I was more visible and available then and I had this great weakness: I thought that going to bed with many women meant that a man was clever and good and superior especially if he did it at the age of 55 to any number of bunnies and I lifted weights drank like mad and did that. most of the women were nice and most of them looked good and only one or two were really dumb and dull but JoJo I can’t even categorize. her letters were slight, repeated the same things: “I like your books, would like to meet you…” I wrote back and told her it would be all right. then along came the instructions where I was to meet her: at this college on this date at this time just after her classes. the college was up in the hills and the day and time arrived and with her drawings of twisting streets plus a road map I set out. it was somewhere between the Rose Bowl and one of the largest graveyards in Southern California and I got there early and sat in my car nipping at the Cutty Sark and looking at the co-eds — there were so many of them, one simply couldn’t have them all. then the bell rang and I got out of my car and walked to the front of the building, there was a long row of steps and the students walked out of the building and down the steps and I stood and waited, and like with airport arrivals I had no idea which one it would be. “Chinaski,” somebody said and there she was: 18, 19, neither ugly nor beautiful, of average body and features, seeming to be neither vicious, intelligent, dumb or insane. we kissed lightly and then I asked her if she had a car and she said she had a car and I said, “fine, I’ll drive you to it, then you follow me…” JoJo was a good follower, she followed me all the way to my beat-up court in east Hollywood. I poured her a drink and we talked very drab talk and kissed a bit. the kisses were neither good nor bad nor interesting or un- interesting. much time went by and she drank very little and we kissed some more and she said, “I like your books, they really do things to me.” “Fuck my books!” I told her. I was down to my shorts and I had her skirt up to her ass. and I was working hard but she just kissed and talked. she responded and she didn’t respond. then I gave up and started drinking heavily. she mentioned a few of the other writers she liked but she didn’t like any of them the way she liked me. “yeah,” I poured a new one, “is that so?” “I’ve got to get going,” JoJo said, “I’ve got a class in the morning.” “you can sleep here,” I suggested, “and get an early start, I scramble great eggs.” “no, thank you, I’ve got to go…” and she left with several copies of my books she had never seen before, copies I had given her much earlier in the evening. I had another drink and decided to sleep it off as an unexplainable loss. I switched off the lights and threw myself upon the bed without washing-up or brushing my teeth. I looked up into the dark and thought, now, here is one I will never be able to write about: she was neither good nor bad, real or unreal, kind or unkind, she was just a girl from a college somewhere between the Rose Bowl and the dumping grounds. then I began to itch, I scratched myself, I seemed to feel things on my face, on my belly, I inhaled, exhaled, tried to sleep but the itching got worse, then I felt a bite, then several bites, things appeared to be crawling on me… I rushed to the bathroom and switched on the light my god, JoJo had fleas. I stepped into the shower stood there adjusting the water, thinking, that poor dear girl.