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- Чарльз Буковски
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In
an
hour
or
so
the
phone
rang
.
It
was
Lydia
.
She
was
back
home
.
"
YOU
-
SON
-
OF
-
A
-
BITCH
,
YOU
EVER
TELL
ME
ABOUT
YOUR
WOMEN
AGAIN
AND
I
’
LL
DO
THE
SAME
THING
ALL
OVER
AGAIN
!
"
She
hung
up
.
Two
nights
later
I
went
over
to
Tammie
’
s
place
on
Rustic
Court
.
I
knocked
.
The
lights
weren
’
t
on
.
It
seemed
empty
.
I
looked
in
her
mailbox
.
There
were
letters
in
there
.
I
wrote
a
note
,
"
Tammie
,
I
have
been
trying
to
phone
you
.
I
came
over
and
you
weren
’
t
in
.
Are
you
all
right
?
Phone
me
.
.
.
Hank
.
"
I
drove
over
at
11
am
the
next
morning
.
Her
car
wasn
’
t
out
front
.
My
note
was
still
stuck
in
the
door
.
I
rang
anyhow
.
The
letters
were
still
in
the
mailbox
.
I
left
a
note
in
the
mailbox
:
"
Tammie
,
where
the
hell
are
you
?
Contact
me
.
.
.
Hank
.
"
I
drove
all
over
the
neighborhood
looking
for
that
smashed
red
Camaro
.
I
returned
that
night
.
It
was
raining
.
My
notes
were
wet
.
There
was
more
mail
in
the
box
.
I
left
her
a
book
of
my
poems
,
inscribed
.
Then
I
went
back
to
my
Volks
.
I
had
a
Maltese
cross
hanging
from
my
rearview
mirror
.
I
cut
the
cross
down
,
took
it
back
to
her
place
and
tied
it
around
her
doorknob
.
I
didn
’
t
know
where
any
of
her
friends
lived
,
where
her
mother
lived
,
where
her
lovers
lived
.
I
went
back
to
my
court
and
wrote
some
love
poems
.
I
was
sitting
with
an
anarchist
from
Beverly
Hills
,
Ben
Solvnag
,
who
was
writing
my
biography
when
I
heard
her
footsteps
on
the
court
walk
.
I
knew
the
sound
-
they
were
always
fast
and
frantic
and
sexy
-
those
tiny
feet
.
I
lived
near
the
rear
of
the
court
.
My
door
was
open
.
Tammie
ran
in
.
