The Most Beautiful Woman in Town Read Online Free Page B

column. She read between the lines. She phoned me. She wants to see you. I didn’t tell her where you were living. We are hospitable people here in Texas.”
    â€œYes, I was in one of your bars the other night. I found out.”
    â€œYou drink too?”
    â€œI not only drink, I am a drunkard.”
    â€œI don’t think I ought to give you the lady’s address.”
    â€œForget the whole fucking thing then,” I said and hung up …
    The phone rang again.
    â€œYou have a call, Mr. Bukowski, from the editor of –– –––––––.”
    â€œPut him on.”
    â€œLook, Mr. Bukowski, we need a follow-up on the story. A lot of people are interested.”
    â€œTell your columnist to use his imagination.”
    â€œLook, do you mind me asking what you do for a living?”
    â€œI don’t do anything.”
    â€œJust travel around on busses and make young ladies cry?”
    â€œNot everybody can do that.”
    â€œLook, I’m going to take a chance. I’m going to give you her address. You run over and see her.”
    â€œMaybe I’m the one who’s taking a chance.”
    He gave me the address. “Do you want me to tell you how to get there?”
    â€œNever mind. If I can find a whorehouse, I can find hers.”
    â€œThere’s something I don’t quite like about you,” he said.
    â€œForget it. If she’s a good piece of ass, I’ll phone you back.”
    I hung up …
    It was a small brown house. An old woman came to the door.
    â€œI’m looking for Charles Bukowski,” I told her. “No, pardon me,” I said, “I’m looking for one Gloria Westhaven.”
    â€œI’m her mother,” she said. “Are you the fellow from the airplane?”
    â€œI’m the fellow from the bus.”
    â€œGloria read the column. She knew it was you right away.”
    â€œFine. What do we do now?”
    â€œOh, come on in.”
    I came on in.
    â€œGloria,” the old woman hollered.
    Gloria walked out. She looked all right, still. Just another one of those healthy Texas redheads.
    â€œPlease come in here,” she said. “Excuse us, mother.”
    She walked me into her bedroom but left the door open. We both sat down, far away from each other.
    â€œWhat do you do?” she asked.
    â€œI’m a writer.”
    â€œOh, how nice! Where’ve you been published?”
    â€œI haven’t been published.”
    â€œThen, in a way, you’re really not a writer.”
    â€œThat’s right. And I’m living in a whorehouse.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI said, you’re right, I’m really not a writer.”
    â€œNo, I mean the other part.”
    â€œI’m living in a whorehouse.”
    â€œDo you always live in whorehouses?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHow come you’re not in the army?”
    â€œI couldn’t get past the shrink.”
    â€œYou’re joking.”
    â€œI’m glad I’m not.”
    â€œYou don’t want to fight?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThey bombed Pearl Harbor.”
    â€œI heard.”
    â€œYou don’t want to fight against Adolph Hitler?”
    â€œNot really. I’d rather somebody else do it.”
    â€œYou’re a coward.”
    â€œYes, I am, and it’s not that I mind killing a man so much, it’s just that I don’t like to sleep in barracks with a bunch of guys snoring and then being awakened by some horny damed fool with a bugle, and I don’t like to wear that itchy olive drab shit; my skin is very sensitive.”
    â€œI’m glad something about you is.”
    â€œI am too, but I wish it weren’t my skin.”
    â€œMaybe you ought to write with your skin.”
    â€œMaybe you ought to write with your pussy.”
    â€œYou’re vile. And cowardly. Somebody has to turn back the fascist hordes. I’m engaged to a Lt. in