The Bell Tolls for No One (16 page)

B
arry, who I hadn't seen for two years, phoned and asked if I wanted to fuck his wife's mother. I said all right, got the directions to where they were living, got in my car and drove out. It was somewhere off the San Berdo freeway, quite a ways out. I found the street, the house, parked the car, got out. Barry was sitting on the front steps drinking a beer. I had four six-packs. We went into the house and Barry started putting the beer in the refrigerator. “The mother has a pussy just like the daughter. I've fucked them both. There's no difference.”

“If there's no difference, I'll take the daughter.”

“Fuck off,” said Barry. “Come on, they're in back.”

We took some beer out into the backyard. I knew Barry's wife, Sarah. He introduced me to the mother, Irene. She flashed me an enormous smile. “Oh, Mr. Bukowski, I've read your books and I think you're a wonderful writer!” Both of the ladies were in short pants and blouses, wore sandals. Irene had nice legs but they had very many blue veins upon them.

“We're going to bake some weenies,” said Barry.

“I just love hot weenies,” said Irene.

Barry took me over and showed me his new motorcycle. “Want a ride?” he asked me.

“No thanks, kid, bad for the hemorrhoids.”

“Oh Barry,” said Irene, I'll go!”

Irene climbed on the back and they spun out of the yard and into the street. I finished my beer and opened another. I sat down next to Sarah. “Irene thinks you're the greatest thing since Hemingway,” she said.

“I'm closer to Thurber mixed with Mickey Spillane.”

“That doesn't sound so good.”

“It isn't.”

“Mother is very lonely. She has trouble meeting people.”

“I'm scared.”

“Don't be.”

Barry had only cycled around the block. They came in with a whirl of dust. Irene slid off. “WHEEEEE!”

“Come on,” Barry said to me, “help me get some wood.”

I walked around behind the garage with him. “She's really horny,” he said. “I think she got it off on the bike. My god, she's hot!”

“Barry, I don't know what to do.”

“Just relax. It will happen.”

“Yeah.”

We both came round the side of the garage with the wood. “Hurry,” said Irene, “I could eat one of those things raw!”

“Now, Irene,” I said, “you wouldn't want to do that.”

“Oh, isn't he
funny
!” she said. “I've always said he was one of the few writers around with a sense of humor.” She drained her beer can and tossed it into the bushes, cracked open another one. Sarah spread mustard and relish on the bun and Irene watched the weenies.

“Oh, I want the
big
one!” she said.

“You're very funny too, Irene,” I said and opened another beer. I tossed my old can into the bushes next to hers. “Our cans side by side.”

“Oooh,” went Irene, “ha, ha, ha, ha!”

“I think we're going to move to Mexico,” said Barry, “a good writer needs isolation.”

“A good writer needs money,” I said.

“I've sold nine novels this year,” said Barry. Barry wrote a novel a month, all on incest. I'd met him right after he'd come out of the madhouse. He used to be a baby sitter before he cracked the incest market.

We finished the weenies and sat about in the chairs drinking beer and watching the sun go down. Barry got up and came out with two six-packs and carried them into this shack in the back. “That's where you and Irene are going to sleep,” he told me. I looked at Irene. She was lighting a cigarette. Her fingernails were lacquered purple.

Suddenly both Barry and Sarah stood up and walked into their house. I was alone with Irene. “Oh,” she said, “I just love sunsets, don't you?”

“No, not really.”

“You're a cynic, aren't you?”

“I suppose I would be if I said I loved sunsets when I didn't.”

“Oh no, that would be a hypocrite.”

“You're a smart girl, aren't you?”

“I've been around.”

“Vassar?”

“What's that?”

“The name of the Frenchman who invented the hydraulic water pump.”

“Oh, shit. Let's get in there and get it on.”

I followed Irene into the shack. There was a bed and a chair, a lamp and a nightstand. She threw herself on the bed. I sat on the chair and opened a beer for her and a beer for me. We sat there drinking the beers and looking at each other. The screen door pushed open and a little black kitten walked in. I picked him up. “Ain't he sweet?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said.

I petted the kitten. “They're so innocent. Look at the eyes. Look at the eyes, will you, Irene?”

Irene got off the bed, took the kitten, flung open the screen door and threw him into space. Then she came back and threw herself upon the bed again.

“I need another beer,” I said. “Look, we hardly know each other. Where were you born? Italy?”

“Denver.”

“Look. Why don't you get on some high heels? Nylons? Gadgets. I like ear rings.”

“I've got some on.”

“Oh.”

Irene got up and walked out. She was gone a long time. She was gone so long that I got onto the bed with my beer. Jesus Christ, I thought, did D.H. Lawrence have to go through this? What did a man have to do in order to become an immortal writer?

Irene walked in. Strictly from
Frederick's
: spiked heels, ankle bracelet, peek-through panties, a bra that pushed the nipples out like burning cigar ends. She wobbled to the bed and fell down beside me.

“Oh, shit!” I said, “too much! It's so great that I have to have one more beer. Just one more beer, Irene!”

“All right.”

I drank the beer and stared at her spiked shoes, her calves, her ankles, her nipples. It would soon be mine, all mine. I finished the beer and threw my arms around her. Our lips met. An enormous fat tongue slashed through my teeth and into my throat. I sucked on her tongue. It was very wet. Then I bit into it and she pulled it out. I undid her brassiere and the breasts fell flat. As I sucked on one nipple I played with the other with my fingers. Valentino must have done this at his best, I thought, but I'm not going the entire route. I pulled her panties off and mounted.

I must have drunk 15 or 16 beers. I pumped. I pumped and I pumped and I pumped. It wasn't bad. I pumped for 15 minutes. She'd left her shoes on. I looked back and looked at her spiked shoes on her feet. I pumped 15 minutes more. I couldn't climax. I pumped, hit, rotated, changed rhythms, used a part of it, used all of it and the springs sounded and sounded and Irene was under me and I looked at her and her eyes were rolled back into her head, she was showing me the backs of her eyes, no pupils no color. I gave it one last grand surge and charge. No good, no climax. I rolled off.

“I'm sorry, Irene.” The lights were out. She got up and climbed over me.

“I'll be back.”

She walked out. I heard her walking down the path and into the back door of the main house. I got dressed. Then I walked out, down the driveway, got into my car and drove home.

Barry phone me the next day. “I'm sorry, man,” I said, “couldn't make it.”

“Wait. She loved it. She wants to see you again.”

“What?”

“I'm serious . . . .”

Next thing I knew I got a letter from Barry. They were in Mexico. Marvelous maid service. Marvelous. Cleaned the house and did everything. Young girl. Sarah is jealous. Irene is horny. Just sold another novel. Marvelous fishing off the coast.

I don't know how many months went by. Somehow, as such things happen, I found myself living with a greyhaired woman, one Lila. Lila was of good body, and sometimes of excellent mind and other times no mind at all. Her front teeth were crooked and yellow and when she screamed at me the lips parted and she showed me all these teeth, quite frightening, but she was good in bed, well read, and kept her fingernails clean. The body was nice, as I said, but one of her weaknesses was going to all these meetings, Communist party meetings, poetry readings, and one day she came back all dressed in black, she said she was going to wear black until the Vietnam War ended, it was her way of protest and she covered that good body with all this black throwaway material purchased from the Goodwill, thriftshops, and elsewhere, she just flopped on all this black and it was very scruffy because when you protest you don't do it in a slick black gown with the tits hanging, you suffer. So we both suffered and the Vietnam War had been going on for 40 years and it would go another 40. So I rather gave up on her but went on living with her, as one does . . .

Then one day the doorbell rang. It was Barry and Irene. They'd come up out of Mexico. Barry was to edit a nudey mag in North Hollywood. Sarah was shopping in Van Nuys. Sarah was also working in watercolors. Not bad. Everybody sat down and I went in and broke out the beer. Irene crossed her legs high. She had on long spiked heels. And nylons held with blue ruffled garters. I'd never realized that her legs were so long. Irene looked at Lila. “Oh, aren't you
proud
to be living with a great writer like Bukowski?”

Lila stiffened her back and didn't answer.

I tried to keep from looking at Irene's legs. They were glorious. She knew I was looking but refused to pull her dress down. “What are you wearing black for?” she asked Lila.

“So many lives are wasted in useless causes,” said Lila.

“You ain't shittin', honey,” answered Irene.

Barry said they had to go but I insisted upon another round of beers. Irene hiked her dress higher. We were
all
looking at Irene's legs. “You people all come out and see us now,” said Irene. Then they got up and left.

I told Lila that I was going to take a bath. I went in there and locked the door. I hadn't used soap in years. I mean, that way. Pink Lady Godiva.

This time I climaxed.

“H
alf of what you make goes to the house, the other half to you,” said Marty. It was the third girl he had interviewed that morning. The ad had stated that the job paid from $500 to a grand a week. This one was about 23, quite stately, even clean-looking, blonde, with pale blue eyes that stared and stared. She was dressed in a white blouse and black slacks.

“You give head?” he asked the girl.

“What?”

“You gotta give head, are you any good at it?”

“I guess.”

“Most of the guys who come in here want head.”

“I see.”

“You better see. You work here, you produce. We're one doughnut shop that does it well. We get few complaints. We take care of the cops and we take care of the customers. Once in a while we get a guy who complains. For that we take ALL of his money instead of part of it. Then we kick his ass a bit and set him back out on the street. Take your clothes off.”

“What?”

“Take your clothes off. Do you shave your box?”

Marty lit his cigar and waited. She had on light green panties.

“The panties too. Take off the panties. Put everything on that chair.”

The girl stood there, naked.

“Not too much breast but what the hell. And you ought to scrub your teeth more, they're stained. You been to college?”

“One year.”

“One year. That's nice. Where?”

“Claremont.”

“Claremont. That's nice. Turn around. You got a black boy hustling you?”

“No.”

“It's all right if you do, just keep him out of here. You got a wart on your ass.”

“That's a mole.”

“Oh. Now all right, did I tell you to start getting dressed?”

“No, sir.”

“Don't. I'm getting a hard. I think that wart did it.”

“Mole.”

“Mole. You'll get the 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. shift. Can you piss?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, in a man's mouth and on his chest, his legs, his balls and over his toes. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're a nice girl. Class. I like that one year of college. I got a daughter in college myself. How about shit?”

“What's that?”

“You know what it is. We get lots of shitfreaks in here. Can you let a guy suck a turd out of your ass?”

“I think so.”

“You sure as hell better know ahead of time. You married?”

“No.”

“You live alone?”

“I live with my mother.”

“You and your mother, what are you hooked on, coke or H?”

“We don't take dope.”

“You will. Look, I still got this hard. It's busting out of my pants. You see it?”

“I see it.”

“You believe in God?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. Nice girl.”

“Can I get dressed now?”

“Just leave your fucking clothes OFF! It's not costing you anything, is it?”

“No.”

“We got an operation going here that nothing around Hollywood and Western can touch. We got something going for any type alive. We got guys who just like to come in here and watch television with a girl. We got a special room for that. Then we got two or three days shackjobs going. We got special apartments for that: stoves, bathtubs, the works. They even go shopping together at
Ralphs
. We got two floors here and we use them all. We're an institution here and we treat our help better than
Mark C. Bloome
. Sometimes you gotta slash a guy's ass with something like this.”

Marty reached into the desk drawer and pulled out the leather whip. He handed the whip to the girl. “That son of a bitch cost us 80 dollars and it has already brought joy to over two hundred men and boys. Let me see if you can handle that thing. Work out.”

The girl raised the whip.

“Hey! Not on ME, you cunt! Lay it into that chair over there.”

She slashed the whip at the chair.

“No, you flick the END. Try it again! Now that chair is a guy's ass bent over. See him there? Bent over? See his bunghole? His balls are dangling. Flick his cheeks good! Enjoy it!”

The girl flicked the whip at the chair.

“That's better. But we're going to have to train you. You got to beat them until they're bloody. They'll beg you to stop but they don't mean it. You'll know when to stop. You'll stop when they come. Most of them whack off but the real pros can come without touching their dicks.”

The girl lashed at the chair again.

“All right, that's enough. We haven't finished paying for the furniture yet. What's your social security number?”

“651-90-2010”

“Phone number?”

“614-8965”

“Address?”

“4049 Fountain.”

“Name?”

“Helen Masterson.”

“Helen, touch my dick.”

“What?”

“Just come over here and touch my dick. I won't take it out from under the cloth. Just come on over here and touch it with one of your fingers. That's all you've got to do.”

Helen walked over, reached down and touched Marty's penis.

“O.K. you're hired. Get dressed. You start tomorrow evening.”

Helen got dressed and went to the door, opened it. There was another girl sitting out there. Marty saw her. “Come on in, dear, and close the door behind you.”

Helen walked outside and she was on Hollywood Boulevard. She walked down to Western, crossed the street, and found a telephone near the taco stand. She dialed the number 614-8965.

“Ma?”

“Yes?”

“It's Helen. Ma, I got the job.”

“Oh Helen, I'm glad. And I think I got a job too. I filled out an application for
The House of Pies
.”

“Great, Ma.”

Helen hung up. Then she walked over to the taco stand and ordered a chili burrito and a large coke.