Women

"Tammie, it's New York City! We're getting ready to land!

Tammie, wake up!"

No response.

An o.d.?

I felt her pulse. I couldn't feel anything.

I looked at her enormous breasts. I watched for some sign of breathing. They didn't move. I got up and found a stewardess.

"Please take your seat, sir. We are preparing to land."

"Look, I'm worried. My girlfriend won't wake up."

"Do you think she's dead?" she whispered.

"I don't know," I whispered back.

"All right, sir. As soon as we land I'll come back there."

The plane was starting to drop. I went into the crapper and wet some paper towels. I came back, sat next to Tammie and rubbed them over her face. All that makeup, wasted. Tammie didn't respond.

"You whore, wake up!"

I ran the towels down between her breasts. Nothing. No movement. I gave up.

I'd have to ship her body back somehow. I'd have to explain to her mother. Her mother would hate me.

We landed. The people got up and stood in line, waiting to get out. I sat there. I shook Tammie and pinched her. "It's New York City, Red. The rotten apple. Come around. Cut out the shit."

The stewardess came back and shook Tammie.

"Honey, what's the matter?"

Tammie started responding. She moved. Then her eyes opened. It was only the matter of a new voice. Nobody listened to an old voice anymore. Old voices became a part of one's self, like a fingernail.

Tammie got out her mirror and started combing her hair. The stewardess was patting her shoulder. I got up and got the dresses out of the overhead compartment. The shopping bags were up there too. Tammie continued to look into the mirror and comb her hair.

"Tammie, we're in New York. Let's get off."

She moved quickly. I had the two shopping bags and the dresses. She went through the exit wiggling the cheeks of her ass. I followed her.

61

Our man was there to meet us, Gary Benson. He also wrote poetry and drove a cab. He was very fat but at least he didn't look like a poet, he didn't look North Beach or East Village or like an English teacher, and that helped because it was very hot in New York that day, nearly 110 degrees. We got the baggage and got into his car, not his cab, and he explained to us why it was almost useless to own a car in New York City. That's why there were so many cabs. He got us out of the airport and he started driving and talking, and the drivers of New York City were just like New York City-nobody gave an inch or a damn. There was no compassion or courtesy: fender jammed against fender, they drove on. I understood it: anybody who gave an inch would cause a traffic jam, a disturbance, a murder. Traffic flowed endlessly like turds in a sewer. It was marvelous to see, and none of the drivers were angry, they were simply resigned to the facts.

But Gary did like to talk shop. "If it's O.K. with you I'd like to tape you for a radio show, I'd like to do an interview."

"All right, Gary, let's say tomorrow after the reading."

"I'm going to take you to see the poetry coordinator now. He has everything organized. He'll show you where you're staying and so forth. His name is Marshall Benchly and don't tell him I told you but I hate his guts."

We drove along and then we saw Marshall Benchly standing in front of a brownstone. There was no parking. He leaped in the car and Gary drove off. Benchly looked like a poet, a private-income poet who had never worked for a living; it showed. He was affected and bland, a pebble.

"We'll take you to your place," he said.

He proudly recited a long list of people who had stayed at my hotel. Some of the names I recognized, others I didn't.

Gary drove into the unloading zone in front of the Chelsea Hotel. We got out. Gary said, "See you at the reading. And see you tomorrow."

Marshall took us inside and we went up to the desk clerk. The Chelsea certainly wasn't much, maybe that's where it got its charm.

Marshall turned and handed me the key. "It's Room 1010, Janis

Joplin's old room."

"Thanks."

"Many great artists have stayed in 1010."

He walked us over to the tiny elevator.

"The reading's at 8. I'll pick you up at 7:30. We've been sold out for two weeks. We're selling some standing-room tickets but we've got to be careful because of the fire department."

"Marshall, where's the nearest liquor store?"

"Downstairs and take a right."

We said goodbye to Marshall and took the elevator up.

62

It was hot that night at the reading, which was to be held at St. Mark's Church. Tammie and I sat in what was used as the dressing room. Tammie found a full-length mirror leaning against the wall and began combing her hair. Marshall took me out in back of the church. They had a burial ground back there. Little cement tombstones sat on the earth and carved on the tombstones were inscriptions. Marshall walked me around and showed me the inscriptions. I always got nervous before a reading, very tense and unhappy. I almost always vomited. Then I did. I vomited on one of the graves.

"You just vomited on Peter Stuyvesant," Marshall said.

I walked back into the dressing room. Tammie was still looking at herself in the mirror. She looked at her face and her body, but mostly she was worried about her hair. She piled it on top of her head, looked at it that way and then let it fall back down.

Marshall put his head into the room. "Come on, they're wait-ing!"

"Tammie's not ready," I told him.

Then she piled her hair up on top of her head again and looked at herself. Then she let it fall. Then she stood close to the mirror and looked at her eyes.

Marshall knocked, then came in. "Come on, Chinaski!"

"Come on, Tammie, let's go."

"All right."

I walked out with Tammie at my elbow. They started applauding. The old Chinaski bullshit was working. Tammie went down into the crowd and I started to read. I had many beers in an ice bucket. I had old poems and new poems. I couldn't miss. I had St. Mark's by the cross.

63

We got back to 1010. I had my check. I'd left word that we didn't want to be disturbed. Tammie and I sat drinking. I'd read 5 or 6 love poems about her.

"They knew who I was," she said. "Sometimes I giggled. It was embarassing."

They had known who she was all right. She glistened with sex. Even the roaches and the ants and the flies wanted to fuck her.

There was a knock on the door. Two people had slipped through, a poet and his woman. The poet was Morse Jenkins from Vermont. His woman was Sadie Everet. He had four bottles of beer.

He wore sandals and old torn bluejeans; turquoise bracelets; a chain around his throat; he had a beard, long hair; orange blouse. He talked, and he talked. And walked around the room.

There is a problem with writers. If what a writer wrote was published and sold many, many copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold a medium number of copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold very few copies, the writer thought he was great. If what the writer wrote never was published and he didn't have the money to publish it himself, then he thought he was truly great. The truth, howevet, was that there was very little greatness. It was almost nonexistent, invisible. But you could be sure that the worst writers had the most confidence, the least self-doubt. Anyway, writers were to be avoided, and I tried to avoid them, but it was almost impossible. They hoped for some sort of brotherhood, some kind of togetherness. None of it had anything to do with writing, none of it helped at the typewriter.