Women by Charles Bukowski

the hell
    I was doing. Well, officers, I had a fight with my girl and this was the only way I could get home.
    I didn’t feel so angry with Lydia anymore. I climbed out and went to her door. She had taken my head inside. I knocked.
    Lydia opened the door. “Look,” I asked, “are you some kind of witch?”
    “No, I’m a whore, remember?”
    “You’ve got to drive me home. My car will only run backwards. The goddamned thing is hexed.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Come on, I’ll show you.”
    Lydia followed me out to the car. “The gears have been working fine. Then all of a sudden the car will only run backwards. I was going to drive it home that way.”
    I got in. “Now watch.”
    I started the car and put it in first, let out the clutch. It jumped forward. I put it in second. It went into second and moved faster. I put it into third. It moved nicely forward. I made a U-turn and parked on the other side of the street. Lydia walked over.
    “Listen,” I said, “you’ve got to believe me. A minute ago the car would only run backwards. Now it’s all right. Please believe me.”
    “I believe you,” she said. “God did it. I believe in that sort of thing.”
    “It must mean something.”
    “It does.”
    I got out of the car. We walked into her house.
    “Take off your shirt and shoes,” she said, “and lay down on the bed. First I want to squeeze your blackheads.”
    16
    The ex-Japanese wrestler who was into real estate sold Lydia’s house. She had to move out. There was Lydia, Tonto, Lisa and the dog, Bugbutt. In Los Angeles most landlords hang out the same sign: ADULTS ONLY . With two children and a dog it was very difficult. Only Lydia’s good looks could help her. A male landlord was needed.
    I drove them all around town. It was useless. Then I stayed out of sight in the car. It still didn’t work. As we drove along Lydia screamed out the window, “Isn’t there anybody in this town who will rent to a woman with two kids and a dog?”
    Unexpectedly a vacancy occurred in my court. I saw the people moving out and I went right down and talked to Mrs. O’Keefe.
    “Listen,” I said, “my girlfriend needs a place to live. She has two kids and a dog but they’re all well-behaved. Will you let them move in?”
    “I’ve seen that woman,” said Mrs. O’Keefe. “Haven’t you noticed her eyes? She’s crazy.”
    “I know she’s crazy. But I care for her. She has some good qualities, really.”
    “She’s too young for you! What are you going to do with a young woman like that?”
    I laughed.
    Mr. O’Keefe walked up behind his wife. He looked at me through the screen door. “He’s pussy-whipped, that’s all. It’s quite simple, he’s pussy-whipped.”
    “How about it?” I asked.
    “All right,” said Mrs. O’Keefe. “Move her in. . . .”
    So Lydia rented a U-Haul and I moved her in. It was mostly clothes, all the heads she had sculpted, and a large washing machine.
    “I don’t like Mrs. O’Keefe,” she told me. “Her husband looks all right, but I don’t like her.”
    “She’s a good Catholic sort. And you need a place to live.”
    “I don’t want you drinking with those people. They’re out to destroy you.”
    “I’m only paying 85 bucks a month rent. They treat me like a son. I have to have a beer with them now and then.”
    “Son, shit! You’re almost as old as they are.”
    About three weeks passed. It was late one Saturday morning. I had not slept at Lydia’s the night before. I bathed and had a beer, got dressed. I disliked weekends. Everybody was out on the streets. Everybody was playing Ping-Pong or mowing their lawn or polishing their car or going to the supermarket or the beach or to the park. Crowds everywhere. Monday was my favorite day. Everybody was back on the job and out of sight. I decided to go to the racetrack despite the crowd. That would help kill Saturday. I ate a hard-boiled egg, had another beer and stepping out on my porch, locked the door. Lydia