Women

Then it was Sara's birthday, November nth, Veterans' Day. We had met twice again, once at her place, once at mine. There had been a high sense of fun and expectancy. She was strange but individual and inventive; there had been happiness… except in bed… it was flaming… but Drayer Baba kept us apart. I was losing the battle to God.

"Fucking is not that important," she told me.

I went to an exotic food place at Hollywood Boulevard and Fountain Avenue, Aunt Bessie's. The clerks were hateful people-young black boys and young white boys of high intelligence that had turned into high snobbery. They pranced about and ignored and insulted the customers. The women who worked there were heavy, dreamy, they wore large loose blouses and hung their heads as if in some sleepy state of shame. And the customers were grey wisps who endured the insults and came back for more. The clerks didn't lay any shit on me, so they were allowed to live another day…

I bought Sara her birthday present, the main bit being bee secretion, which is the brains of many bees drained out of their collective domes by a needle. I had a wicker basket and in it, along with the bee secretion, were some chop sticks, sea salt, two pomegranates (organic), two apples (organic), and some sunflower seeds. The bee secretion was the main thing, and it cost plenty. Sara had talked about it quite a bit, about wanting it. But she said she couldn't afford it.

I drove to Sara's. I also had several bottles of wine with me. In fact, I had polished off one of them while shaving. I seldom shaved but I shaved for Sara's birthday, and Veterans' night. She was a good woman. Her mind was charming and, strangely, her celibacy was understandable. I mean, the way she looked at it, it should be saved for a good man. Not that I was a good man, exactly, but her obvious class would look good sitting next to my obvious class at a cafe table in Paris after I finally became famous. She was endearing, calmly intellectual, and best of all, there was that crazy admixture of red in the gold of her hair. It was almost as if I had been looking for that color hair for decades… maybe longer.

I stopped off at a bar on Pacific Coast Highway and had a double vodka-7. I was worried about Sara. She said sex meant marriage. And I believed she meant it. There was definitely something celibate about her. Yet I could also imagine that she got off in a lot of ways, and that I was hardly the first to have his cock rubbed raw against her cunt. My guess was that she was as confused as everybody else. Why I was agreeing to her ways was a mystery to me. I didn't even particularly want to wear her down. I didn't agree with her ideas but I liked her anyway. Maybe I was getting lazy. Maybe I was tired of sex. Maybe I was finally getting old. Happy birthday, Sara.

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 di

"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.