"You might try it."

"What?"

"Vancouver."

"What would your father think?"

"About what?"

"Us."

95.

On Thanksgiving Iris prepared the turkey and put it in the oven. Bobby and Valerie came over for a few drinks but they didn't stay. It was refreshing. Iris had on another dress, just as appealing as the other.

"You know," she said, "I didn't bring enough clothes. Tomorrow Valerie and I are going shopping at Frederick's. I'm going to get some real slut-shoes. You'll like them."

"I'll like that, Iris."

I walked into the bathroom. I had hidden the photo Tanya had sent me in the medicine chest. She had her dress hiked up and she wasn't wearing panties. I could see her cunt. She was a cute bitch.

When I came out Iris was washing something in the sink. I grabbed her from behind, turned her around and kissed her. "You are a horny old dog!" she said. "I'll make you suffer tonight, my dear!" "Please do!"

We drank all through the afternoon, then got to the turkey around 5 or 6 pm. The food sobered us up. An hour later we began drinking again. We went to bed early, around 10 pm. I didn't have any problems. I was sober enough to insure a good long ride. The minute I began stroking I knew that I would make it. I didn't particularly try to please Iris. I just went ahead and gave her an old-fashioned horse fuck. The bed bounced and she grimaced. Then came low moans. I slowed down a bit, then picked up the pace and ripped it home. She appeared to climax along with me. Of course, a man never knew. I rolled off. I'd always liked Canadian bacon.

The next day Valerie came over and she and Iris left together for Frederick's. The mail arrived about an hour later. It contained another letter from Tanya: Henry, dear . . .

I walked down the street today and these guys whistled. I walked on past them without response. The ones I really hate are the car wash guys. They holler things and stick out their tongues like they could really do something with their tongues, but there isn't really a man among them who could do it. You can tell, you know.

Yesterday I went into this clothing store to buy a pair of pants for Rex. Rex gave me the money. He can never buy his own things. He just hates to. So I went into this men's clothing store and picked out a pair of pants. There were two guys in there, middle-aged and one of the guys was real sarcastic. While I was picking out the pants he came up to me and he took my hand and put it on his cock. I told him, "Is that all you've got, poor thing!" He laughed and said something wise. I found these real nice pair of pants for Rex, green with thin white stripes. Rex likes green. Anyhow, this guy says to me, "Come on back into one of the try-on booths." Well, you know, sarcastic guys always fascinate me. So I went into the booth with him. The other guy saw us go in. We started kissing and he unzipped. He got a hard-on and put my hand on it. We kept kissing and he lifted my dress and looked at my panties in the mirror. He played with my ass. But his cock never got real hard, just half-hard, it just stayed half-hard. I told him he wasn't shit. He walked out of the booth with his cock out and zipped up in front of the other guy. They were laughing. I came out and paid for the pants. He bagged them. "Tell your husband you took his pants into the try-on booth!" he laughed. "You're nothing but a fuck-ing fag!" I told him. "And your buddy is nothing but a fucking fag too!" And they were. Almost every man is a fag now. It's really difficult for a woman. I had a girlfriend who married a guy and she came home one day and found him in bed with another man. No wonder all the girls are having to buy vibrators these days. It's rough shit. Well, write me.

yours, Tanya Dear Tanya: I got your letters and your photo. I am sitting here alone the day after Thanksgiving. I have a hangover. I liked your photo. Do you have any more?

Have you ever read Celine? Journey to the End of the Night, I mean. After that he lost stride and became a crank, bitching about his editors and his readers. It's a real damn shame. His mind just went. I think he must have been a good doctor. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe his heart wasn't in it. Maybe he killed his patients off. Now that would have made a good novel. Many doctors do that. They give you a pill and send you back out on the street again. They need money to pay for what their educations cost them. So they pack their waiting rooms and run the patients in and out. They weigh you, take your blood pressure, give you a pill and send you back out on the street feeling worse. A dental surgeon may take your life savings but usually he does something for your teeth.

Anyhow, I'm still writing and I seem to be making the rent. I find your letters interesting. Who took that photo of you without your panties on? A good friend, no doubt. Rex? You see, I'm getting jealous! That's a good sign, isn't it? Let's just call it interest. Or concern.

I'll watch the mailbox. Any more photos?

yours, yes, yes, Henry The door opened and it was Iris. I pulled the sheet out of the typewriter and laid it face down.

"Oh, Hank! I got the slut-shoes!"

"Great! Great!"

"I'll put them on for you! I'm sure you'll love them!"

"Baby, do it!"

Iris walked into the bedroom. I took the letter to Tanya and stuck it under a pile of papers.

Iris walked out. The shoes were bright red on viciously high heels. She looked like one of the greatest whores of all time. There were no backs on the shoes and her feet showed through the see-through material. Iris walked back and forth. She had a most provocative body and ass anyhow, and walking on those heels pushed it all sky-high. It was maddening. Iris stopped and looked back at me over her shoulder, smiled. What a marvelous chippy! She had more hip, more ass, more calf than I'd ever seen before. I ran out and poured two drinks. Iris sat down and crossed her legs high. She sat in a chair across the room from me. The miracles in my life kept occurring. I couldn't understand it.

My cock was hard, throbbing, pushing against my pants.

"You know what a man likes," I told Iris.

We finished our drinks. I took her by the hand into the bedroom. I pushed her on the bed. I pulled her dress back and got at her panties. It was hard work. Her panties got caught on one shoe, got hooked on the heel, but I finally got them off. Iris's dress was still covering her hips. I raised her ass and pushed the dress up under her. She was already wet. I felt her with my fingers. Iris was almost always wet, almost always ready. She was a total joy. She had long nylon stockings with blue garters decorated with red roses. I put it into the wetness. Her legs were raised high in the air and as I caressed her I saw those slut-shoes on her feet, red heels jutting like stilettoes. Iris was in for another old-fashioned horse fuck. Love was for guitar players, Catholics and chess freaks. That bitch with her red shoes and long stockings--she deserved what she was going to get from me. I tried to rip her apart, I tried to split her in half. I watched that strange half-Indian face in the soft sunlight that filtered weakly through the blinds. It was like murder. I had her. There was no escape. I ripped and roared, slapped her across the face and nearly tore her in half.

I was surprised that she was able to get up smiling and walk to the bathroom. She looked almost happy. Her shoes had come off and were lying by the side of the bed. My cock was still hard. I picked up one of the shoes and rubbed my cock with it. It felt great. Then I put the shoe back on the floor. When Iris came out of the bathroom still smiling, my cock went down.

96.

Not much happened during the rest of her stay. We drank, we ate, we fucked. There were no arguments. We took long drives down along the shore, ate at seafood cafes. I didn't bother with writing. There were times when it was best to get away from the machine. A good writer knew when not to write. Anybody could type. Not that I was a good typist; also I couldn't spell and I didn't know grammar. But I knew when not to write. It was like fucking. You had to rest the godhead now and then. I had an old friend who occasionally wrote me letters, Jimmy Shannon. He wrote 6 novels a year, all on incest. It was no wonder he was starving. My problem was that I couldn't rest my cock-godhead like I could my typer-godhead. That was because women were available only in streaks so you had to get as much in as possible before somebody else's godhead came along. I think the fact that I quit writing for ten years was one of the luckiest things that ever happened to me. (I suppose that some critics would say that it was one of the luckiest things that ever happened to the reader, too.) Ten year's rest for both sides. What would happen if I stopped drinking for ten years?

The time came to put Iris Duarte back on the plane. It was a morning flight which made it difficult. I was used to rising at noon; it was a fine cure for hangovers and would add 5 years to my life. I felt no sadness while driving her to L.A. International. The sex had been fine; there had been laughter. I could hardly remember a more civilized time, neither of us making any demands, yet there had been warmth, it had not been without feeling, dead meat coupled with dead meat. I detested that type of swinging, the Los Angeles, Hollywood, Bel Air, Malibu, Laguna Beach kind of sex. Strangers when you meet, strangers when you part--a gymnasium of bodies namelessly masturbating each other. People with no morals often considered themselves more free, but mostly they lacked the ability to feel or to love. So they became swingers. The dead fucking the dead. There was no gamble or humor in their game--it was corpse fucking corpse. Morals were restrictive, but they were grounded on human experience down through the centuries. Some morals tended to keep people slaves in factories, in churches and true to the State. Other morals simply made good sense. It was like a garden filled with poisoned fruit and good fruit. You had to know which to pick and eat, which to leave alone.

My experience with Iris had been delightful and fulfilling, yet I wasn't in love with her nor she with me. It was easy to care and hard not to care. I cared. We sat in the Volks on the upper parking ramp. We had some time. I had the radio on. Brahms.

"Will I see you again?" I asked her.

"I don't think so."

"Do you want a drink in the bar?"

"You've made an alcoholic out of me, Hank. I'm so weak I can hardly walk."

"Was it just the booze?"

"No."

"Then let's get a drink."

"Drink, drink, drink! Is that all you can think of?"

"No, but it's a good way to get through spaces, like this one."

"Can't you face things straight?"

"I can but I'd rather not."

"That's escapism."

"Everything is: playing golf, sleeping, eating, walking, arguing, jogging, breathing, fucking. ..."

"Fucking?"

"Look, we're talking like high school children. Let's get you on the plane."

It wasn't going well. I wanted to kiss her but I sensed her reserve. A wall. Iris wasn't feeling good, I guess, and I wasn't feeling good.

"All right," she said, "we'll check in and then go get a drink. Then I'll fly away forever: real smooth, real easy, no pain."

"All right!" I said.

And that was just the way it was.

The way back: Century Boulevard east, down to Crenshaw, up 8th Avenue, then Arlington to Wilton. I decided to pick up my laundry and turned right on Beverly Boulevard I drove into the lot behind the Silverette Cleaners and parked the Volks. As I did a young black girl in a red dress walked past. She had a marvelous swing to her ass, a most marvelous motion. Then the building blocked my view. She had the movements; it was as if life had given a few women a supple grace and denied the rest. She had that indescribable grace.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk and watched her from behind. I saw her turn and look back. Then she stood and stared at me, looking back over her shoulder. I walked into the laundry. When I came out with my things she was standing by my Volks. I put the things inside from the passenger's side. Then I moved around to the driver's side. She stood in front of me. She was about 27 with a very round face, impassive. We were standing very close together.

"I saw you looking at me. Why were you looking at me?"

"I apologize. I didn't mean any offense."

"I want to know why you were looking at me. You were really staring at me."

"Look, you're a beautiful woman. You have a beautiful body. I saw you walk by and I looked. I couldn't help it."

"Do you want a date for tonight?"

"Well, that would be great. But I've got a date. I've got something going."

I circled around her and made for the driver's side. I opened the door and got in. She walked off. As she did I heard her whisper, "Dumb honky asshole."

I opened the mail--nothing. I needed to regroup. Something needed was missing. I looked in the refrigerator. Nothing. I walked outside, got in the Volks and drove to the Blue Elephant liquor store. I got a fifth of Smirnoff and some 7-UP. As I drove back toward my place, somewhere along the way, I knew I had forgotten cigarettes.

I went south down Western Avenue, took a left on Hollywood Boulevard, then a right on Serrano. I was trying to get to a Sav-On--for smokes. Right on the corner of Serrano and Sunset stood another black girl, a high-yellow in black high heels and a mini-skirt. As she stood there in that short skirt I could see just a touch of blue panty. She began to walk and I drove along beside her. She pretended not to notice me.

"Hey, baby!"

She stopped. I pulled over to the curb. She walked up to the car.

"How you doing?" I asked her.

"All right."

"Are you a decoy?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," I asked her, "how do I know you're not a cop?"

"How do I know you're not a cop?"

"Look at my face. Do I look like a cop?"

"All right," she said, "drive around the corner and park. I'll get in around the corner."

I drove around the corner in front of Mr. Famous N.J. Sandwiches. She opened the door and got in.

"What do you want?" she asked. She was in her mid-thirties and one large solid gold tooth stood out in the center of her smile. She'd never be broke.

"Head," I said.

"Twenty dollars."

"O.K., let's go."

"Drive up Western to Franklin, take a left, go to Harvard and take a right."

When we got to Harvard it was hard to park. Finally I parked in a red zone and we got out.

"Follow me," she said.

It was a decaying high-rise. Just before we reached the lobby she took a right and I followed her up a cement stairway, watching her ass. It was strange, but everybody had an ass. It was almost sad. But I didn't want her ass. I followed her down a hallway and then up some more cement steps. We were using some kind of fire escape instead of the elevator. What her reason was I had no idea. But I needed the exercise--if I intended to write big fat novels in my old age like Knut Hamsun.

We finally reached her apartment and she got out her key. I grabbed her hand.

"Wait a minute," I said.

"What is it?"

"You got a couple of big black bastards in there who are gonna kick my ass and roll me?"

"No, there's nobody in there. I live with a girl friend and she's not home. She works at the Broadway Department Store."

"Give me the key."

I opened the door slowly and then kicked it wide with my foot. I looked inside. I had my steel but I didn't reach. She closed the door behind us.

"Come on in the bedroom," she said.

"Wait a minute. ..."

I ripped open a closet door and reaching in felt behind the clothing. Nothing.