Love is a Dog from Hell (14 page)

 

I go to pick her up.

she’s on some errand.

she always has errands

many things to do.

I have nothing to do.

 

she comes out of her apartment

I see her move toward my car

 

she is barefooted

dressed casually

except for huge ear rings.

 

I light a cigarette

and when I look up

she is stretched out on the street

 

a quite busy street

 

all 112 pounds of her

as beautiful as anything you might

imagine.

 

I switch on the radio

and wait for her to get up.

 

she does.

 

I flip the car door open.

she gets in. I drive away from the

curb. she likes the song on the radio

she turns the radio up.

 

she seems to like all the songs

she seems to know all the songs

each time I see her she looks better

and better

 

200 years ago they would have burned her

at the stake

 

now she puts on her

mascara as we

drive along.

 

the cops want me to come down and identify

some guy who tried to rape me.

I’ve lost the key to my car again; I’ve got

the key to open the door but not the one

to start it.

those people are trying to take my child

away from me but I won’t let them.

Rochelle almost o.d.’d, then she went at

Harry with something, and he punched her.

she’s had those cracked ribs, you know,

and one of them punctured her lung. she’s

down at the county under a machine.

 

where’s my comb?

your comb has all that guck in it.

 

I told her,

I haven’t seen your

comb.

 

consistency is terrific:

shark-mouth

grubby interior with an

almost perfect body,

long blazing hair—

it confuses me

and others

 

she runs from man to man

offering endearments

 

she speaks of love

 

then breaks each man

to her will

 

shark-mouthed

grubby interior

 

we see it too late:

after the cock gets swallowed

the heart follows

 

her long blazing hair,

her almost perfect body

walks down the street

as the same sun

falls upon flowers.

 

she’s not for you, man,

she’s not your type,

she’s erased

she’s been used

she’s got all the wrong

habits,

he told me

in between races.

 

I’m going to bet the 4

horse, I told him.

well, it’s only that I’d

like to turn her around

in mid-stream,

save her, you might say.

 

you can’t save her, he said,

you’re 55, you need kindness.

I’m going to bet the 6 horse.

you’re not the one to save

her.

 

who can save her? I asked.

I don’t think the 6 has a

chance, I like the 4.

 

she needs somebody to beat her

from wall to wall, he said,

kick her ass, she’d love

it. She’d stay home and

wash the dishes.

the 6 horse will be in

the running.

 

I’m no good at beating women,

I said.

forget her then, he said.

 

it’s hard to, I said.

 

he got up and bet the 6

and I got up and bet the 4.

the 5 horse won

by 3 lengths

at 15 to one.

 

she’s got red hair

like lightning from heaven,

I said.

 

forget her, he said.

 

we tore up our tickets

and stared at the lake

in the center of the track.

 

it was going to be

a long afternoon

for both of us.

 

she bent over the side of the bed

and opened the portfolio

along the side of the wall.

we were drinking.

she said, “you promised me these

paintings once, don’t you

remember?”

“what? no, no, I don’t remember.”

“well, you did,” she said, “and you

ought to keep your promises.”

“leave those fucking paintings alone,”

I said.

then I walked into the kitchen for

a beer. I paused to vomit

and when I came out

I saw her through my window

going down the court walk

toward her place in back.

she was trying to hurry

and balanced on top of her head

were 40 paintings:

oils

black and whites

acrylics

water colors.

she stumbled once and almost

fell on her ass.

then she ran up her steps

and was gone through her door

to her place upstairs

running with all those paintings

on top of her head.

it was one of the funniest damned

things I ever did see.

well, I guess I’ll just have to

paint 40 more.

 

I paid this one’s fare all the way from Houston

to San Francisco

then flew up to meet her at her brother’s house

and I got drunk

and talked all night about a redhead, and

she finally said, “you sleep up there,”

and I climbed the ladder

up into a bunk and she slept

down there.

 

the next day they drove me to the airport

and I flew back, thinking, well,

there’s still the redhead and when I got back in

I phoned the redhead and said, “I’m back, baby,

I flew up to see this woman and I talked about

you all night, so here I am…”

 

“well, why don’t you fly back up and finish

the job?” she said and hung up.

 

then I got drunk and the phone rang

and they said they were

two ladies from Germany and they’d like

to see me.

 

so they came over and one was 20 and the

other was 22. I told them that my heart

had been smashed for the last time and

that I was giving up women. they laughed

at me and we drank and smoked and went to

bed together.

 

I got this thing in front of me and

first I grabbed one and then I grabbed the

other.

I finally settled on the 22 year old and

ate her up.

 

they stayed 2 days and 2 nights

but I never got to the 20 year old,

she was on tampax.

I finally drove them to Sherman Oaks

and they stood at the foot of a long

driveway

waving and waving goodbye as I backed

my Volks out.

 

when I got back there was a letter from a

lady in Eureka. she said that she wanted me

to fuck her until she couldn’t

walk anymore.

 

I stretched out and whacked-off

thinking about a little girl I had seen

on a red bicycle about a week ago.

 

then I took a bath and put on my green

terrycloth robe just in time to get the fights

on tv from the Olympic.

 

there was a black and a Chicano in there.

that always made a good fight.

 

and it was a good idea too:

put them in there and let them kill each

other.

 

I watched the whole fight

thinking about the redhead all the time.

 

I think the Chicano won

but I’m not sure.

 

she was sitting in the window

of room 1010 at the Chelsea

in New York,

Janis Joplin’s old room.

it was 104 degrees

and she was on speed

and had one leg over

the sill,

and she leaned out and said,

“God, this is great!”

and then she slipped

and almost went out,

just catching herself.

it was very close.

she pulled herself in

walked over and stretched

on the bed.

 

I’ve lost a lot of women

in a lot of different ways

but that would have been

the first time

that way.

 

then she rolled off the bed

landed on her back

and when I walked over

she was asleep.

 

all day she had been wanting

to see the Statue of Liberty.

now she wouldn’t worry me about that

for a while.

 

she’s up seeing my doctor

trying to get some diet pills;

she’s not fat, she needs the speed.

I go down to the nearest bar and wait.

at 3:30 in the afternoon of a tuesday.

they have a dancer.

 

there’s only one other man in the bar.

 

she works out

looking at herself in the mirror.

she’s like a monkey

dark

Korean.

 

she’s not very good,

skinny and obvious

and she sticks her tongue out at me

then at the other man.

 

times must be truly hard, I think.

 

I have a few more beers then get up to leave.

she waves me over.

“you go?” she asks.

“yes,” I say, “my wife has cancer.”

 

I shake her hand.

 

she points to a sign behind her:

DON’T TOUCH THE GIRLS.

 

she points to the sign and says,

“the sign says, ‘DON’T TOUCH THE GIRLS’.”

I go back to the parking lot and wait.

she comes out.

“did you get the pills?” I ask.

“yes,” she says.

“then it’s been a successful day.”

 

I think of the dancer walking across my

kitchen. I can’t visualize it. I am going

to die alone

just the way I live.

 

“take me to my place,” she says,

“I’ve got to get ready for night school.”

 

“sure,” I say and drive her on in.