The Most Beautiful Woman in Town & Other Stories, Page 3

  “All right,” I said, “hello.”

  “Are you Charles Bukowski?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing in a place like that?”

  “What do you mean? I’ve found the people here quite nice.”

  “That’s the worst whorehouse in town. We’ve been trying to run that place out of town for 15 years. What made you go there?”

  “It was cold. I just got into the first place I could. I came in by bus and it was cold.”

  “You came by air. Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “All right, I have the lady’s place of residence. Do you want it?”

  “All right, if it will be all right with you. If you’re reluctant, forget it.”

  “I just don’t understand what you’re doing living at a place like that.”

  “All right. you’re the editor of the biggest paper in town and you’re talking to me over a telephone and I’m in a Texas whorehouse. Now, look, just forget it. The lady was crying or something; it worked on my mind. I’ll just take the next bus out of town.”

  “Wait!”

  “Wait, what?”

  “I’ll give you her address. She read the column. She read between the lines. She phoned me. She wants to see you. I didn’t tell her where you were living. We are hospitable people here in Texas.”

  “Yes, I was in one of your bars the other night. I found out.”

  “You drink too?”

  “I not only drink, I am a drunkard.”

  “I don’t think I ought to give you the lady’s address.”

  “Forget the whole fucking thing then,” I said and hung up …

  The phone rang again.

  “You have a call, Mr. Bukowski, from the editor of –– –––––––.”

  “Put him on.”

  “Look, Mr. Bukowski, we need a follow-up on the story. A lot of people are interested.”

  “Tell your columnist to use his imagination.”

  “Look, do you mind me asking what you do for a living?”

  “I don’t do anything.”

  “Just travel around on busses and make young ladies cry?”

  “Not everybody can do that.”

  “Look, I’m going to take a chance. I’m going to give you her address. You run over and see her.”

  “Maybe I’m the one who’s taking a chance.”

  He gave me the address. “Do you want me to tell you how to get there?”

  “Never mind. If I can find a whorehouse, I can find hers.”

  “There’s something I don’t quite like about you,” he said.

  “Forget it. If she’s a good piece of ass, I’ll phone you back.”

  I hung up …

  It was a small brown house. An old woman came to the door.

  “I’m looking for Charles Bukowski,” I told her. “No, pardon me,” I said, “I’m looking for one Gloria Westhaven.”

  “I’m her mother,” she said. “Are you the fellow from the airplane?”

  “I’m the fellow from the bus.”

  “Gloria read the column. She knew it was you right away.”

  “Fine. What do we do now?”

  “Oh, come on in.”

  I came on in.

  “Gloria,” the old woman hollered.

  Gloria walked out. She looked all right, still. Just another one of those healthy Texas redheads.

  “Please come in here,” she said. “Excuse us, mother.”

  She walked me into her bedroom but left the door open. We both sat down, far away from each other.

  “What do you do?” she asked.

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Oh, how nice! Where’ve you been published?”

  “I haven’t been published.”

  “Then, in a way, you’re really not a writer.”

  “That’s right. And I’m living in a whorehouse.”

  “What?”

  “I said, you’re right, I’m really not a writer.”

  “No, I mean the other part.”

  “I’m living in a whorehouse.”

  “Do you always live in whorehouses?”

  “No.”

  “How come you’re not in the army?”

  “I couldn’t get past the shrink.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m glad I’m not.”

  “You don’t want to fight?”

  “No.”

  “They bombed Pearl Harbor.”

  “I heard.”

  “You don’t want to fight against Adolph Hitler?”

  “Not really. I’d rather somebody else do it.”

  “You’re a coward.”

  “Yes, I am, and it’s not that I mind killing a man so much, it’s just that I don’t like to sleep in barracks with a bunch of guys snoring and then being awakened by some horny damed fool with a bugle, and I don’t like to wear that itchy olive drab shit; my skin is very sensitive.”

  “I’m glad something about you is.”

  “I am too, but I wish it weren’t my skin.”

  “Maybe you ought to write with your skin.”

  “Maybe you ought to write with your pussy.”

  “You’re vile. And cowardly. Somebody has to turn back the fascist hordes. I’m engaged to a Lt. in the U.S. Navy and if he were here right now, he’d thrash you good.”

  “He probably would, and that would only make me more vile.”

  “At least it would teach you to be a gentleman around ladies.”

  “I suppose you’re right. If I killed Mussolini, would I be a gentleman?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll sign right up.”

  “They didn’t want you. Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  We both sat there a long time, not saying anything. Then I said, “Look, do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “Why did you ask me to get off the bus with you? And why did you cry when I didn’t?”

  “Well, it’s your face. You’re a little bit ugly, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Well, it’s ugly and tragic too. I just didn’t want to let that ‘tragic’ go. I felt sorry for you, so I cried. How did your face ever get so tragic?”

  “O jesus christ,” I said, then I got up and walked out.

  I walked all the way back to the whorehouse. The guy at the door knew me.

  “Hey, champ, where’d you get the lip?”

  “Something about Texas.”

  “Texas? Were you for or against Texas?”

  “For Texas, of course.”

  “You’re learnin’, champ.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  I walked upstairs and got on the phone and got the guy to dial me the editor of the newspaper.

  “This is Bukowski, my friend.”

  “You met the lady?”

  “I met the lady.”

  “How’d it work out?”

  “Fine. Just fine. I must have creamed an hour. Tell your columnist.”

  I hung up.

  I walked downstairs and outside and found the same bar. Nothing had changed. The big guy was still there, an empty barstool on either side of him. I sat down and ordered 2 beers. I drank the first one straight down. Then drank half the other.

  “I remember you,” said the big guy, “what was it about you?”

  “Skin. Sensitive.”

  “You remember me?” he asked.

  “I remember you.”

  “I thought you’d never be back.”

  “I’m back. Let’s play the little game.”

  “We don’t play games here in Texas, stranger.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You still think Texans stink?”

  “Some of them do.”

  There I was back under the table. I got out from under, stood up and walked out. I walked back to the whorehouse.

  The next day in the paper it said that the Romance had failed. I
had flown out of town to New Orleans. I got my stuff together and walked down to the bus station. I got to New Orleans, got a legitimate room and sat around. I saved the newspaper clippings for a couple of weeks, then threw them away. Wouldn’t you have?

  SIX INCHES

  The first three months of my marriage to Sarah were acceptable but I’d say a little after that our troubles began. She was a good cook, and for the first time in years I was eating well. I began to put on weight. And Sarah began to make remarks.

  “Ah, Henry, you’re beginning to look like a turkey they’re plumping up for Thanksgiving.”

  “Ats right, baby,” I told her.

  I was a shipping clerk in an auto parts warehouse and the pay was hardly sufficient. My only joys were eating, drinking beer and going to bed with Sarah. Not exactly a rounded life but a man had to take what he could get. Sarah was plenty. Everything about her spelled S—E—X. I had really gotten to know her at a Christmas party for the employees at the warehouse. Sarah was a secretary there. I noticed none of the fellows got near her at the party and I couldn’t understand it. I had never seen a sexier woman and she didn’t act the fool either. I got close to her and we drank and talked. She was beautiful. There was something odd about her eyes, though. They just kept looking into you and the eyelids didn’t seem to blink. When she went to the restroom I walked over to Harry the truck-driver.

  “Listen, Harry,” I asked, “how come none of the boys make a play for Sarah?”

  “She’s a witch, man, a real witch. Stay away.”

  “There’s no such thing as witches, Harry. All that has been disproven. All those women they burned at the stake in the old days, it was a cruel and a horrible mistake. There’s no such thing as a witch.”

  “Well, maybe they did burn a lot of women wrongly, I can’t say. But this bitch is a witch, take it from me.”

  “All she needs, Harry, is understanding.”

  “All she needs,” said Harry, “is a victim.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Facts,” said Harry. “Two guys here. Manny, a salesman. And Lincoln, a clerk.”

  “What happened?”

  “They just kind of disappeared in front of our eyes, only so slowly — you could see them going, vanishing …”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. You’d think I was crazy.”

  Harry walked off. Then Sarah came out of the lady’s room. She looked beautiful.

  “What did Harry tell you about me?” she asked.

  “How did you know I was talking to Harry?”

  “I know,” she said.

  “He didn’t say much.”

  “Whatever he said, forget it. It’s bullshit. I won’t let him have any and he’s jealous. He likes to badmouth people.”

  “I’m not concerned with Harry’s opinions,” I told her.

  “You and I are going to make it, Henry,” she said.

  She went to my apartment with me after the party and I’m telling you I’ve never been laid like that. She was the woman of all women. It was a month or so later that we were married. She quit her job right off, but I didn’t say anything because I was so glad to have her. Sarah made her own clothes, did her own hair. She was a remarkable woman. Very remarkable.

  But as I said, it was after about 3 months that she began making these remarks about my weight. At first they were just genial little remarks, then she began to get scornful about it. I came home one night and she said, “Take off your damned clothes!”

  “What, my darling?”

  “You heard me, bastard! Strip!”

  Sarah was a little different then than I had ever seen her. I took off my clothes and underwear and threw them on the couch. She stared at me.

  “Awful,” she said, “what a lot of shit!”

  “What, dear?”

  “I said you look just like a big tub of shit!”

  “Listen, honey, what’s wrong? You got the rag on tonight?”

  “Shut up! Look at that stuff hanging at your sides!”

  She was right. There seemed to be a little pouch of fat on each side, hanging just above the hips. Then she doubled up her fists and hit me hard several times on each of the pouches.

  “We’ve got to punch that shit! Break up the fat tissues, the cells…”

  She punched me again, several times.

  “Ow! Baby, that hurts!!”

  “Good! Now, hit yourself!”

  “Hit myself?”

  “Go ahead, damn you!”

  I hit myself several times, quite hard. When I was finished the things were still there, though now they looked quite red.

  “We’re going to get that shit off of you,” she told me.

  I figured that it was love and decided to cooperate …

  Sarah began counting my calories. She took away my fried foods, bread and potatoes, salad dressing, but I kept my beer. I had to show her who was wearing the pants in our family.

  “No, damn it,” I said, “I won’t give up my beer. I love you very much but the beer stays!”

  “All right,” said Sarah, “we’ll make it work anyway.”

  “Make what work?”

  “I mean, get that shit off of you, get you down to a desirable size.”

  “And what’s a desirable size?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Each night when I got home she’d ask me the same question.

  “Did you punch your sides today?”

  “Oh, hell yes!”

  “How many times?”

  “400 punches on both sides, hard.”

  I would walk down the streets punching at my sides. People looked at me but it didn’t matter after a while because I knew that I was accomplishing something and they weren’t. ..

  Things were working, marvelously. I came down from 225 to 197. Then from 197 to 184. I felt ten years younger. People remarked about how good I looked. Everybody except Harry the truck driver. Of course, he was just jealous because he never got into Sarah’s panties. His tough shit.

  One night on the scales I was down to 179.

  I said to Sarah, “Don’t you think we’ve come down enough? Look at me!”

  The things on my sides were long gone. My belly hung in. My cheeks looked as if I were sucking them in.

  “According to the charts,” said Sarah, “according to my charts, you’ve not yet reached a desirable size.”

  “Look,” I told her, “I’m six feet tall. What is the desirable weight?”

  And then Sarah answered me quite strangely:

  “I didn’t say ‘desirable weight,’ I said, ‘desirable size.’ This is the New Age, the Atomic Age, the Space Age, and most important the Age of Overpopulation. I am the Savior of the World. I have the answer to the Overpopulation Explosion. Let others work on Pollution. Solving Overpopulation is the root; it will solve Pollution and many other things too.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, ripping the cap off a bottle of beer.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she answered, “you’ll find out.”

  Then I began to notice, as I stepped on the scales, that although I was still losing weight I didn’t seem to be getting any thinner. It was strange. And then I noticed that my pantscuffs were hanging down over my shoes — ever so slightly, and that my shirt- cuffs were hanging down a bit over my wrists. When I drove to work I noticed that the steering wheel seemed further away. I had to pull the car seat up a notch.

  One night I got on the scales.

  155.

  “Look here, Sarah.”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “There’s something I don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “I seem to be shrinking.”

  “Shrinking?”

  “Yes, shrinking.”

  “Oh, you fool! That’s incredible! How can a man shrink? Do you really think that your diet is shrinking your bones? Bones don’t melt! Reduction of calories only redu
ces fat. Don’t be an idiot! Shrinking? Impossible!”

  Then she laughed.

  “All right,” I said, “come here. Here’s a pencil. Now I’m gonna stand against this wall. My mother used to do this with me as a kid when I was growing. Now put a line right there on the wall where the pencil hits after you place it straight across the top of my head.”

  “All right, silly,” she said.

  She drew the line.

  A week later I was down to 131. It was happening faster and faster.

  “Come here, Sarah.”

  “Yes, silly boy.”

  “Now, draw the line.”

  She drew the line. I turned around.

  “Now see here, I’ve lost 24 pounds and 8 inches in the last week. I’m melting away! I’m now five feet two. This is madness! Madness! I’ve had enough. I’ve caught you cutting off my pants legs, my shirt sleeves. It won’t work. I’m going to begin eating again. I think that you are some kind of witch!”

  “Silly boy …”

  It was soon after that the boss called me into the office.

  I climbed into the chair across from his desk.

  “Henry Markson Jones II?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You are Henry Markson Jones II?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Well, Jones, we’ve been watching you carefully. I’m afraid you just don’t fit this job anymore. We hate to see you go like this … I mean, we hate to let you go like this, but…”

  “Look, sir, I always do my best.”

  “We know you do, Jones, but you’re just not doing a man’s job back there anymore.”

  He let me go. Of course, I knew that I would get my unemployment compensation. But I thought it was small of him to let me go like that…

  I stayed home with Sarah. Which made it worse — she fed me. It got so I couldn’t reach the refrigerator door anymore. And then she put me on a small silver chain.

  Soon I was two feet tall. I had to use a potty chair to shit. But she still let me have my beer, as promised.

  “Ah, my little pet,” she said, “you’re so small and cute!”

  Even our love life was ended. Everything had melted in proportion. I mounted her but after a while she’d just pick me off and laugh.

  “Ah, you tried, my little duck!”

  “I’m not a duck, I’m a man!”

  “Oh my little sweet man-y man!”

  She picked me up and kissed me with her red lips …