I drove up to her house and took in my basket of health. She was in the kitchen. I sat down with the wine and the basket.
"I'm here, Sara!"
She came out of the kitchen. Ron was gone but she had his stereo on full blast. I had always hated stereos. When you lived in poor neighborhoods you continually heard other people's sounds, including their fucking, but the most obnoxious thing was to be forced to listen to their music at full volume, the total vomit of it for hours. In addition they usually left their windows open, confident that you too would enjoy what they enjoyed.
Sara had Judy Garland on. I liked Judy Garland, a little, especially her appearance at the New York Met. But suddenly she seemed very loud, screaming her sentimental horseshit.
"For Christ's sake, Sara, turn it down!"
She did, but not very much. She opened one of the bottles of wine and we sat down at the table across from each other. I felt strangely irritable.
Sara reached into the basket and found the bee secretion. She was excited. She took the lid off and tasted it. "This is so powerful," she said. "It's the essence… Care for some?"
"No, thanks."
"I'm making us dinner."
"Good. But I should take you out."
"I've already got it started."
"All right then."
"But I need some butter. I'll have to go out and get some. Also I'm going to need cucumbers and tomatoes for the store tomorrow."
"I'll get them. It's your birthday."
"Are you sure you don't want to try some bee secretion?"
"No, thanks, it's all right."
"You can't imagine how many bees it took to fill this jar."
"Happy birthday. I'll get the butter and things."
I had another wine, got in the Volks and drove to a small grocery. I found the butter, but the tomatoes and cucumbers looked old and shriveled. I paid for the butter and drove about looking for a larger market. I found one, got some tomatoes and cucumbers then drove back. As I walked up the driveway to her place I heard it. She had the stereo on full volume again. As I walked closer and closer I began to sicken; my nerves were stretched to the breaking point, then snapped. I walked into the house with just the bag of butter in my hand; I had left the tomatoes and cucumbers in the car. I don't know what she was playing; it was so loud that I couldn't distinguish one sound from another.
Sara walked out of the kitchen. "GOD DAMN YOU!" I screamed.
"What is it?" Sara asked.
"I CAN'T HEAR!"
"What?"
"YOU'RE PLAYING THAT FUCKING STEREO TOO LOUD! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?"
"What?"
"I'M LEAVING!"
"No!"
I turned and banged out of the screen door. I walked out to the Volks and saw the bag of tomatoes and cucumbers I had forgotten. I picked them up and walked back up the driveway. We met.
I pushed the bag at her. "Here."
Then I turned and walked off. "You rotten rotten rotten son-of-a-bitch!" she screamed.
She threw the bag at me. It hit me in the middle of the back. She turned and ran off into her house. I looked at the tomatoes and cucumbers scattered on the ground in the moonlight. For a moment I thought of picking them up. Then I turned and walked away.
93
The reading in Vancouver went through, $500 plus air fare and lodging. The sponsor, Bart Mcintosh, was nervous about crossing the border. I was to fly to Seattle, he'd meet me there and we'd drive over the border, then after the reading I'd fly from Vancouver to L.A. I didn't quite understand what it all meant but I said all right.
So there I was in the air again, drinking a double vodka-7. I was in with the salesmen and businessmen. I had my small suitcase with extra shirts, underwear, stockings, 3 or 4 books of poems, plus typescripts of ten or twelve new poems. And a toothbrush and toothpaste. It was ridiculous to be going off somewhere to get paid for reading poetry. I didn't like it and I could never get over how silly it seemed. To work like a mule until you were fifty at meaningless, low jobs, and then suddenly to be flitting about the country, a gadfly with drink in hand.
Mcintosh was waiting at Seattle and we got in his car. It was a nice drive because neither us said too much. The reading was privately sponsored, which I preferred to university-sponsored readings. The universities were frightened; among other things, they were frightened of low-life poets, but on the other hand they were too curious to pass one up.
There was a long wait at the border, with a hundred cars backed up. The border guards simply took their time. Now and then they pulled an old car out of line, but usually they only asked one or two questions and waved the people on. I couldn't understand Mcintosh's panic over the whole procedure.
"Man," he said, "we got through!"
Vancouver wasn't far. Mcintosh pulled up in front of the hotel. It looked good. It was right on the water. We got the key and went up. It was a pleasant room with a refrigerator and thanks to some good soul the refrigerator had beer in it.
"Have one," I told him.
We sat down and sucked at the beer.
"Creeley was here last year," he said.
"Is that so?"
"It's kind of a co-op Art Center, self-sufficient. They have a big paid membership, rent space, so forth. Your show is already sold out. Silvers said he could have made a lot of money if he'd jacked the ticket prices up."
"Who's Silvers?"
"Myron Silvers. He's one of the Directors."
We were getting to the dull part now.
"I can show you around town," said Mcintosh.
"That's all right. I can walk around."
"How about dinner? On the house."
"Just a sandwich. I'm not all that hungry."
I figured if I got him outside I could leave him when we were finished eating. Not that he was a bad sort, but most people just didn't interest me.
We found a place 3 or 4 blocks away. Vancouver was a very clean town and the people didn't have that hard city look. I liked the restaurant. But when I looked at the menu I noticed that the prices were about 40 percent higher than in my part of L. A. I had a roast beef sandwich and another beer.
It felt good to be out of the U.S.A. There was a real difference. The women looked better, things felt calmer, less false. I finished the sandwich, then Mcintosh drove me back to the hotel. I left him' at the car and took the elevator up. I took a shower, left my clothes off. I stood at the window and looked down at the water. Tomorrow night it would all be over, I'd have their money and at noon I'd be back in the air. Too bad. I drank 3 or 4 more bottles of beer, then went to bed and slept.
They took me to the reading an hour early. A young boy was up there singing. They talked right through his act. Bottles clanked; laughter; a good drunken crowd; my kind of folks. We drank backstage, Mcintosh, Silvers, myself and a couple of others.
"You're the first male poet we've had here in a long time," said Silvers.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, we've had a long run of fags. This is a nice change."
"Thanks."
I really read it to them. By the end I was drunk and they were too. We bickered, we snarled at each other a bit, but mostly it was all right. I had been given my check before the reading and it helped my delivery some.