone number. Debra was not as inventive-she just wrote down her phone number. For a moment-strangely-I thought about Katherine, then I bought Cassie a drink. I'd never see Katherine again. My little Texas girl, my beauty of beauties. Goodbye, Katherine.
"Look, Cassie, can you drive me home? I'm too drunk to drive. One more drunk driving rap and I've had it."
"All right, I'll drive you home. How about your car?"
"Fuck it. I'll leave it."
We left together in her M.G. It was like a movie. At any moment I expected her to drop me off at the next corner. She was in her mid-twenties. She talked as we drove. She worked for a music company, loved it, didn't have to be at work until 10:30 am and she left at 3 pm. "Not bad," she said, "and I like it. I can hire and fire, I've moved up, but I haven't had to fire anybody yet. They're good folks and we've put out some great records…"
We arrived at my place. I broke out the vodka. Cassie's hair came down almost to her ass. I had always been a hair and leg man.
"You really read well tonight," she said. "You were a totally different person than the night before. I don't know how to explain it, but at your best you have this… humanness. Most poets are such little prigs and shits."
"I don't like them either."
"And they don't like you."
We drank some more and then went to bed. Her body was amazing, glorious, Playboy style, but unfortunately I was drunk. I did get it up, however, and I pumped and pumped, I grabbed her long hair, I got it out from under her and ran my hands through it, I was excited but I couldn't finally do it. I rolled off, told Cassie goodnight, and slept a guilty sleep.
In the morning I was embarrassed. I was sure I would never see Cassie again. We dressed. It was about 10 am. We walked to the M. G. and got in. I didn't talk, she didn't talk. I felt the fool, but there was nothing to say. We drove back to The Lancer and there was the blue Volks.
"Thanks for all of it, Cassie. Think nice thoughts about Chinaski."
She didn't answer. I kissed her on the cheek and got out. She drove off in the M.G. It was, after all, as Lydia had often said, "If you want to drink, drink; if you want to fuck, throw the bottle away."
My problem was that I wanted to do both.
88
So I was surprised when the phone rang a couple of nights later and it was Cassie.
"What are you doing, Hank?"
"Just sitting around…"
"Why don't you come over?"
"I'd like to…"
She gave me the address, it was either Westwood or West L. A.
"I have plenty to drink," she said. "You needn't bring anything."
"Maybe I shouldn't drink anything?"
"It's all right."
"If you pour it, I'll drink it. If you don't, I won't."
"Don't worry about it," she said.
I got dressed, jumped into the Volks, and drove to the address. How many breaks did a man have coming? The gods were good to me, of late. Maybe it was a test? Maybe it was a trick? Fatten Chinaski up, then slice him in half. I knew that might be coming too. But what can you do after a couple of 8-counts with only 2 rounds left to go?
Cassie's apartment was on the second floor. She seemed glad to see me. A large black dog leaped on me. He was huge and floppy and male. He stood with his paws on my shoulders and licked my face. I pushed him off. He stood there wiggling his butt and making begging sounds. He had long black hair and appeared to be a mongrel, but what a big one he was.
"That's Elton," said Cassie.
She went to the refrigerator and got the wine.
"This is what you should drink. I've got plenty of it."
She was dressed in an all-green gown which clung tightly to her. She was like a snake. She had on shoes sequined with green stones, and once again I noticed how long her hair was, not only long but full, there was such a mass of it. It came down at least to her ass. Her eyes were large and blue-green, sometimes more blue than green, sometimes the other way around, depending upon how the light hit them. I noticed two of my books in her bookcase, two of the better ones.
Cassie sat down, opened the wine and poured two.
"We kind of met somehow during that last encounter, we touched somewhere. I didn't want to let it go," she said.
"I enjoyed it," I said.
"Want an upper?"
"All right," I said.
She brought out two. Black cap. The best. I sent mine down with the wine.
"I've got the best dealer in town. He doesn't rip me off," she said.
"Good."
"You ever been hooked?" she asked.
"I tried coke for a while, but I couldn't stand the comedown. I was afraid to go into the kitchen the next day because there was a butcher knife in there. Besides, 50 to 75 bucks a day is beyond me.
"I've got some coke." I pass.
She poured more wine.
I don't know why, but with each new woman it seemed like the first time, almost as if I had never been with a woman before. I kissed Cassie. As I kissed her I let one hand run through all that long hair.