Free What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire by Charles Bukowski Page B

sloppy with her
    photos:
    I’d find one of both of us
    crouched on the hood of our
    â€™58 Plymouth—
    Sally showing a lot of leg
    and grinning like a Kansas City moll,
    and me
    showing the bottoms of my shoes
    with the holes
    in them.
    and, there were photos of dogs,
    all of them ours,
    and, photos of children,
    most of them
    hers.
    she’d leave and an
    hour later
    the phone would ring
    and it would be
    Sally
    and in the background
    music from a juke
    box, some song I
    hated, and while she talked
    I’d hear men’s
    voices too.
    â€œSally, Sally,” I’d say,
    â€œcome on back,
    baby!”
    â€œno,” she’d say, “there are other men in the
    world besides you. but
    I could have loved you forever, Chinaski.”
    â€œget fucked,” I’d say and hang
    up.
    I’d pour a drink
    and while looking for a scissors in the bathroom
    to trim the hair around my ears
    I’d find a brassiere in one of the drawers
    and hold it up to the light.
    I’d drink my drink
    then begin to trim the hair around my ears
    deciding that I was quite a handsome man
    but that I’d need to lift weights
    go on a diet
    get a tan,
    and so forth.
    after a while
    the phone would ring again
    and I’d lift the receiver
    hang up
    lift the receiver again
    and let it
    dangle
    by the cord.
    I’d trim my ear hairs, my nose hairs, my
    eyebrows,
    then lie down
    and go to
    sleep.
    I’d be awakened by a sound I had never
    heard before—
    it felt and sounded like the warning of an
    atomic attack.
    I’d get up and look for the sound.
    it would come from the telephone
    still off the hook.
    I’d
    pick up the
    phone.
    â€œsir, this is the desk clerk, your phone is
    off the hook.”
    â€œall right. sorry. I’ll
    hang up.”
    â€œdon’t hang up, sir. your wife is in the
    elevator.”
    â€œmy wife?”
    â€œshe says she’s Mrs. Chinaski.”
    â€œall right, it’s
    possible.”
    â€œsir, can you get her out of the
    elevator?
    her language is abusive
    and she says she won’t budge
    until you come and
    help her…and, sir…”
    â€œyes?”
    â€œâ€¦we didn’t want to call the
    police…”
    â€œyes?”
    â€œshe’s laying on the floor in the
    elevator, sir, and, and…she has…
    urinated on
    herself…”
    â€œo.k.,” I’d say and
    hang up.
    I’d walk out in my shorts
    cigar in mouth
    and press the elevator
    button.
    it would come up slowly:
    one, two, three, four…
    the doors would open
    and there would be
    Sally.
    I’d
    pick her up and
    carry her out of
    there.
    I’d get her to the apartment
    throw her on the bed
    and pull off her wet
    panties, skirt and stockings.
    then I’d put a drink on the coffee table
    nearby
    sit down on the couch
    and
    wait.
    suddenly she’d sit straight up and
    look around the
    room.
    she’d ask
    â€œHank?”
    â€œover here,” I’d
    wave my hand.
    â€œoh, thank god…”
    then she’d see the drink and
    gulp it
    down. I’d get up,
    refill it, put cigarettes, an ashtray and
    matches
    nearby.
    then she’d sit up again:
    â€œwho took my panties
    off?”
    â€œme.”
    â€œme?”
    â€œChinaski.”
    â€œChinaski, you can’t
    fuck me.”
    â€œyou pissed
    yourself.”
    â€œwho?”
    â€œyou…”
    she’d sit straight
    up then:
    â€œChinaski, you dance like a
    queer, you dance like a
    woman!”
    â€œI’ll kick your god-damned
    ass!” I’d say.
    then she’d put her head back on the
    pillow: “I love you, Chinaski, I really
    do…”
    she’d start snoring then.
    after a while
    I’d get into bed with
    her. I wouldn’t want to touch her
    at first. she needed a bath.
    I’d get one leg up against hers;
    it didn’t seem too
    bad. I’d try the
    other.
    I’d remember all the good days and the
    good