Uma Kline Meets Henry Bukowski

I remember the summer of 78, bits and pieces of it anyway.

I lived in the basement of the Sparkling Angels Condominium. I was the janitor. 

I loved the basement place; friends called it the bunker.

I had an electric plate and oven; I could cook anything. 

In the morning, I'd make Swedish pancakes with Loganberry sauce and wash them down with hot green tea. 

By 11 am, I'm lying in bed smoking devil weed, fiendishly reading Alan Ginsburg's poem Howl.  

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz

At midnight, I go to  The Skank Bar. Sitting at the bar, I order a Bud Light and a bowl of clam chowder. 

A Germanic woman sitting alone in a booth walks to the bar asking, 

are you Henry Lucowski the writer? I've read your work in The Village Voice and The Bronx News, 

thanks, I don't get many positive reviews, tell me about yourself.

Okay, I’m Uma Kline; I’m an actress currently performing in the off-off-Broadway play Velvet Kinks at The Steppenwolf Theater.

Henry, let's go to my place and have a drink. It's not far, we can walk there, 

great, The Skank Bar bores the hell outta me.

As we walk, Uma grabs my hand; her hand is warm, her warmth is appealing. 

Reaching The Chelsea Hotel, home to an A-list of literati who've lived there over the years: Mark Twain, Herbert Huncke, Quentin Christ, Leonard Cohen, and so on. 

We ride a cage elevator to the 11th floor and walk to Uma's room; it's a rectangular room with a painted concrete floor, purple wallpaper, red velvet curtains, a black leather sofa and an antique bed.

Uma's on the bed, and I'm on the sofa; after a few drinks, she lies back on the bed  

She lies on her back and opens her legs, takes off her panties, stroking her large blue clitoris. 

In a New York minute, I jump on the bed, landing with my head in her muff.

She knows every position in the book, after balling we fall asleep in each other's arms

I wake the next morning, noticing a note written in lipstick on the mirror reading,

See you tonight at The Steppenwolf Theater; the tickets are  under your pillow; love you, Ulma.

That night, I was paralytically drunk in The Skank Bar, falling off the bar stool and landing on the floor. I never saw Umla again.