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Women
I
was
50
years
old
and
hadn
’
t
been
to
bed
with
a
woman
for
four
years
.
I
had
no
women
friends
.
I
looked
at
them
as
I
passed
them
on
the
streets
or
wherever
I
saw
them
,
but
I
looked
at
them
without
yearning
and
with
a
sense
of
futility
.
I
masturbated
regularly
,
but
the
idea
of
having
a
relationship
with
a
woman
-
even
on
non
-
sexual
terms
-
was
beyond
my
imagination
.
I
had
a
6
year
old
daughter
born
out
of
wedlock
.
She
lived
with
her
mother
and
I
paid
child
support
.
I
had
been
married
years
before
at
the
age
of
35
.
That
marriage
lasted
two
and
one
half
years
.
My
wife
divorced
me
.
I
had
been
in
love
only
once
.
She
had
died
of
acute
alcoholism
.
She
died
at
48
when
I
was
38
.
My
wife
had
been
12
years
younger
than
I
.
I
believe
that
she
too
is
dead
now
,
although
I
’
m
not
sure
.
She
wrote
me
a
long
letter
each
Christmas
for
6
years
after
the
divorce
.
I
never
responded
.
.
.
I
’
m
not
sure
when
I
first
saw
Lydia
Vance
.
It
was
about
6
years
ago
and
I
had
just
quit
a
twelve
year
job
as
a
postal
clerk
and
was
trying
to
be
a
writer
.
I
was
terrified
and
drank
more
than
ever
.
I
was
attempting
my
first
novel
.
I
drank
a
pint
of
whiskey
and
two
six
packs
of
beer
each
night
while
writing
.
I
smoked
cheap
cigars
and
typed
and
drank
and
listened
to
classical
music
on
the
radio
until
dawn
.
I
set
a
goal
of
ten
pages
a
night
but
I
never
knew
until
the
next
day
how
many
pages
I
had
written
.
I
’
d
get
up
in
the
morning
,
vomit
,
then
walk
to
the
front
room
and
look
on
the
couch
to
see
how
many
pages
were
there
.
I
always
exceeded
my
ten
.
Sometimes
there
were
17
,
18
,
23
,
25
pages
.
Of
course
,
the
work
of
each
night
had
to
be
cleaned
up
or
thrown
away
.
It
took
me
twenty
-
one
nights
to
write
my
first
novel
.
The
owners
of
the
court
where
I
then
lived
,
who
lived
in
the
back
,
thought
I
was
crazy
.
Each
morning
when
I
awakened
there
would
be
a
large
brown
paper
bag
on
the
porch
.
The
contents
varied
but
mostly
the
bags
contained
tomatoes
,
radishes
,
oranges
,
green
onions
,
cans
of
soup
,
red
onions
.
I
drank
beer
with
them
every
other
night
until
4
or
5
am
.
The
old
man
would
pass
out
and
the
old
lady
and
I
would
hold
hands
and
I
’
d
kiss
her
now
and
then
.
I
always
gave
her
a
big
one
at
the
door
.
She
was
terribly
wrinkled
but
she
couldn
’
t
help
that
.
She
was
Catholic
and
looked
cute
when
she
put
on
her
pink
hat
and
went
to
church
on
Sunday
morning
.
I
think
I
met
Lydia
Vance
at
my
first
poetry
reading
.
It
was
at
a
bookstore
on
Kenmore
Ave
.
,
The
Drawbridge
.
Again
,
I
was
terrified
.
Superior
yet
terrified
.
When
I
walked
in
there
was
standing
room
only
.
Peter
,
who
ran
the
store
and
was
living
with
a
black
girl
,
had
a
pile
of
cash
in
front
of
him
.
"
Shit
,
"
he
said
to
me
,
"
if
I
could
always
pack
them
in
like
this
I
’
d
have
enough
money
to
take
another
trip
to
India
!
"
I
walked
in
and
they
began
applauding
.
As
far
as
poetry
readings
were
concerned
,
I
was
about
to
bust
my
cherry
.
I
read
30
minutes
then
called
a
break
.
I
was
still
sober
and
I
could
feel
the
eyes
staring
at
me
from
out
of
the
dark
.
A
few
people
came
up
and
talked
to
me
.
Then
during
a
lull
Lydia
Vance
walked
up
.
I
was
sitting
at
a
table
drinking
beer
.
She
put
both
hands
on
the
edge
of
the
table
,
bent
over
and
looked
at
me
.
She
had
long
brown
hair
,
quite
long
,
a
prominent
nose
,
and
one
eye
didn
’
t
quite
match
the
other
.
But
she
projected
vitality
-
you
knew
that
she
was
there
.
I
could
feel
vibrations
running
between
us
.
Some
of
the
vibrations
were
confused
and
were
not
good
but
they
were
there
.
She
looked
at
me
and
I
looked
back
.
Lydia
Vance
had
on
a
suede
cowgirl
jacket
with
a
fringe
around
the
neck
.
Her
breasts
were
good
.
I
told
her
,
"
I
’
d
like
to
rip
that
fringe
off
your
jacket
-
we
could
begin
there
!
"
Lydia
walked
off
.
It
hadn
’
t
worked
.
I
never
knew
what
to
say
to
the
ladies
.
But
she
had
a
behind
.
I
watched
that
beautiful
behind
as
she
walked
away
.
The
seat
of
her
blue
-
jeans
cradled
it
and
I
watched
it
as
she
walked
away
.
I
finished
the
second
half
of
the
reading
and
forgot
about
Lydia
just
as
I
forgot
about
the
women
I
passed
on
the
sidewalks
.
I
took
my
money
,
signed
some
napkins
,
some
pieces
of
paper
,
then
left
,
and
drove
back
home
.
I
was
still
working
each
night
on
the
first
novel
.
I
never
started
writing
until
6
:
18
pm
.
That
was
when
I
used
to
punch
in
at
the
Terminal
Annex
Post
Office
.
It
was
6
pm
when
they
arrived
:
Peter
and
Lydia
Vance
.
I
opened
the
door
.
Peter
said
,
"
Look
,
Henry
,
look
what
I
brought
you
!
"
Lydia
jumped
up
on
the
coffee
table
.
Her
bluejeans
fit
tighter
than
ever
.
She
flung
her
long
brown
hair
from
side
to
side
.
She
was
insane
;
she
was
miraculous
.
For
the
first
time
I
considered
the
possibility
of
actually
making
love
to
her
.
She
began
reciting
poetry
.
Her
own
.
It
was
very
bad
.
Peter
tried
to
stop
her
,
"
No
!
No
!
No
rhyming
poetry
in
Henry
Chinaski
’
s
house
!
"
