Women

I stood in the center of the room, surprised by my thoughts.

I found myself sitting on the edge of the bed, and I was crying. I could feel the tears with my fingers. My brain whirled, yet I felt sane. I couldn't understand what was happening to me.

I picked up the phone and dialed Sara at her health food store.

"You busy?" I asked.

"No, I just opened up. Are you all right? You sound fu

"I'm at the bottom."

"What is it?"

"Well, I told Debra I'd spend Thanksgiving with her. She's counting on it. But now something has happened."

"What?"

"Well, I didn't tell you before. You and I haven't had sex yet, you know. Sex makes things different."

"What happened?"

"I met a belly dancer in Canada."

"You did? And you're in love?"

"No, I'm not in love."

"Wait, here's a customer. Can you hold the line?"

"All right…"

I sat there holding the telephone to my ear. I was still naked. I looked down at my penis: you dirty son-of-a-bitch! Do you know all the heartache you cause with your dumb hunger?

I sat there for five minutes with the phone to my ear. It was a toll call. At least it would be charged to Debra's bill.

"I'm back," said Sara. "Go ahead."

"Well, I told the belly dancer when I was in Vancouver to come down and see me some time in L.A."

"So?"

"Well, I told you I already promised Debra I'd spend Thanksgiving with her…"

"You promised me too," Sara said.

"I did?"

"Well, you were drunk. You said that like any other American you didn't like to spend holidays alone. You kissed me and asked that we might spend Thanksgiving together."

"I'm sorry, I don't remember…"

"It's all right. Hold on… here's another customer…"

I put the phone down and went out and poured myself a drink.

As I walked back into the bedroom I saw my sagging belly in the mirror. It was ugly, obscene. Why did women tolerate me?

I held the phone to my ear with one hand and drank wine with the other. Sara came back on.

"All right. Go ahead."

"O.K., it's like this. The belly dancer phoned the other night. Only she's not really a belly dancer, she's a waitress. She said she was flying down to L.A. to spend Thanksgiving with me. She sounded so happy."

"You should have told her you had an engagement."

"I didn't…"

"You didn't have the guts."

"Iris has got a lovely body…"

"There are other things in life besides lovely bodies."

"Anyway, now I have to tell Debra I can't spend Thanksgiving with her and I don't know how."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in Debra's bed."

"Where's Debra?"

"She's at work." I couldn't hold back a sob.

"You're nothing but a big-ass crybaby."

"I know. But I've got to tell her. It's driving me crazy."

"You got in this mess by yourself. You'll have to get out by yourself."

"I thought you'd help me, I thought you might tell me what to do."

"You want me to change your diapers? You want me to phone her for you?"

"No, it's all right. I'm a man. I'll phone her myself. I'm going to phone her right now. I'm going to tell her the truth. I'm going to get the fucking thing over with!"

"That's good. Let me know how it goes."

"It was my childhood, you see. I never knew what love was…"

"Phone me back later."

Sara hung up.

I poured another wine. I couldn't understand what had happened to my life. I had lost my sophistication, I had lost my worldliness, I had lost my hard protective shell. I had lost my sense of humor in the face of other people's problems. I wanted them all back. I wanted things to go easily for me. But somehow I knew they wouldn't come back, at least not right away. I was destined to continue feeling guilty and unprotected.

I tried telling myself that feeling guilty was just a sickness of some sort. That it was men without guilt who made progress in life. Men who were able to lie, to cheat, men who knew all the shortcuts. Cortez. He didn't fuck around. Neither did Vince Lombardi. But no matter how much I thought about it, I still felt bad. I decided to get it over with. I was ready. The confessional booth. I'd be a Catholic again. Get it on, off and out, then wait for forgiveness. I finished the wine and dialed Debra's office.

Tessie answered. "Hi, baby! This is Hank! How's it going?"

"Everything's fine, Hank. How are you doing?"

"All is well. Listen, you're not pissed at me, are you?"

"No, Hank. It was a little gross, hahaha, but it was fun. It's our secret, anyhow."

"Thanks. You know, I'm really not…"

"I know."

"Well, listen, I wanted to speak to Debra. Is she there?"

"No, she's in court, transcribing."

"When will she be back?"

"She usually doesn't return to the office after she goes to court. In case she does, is there any message?"

"No, Tessie, thank you."

That did it. I couldn't even make amends. Constipation of Confession. Lack of Communication. I had Enemies in High Places.

I drank another wine. I had been ready to clear the air and let everything hang out. Now I had to sit on it. I felt worse and worse. Depression, suicide was often the lack of a proper diet. But I had been eating well. I remembered the old days, living on one candy bar a day, sending out hand-printed stories to Atlantic Monthly and Harper's. All I thought about was food. If the body didn't eat, the mind starved too. But I had been eating damned good, for a change, and drinking damned good wine. That meant that what I was thinking was probably the truth. Everybody imagined themselves special, privileged, exempt. Even an ugly old crone watering a geranium on her front porch. I had imagined myself special because I had come out of the factories at the age of 5 o and become a poet. Hot shit. So I pissed on everybody just like those bosses and managers had pissed on me when I was helpless. It came to the same thing. I was a drunken spoiled rotten fucker with a very minor minor fame.

My analysis didn't cure the burn.

The phone rang. It was Sara.

"You said you'd phone. What happened?"

"She wasn't in."

"Not in?"

"She's in court."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to wait. And tell her."

"All right."

"I shouldn't have laid all this shit on you."

"It's all right."

"I want to see you again."

"When? After the belly dancer?"

"Well, yes."

"Thanks but no thanks."

"I'll phone you…"

"All right. I'll get your diapers laundered and ready for you."

I sipped on the wine and waited. 3 o'clock, 4 o'clock, 5 o'clock. Finally I remembered to put my clothes on. I was sitting with a drink in my hand when Debra's car pulled up in front of the house. I waited. She opened the door. She had a bag of groceries. She looked very good.

"Hi!" she said, "How's my ex-wet noodle?"

I walked up to her and put my arms around her. I started to tremble and cry.

"Hank, what's wrong?"

Debra dropped the bag of groceries to the floor. Our di

"Hank, what is it?"

"I can't be with you Thanksgiving."

"Why? Why? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong is that I am a GIANT HUNK OF SHIT!"

My guilt screwed inside me and I had a spasm. It hurt something awful.

"A belly dancer is flying down from Canada to spend Thanksgiving with me."

"A belly dancer?"

"Yes."

"Is she beautiful?"

"Yes, she is. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

Debra pushed me off.

"Let me put the groceries away."

She picked up the bag and walked into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open and close.

"Debra," I said, "I'm leaving."

There was no sound from the kitchen. I opened the front door and walked out. The Volks started. I turned the radio on, the headlights on and drove back to L.A.