Чарльз Буковски. Рассказы из разных сборников (engl)
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... no matter how bad they were. if they didn't makeit, it was somebody else's fault. it wasn't because they didn't have talent;
no matter how they stank they always believed in their genius. they could
always trot out Van Gogh or Mozart or two dozen more who went to their
graves before having their little asses lacquered with Fame. but for each
Mozart there were 50,000 intolerable idiots who would keep on puking out
rotten work. only the good quit the game - like Rimbaud or Rossini.
Burkett lit another cigarette, once again holding the flaming match in
front of him as he spoke:
"listen, you print Bukowski. and he's slipped. you know he's slipped.
admit it, man! hasn't Bukowski slipped, huh? hasn't he?"
"so, he's slipped."
"he writes SHIT!"
"if shit sells then we'll sell it. listen, Mr. Burkett, we aren't the
only publishing house. why don't you try somebody else? just don't accept
our judgment."
Burkett stood up. "what the hell's the use? you guys are all alike! you
can't use good writing! the world has no use for REAL writing! you couldn't
tell a human being from a fly! because you're dead! DEAD, ya hear? ALL YOU
FUCKERS ARE DEAD! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!"
Burkett threw his burning cigarette on the rug, turned about, walked to
the door, SLAMMED it and was gone.
Henry Mason got up, picked up the cigarette, put it in the tray, sat
down, lit one of his own. no way of giving up smoking on a job like this, he
thought. He leaned back and inhaled, so glad that Burkett was gone --- those
guys were dangerous --- absolutely insane and vicious --- especially those
who were always writing about LOVE or SEX or the BETTER WORLD. Jesus, jesus.
he exhaled. the inter- come buzzer rang.
he picked up the phone.
"a Mr. Ainsworth Hockley to see you?"
"what's he want? we sent him his check for LUSTS AND BUSTS ON THE
CAMPUS."
"he says he has a new story."
"fine. tell him to leave it with you."
"he says he hasn't written it."
"o.k., have him leave the outline. I'll check it out."
"he says he doesn't have an outline."
"wutz he want, then?"
"he wants to see you personally."
"you can't get rid of him?"
"no, he just keeps staring at my legs and grinning."
"then, for Christ's sake. pull your dress down!"
"it's too short."
"all right. send him in."
in came Ainsworth Hockley.
"sit down," he told him.
Hockley sat down. then jumped up. lit a cigar. Hockley carried dozens
of cigars. he was afraid of being a homosexual. that is, he didn't know
whether he was a homosexual or not, so he smoked the cigars because he
thought it was manly and also dynamic, but he still wasn't sure of where he
was. he thought he liked women too. it was a mix-up.
"listen," said Hockley, "I just sucked a 36 inch COCK! gigan- tic!"
"listen, Hockley, this is a business. I just got rid of one nut. what
do you want with me?"
"I want to suck your COCK, man! THAT'S what I want!"
"I'd rather you didn't."
the room was already smoggy with cigar smoke. Hockley really shot it
out. he jumped out of the chair. walked around. sat down. jumped out of the
chair. walked around.
"I think I'm going crazy." said Ainsworth Hockley. "I keep thinking of
cock. I used to live with this 14 year old kid. huge COCK! god. HUGE! he
beat his meat right in front of me once, I'll never forget it! and when I
was in college, all these guys walking around the locker rooms, real cool-
like ya know? why one guy even had BALLS down to his KNEES! we used to call
him BEACH- BALLS HARRY. after BEACHBALLS HARRY came, baby it was all OVER!
like a waterhose spurting curdled cream! when that stuff dried- why, man in
the morning he'd have to beat the sheets with a baseball bat, shake the
flakes off before he sent it to the laun- dry-"
"you're crazy, Ainsworth."
"I know, I know, that's what I'm telling YA! have a cigar!"
Hockley poked a cigar at his lips.
"no, no, thank you."
"maybe you'd like to suck MY cock?"
"I don't have the slightest desire. now what do you want?"
"I've got this idea for a story, man."
"o.k., write it."
"no, I want you to hear it."
Mason was silent.
"all right," said Hockley, "this is it."
he walked around shooting smoke. "a spaceship, see? 2 guys and 4 women
and a computer. here they are shooting through space, see? days, weeks go
by. 2 guys, 4 women, the computer. the women are getting real hot. they want
it, see? got it?
"got it."
"but you know what happens?"
"no."
"the two guys decide that they are homosexuals and begin to play with
each other. they ignore the women entirely."
"yeah, that's kind of funny. write it."
"wait. I'm not done yet. these two guys are playing with each other.
it's disgusting. no. it isn't disgusting! anyhow, the women walk over to the
computer and open the doors. and inside this computer there are 4 HUGE cock
and balls."
"crazy. write it."
"wait. wait. but before they can get at the cocks, the machine shows up
with assholes and mouths and the whole damned machine goes into an orgy with
ITSELF. god damn, can you imagine?"
"all right. write it. I think we can use it."
Ainsworth lit another cigar, walked up and down. "how about an
advance?"
"one guy already owes us 5 short stories and 2 novels. he keeps falling
further and further behind. if it keeps up, he'll own the company."
"give me half then, what the hell. half a cock is better than none."
"when can we have the story?"
"in a week."
Mason wrote a check for $75.
"thanks, baby," said Hockley, "you're sure now that we don't want to
suck each other's cocks?"
"I'm sure."
then Hockley was gone. Mason walked out to the receptionist. her name
was Francine.
Mason looked at her legs.
"that dress is pretty short, Francine."
he kept looking.
"that's the style, Mr. Mason.
"just call me 'Henry.' I don't believe I ever saw a dress quite that
short."
"they get shorter and shorter."
"you keep giving everybody who comes in here rocks. they come into my
office and talk like crazy."
"oh, come on, Henry."
"you even give me rocks, Francine."
she giggled.
"come on, let's go to lunch," he said.
"but you've never taken me to lunch before."
"oh, is there somebody else?"
"Oh, no. but it's only 10:30 a.m."
"who the hell cares? I'm suddenly hungry. very hungry."
"all right. just a moment."
Francine got out the mirror, played with the mirror a bit. then they
got up and walked to the elevator. they were the only ones on the elevator.
on the way down, he grabbed Francine and kissed her. she tasted like
raspberry with a slight hint of halitosis. he even pawed one of her
buttocks. she offered a token resistance, pushing against him lightly.
"Henry! I don't what's gotten into you!" she giggled.
"I'm only a man, after all."
in the lobby of the building there was a stand which sold candy,
newspapers, magazines, cigarettes, cigars-
"wait a moment, Francine."
Mason bought 5 cigars, huge ones. he lit one and let out an immense
spray of smoke. they walked out of the building, looking for a place to eat.
It has stopped raining.
"do you usually smoke before lunch?" she asked.
"before, after and in between."
Henry Mason felt as if he were going just a bit insane. all those
writers. what the hell was wrong with them?
"hey, here's a place!"
he held the door open and Francine walked in. he followed her.
"Francine, I sure like that dress!"
"you do? why thank you! I've got a dozen similar to this one"
"you have?"
"umm hummm."
he pulled up her chair and looked at her legs as she sat down. Mason
sat down. "god, I'm hungry. I keep thinking of clams, I wonder why?"
"I think you want to fuck me."
"WHAT?"
"I said, 'I think you want to fuck me.'"
"oh."
"I'll let you. I think you're a very nice man, a very nice man,
really."
the waiter came up and waved the smoke away with his menu cards. he
handed one to Francine and one to Mason. and waited. and got rocks. how come
some guys got nice dolls like that while he had to beat his meat? the waiter
took their orders, wrote them down,
walked through the swinging doors, handed the orders to the cook.
"hey," said the cook, "whatcha got there?"
"whadya mean?"
"I mean, ya got a horn! In front there! stay away from ME with that
thing!"
"it's nothing."
"nothing? you'll kill somebody with that thing! go throw some cold
water on it! it just don't look nice!"
the waiter walked into the men's room. some guys got all the broads. he
was a writer. he had a whole truck full of manuscripts. 4 novels. 40 short
stories. 500 poems. nothing published. a rotten world. they couldn't
recognize talent. they kept talent down. you have to have an "in," that's
all there was to it. rotten cocksucking world. waiting on stupid people all
day.
the waiter took his cock out, put it in the hand basin and began
splashing cold water on it.
===
**Life and Death in the Charity Ward**
The ambulance was full but they found me a place on top and away we
went. I had been vomiting blood from the mouth in large quantities and I was
worried that I might vomit upon the people below me. We rode along listening
to the siren. It sounded far off, it sounded as if the sound weren't coming
from our ambulance. We were on the way to the county hospital, all of us.
The poor. The chariy cases. There was something different wrong with all of
us and many7 of us would not be coming back. The one thing we had in common
was that we were all poor and didn't have much of a chance. We were packed
in there. I never realized that an ambulance could hold so many people.
"Good Lord, oh good Lord," I heard the voice of a black woman below me,
"I never thought this would happen to ME! I never thought nothing like this
would Lord-"
I didn't feel that way about it. I had been playing with death for some
time. I can't say we were the best of friends but we were well acquainted.
He had moved a little close a little fast on me that night. There had been
warnings: pains like swords stuck in my stom- ach but I had ignored them. I
had thought I was a tough guy and pain to me was just like bad luck: I
ignored it. I just poured whiskey on top of the pain and went about my
business. My business was getting drunk. The whiskey had done it; I should
have stayed on the wine.
Blood that comes from the inside is not the bright red color that
comes, say, from a cut on the finger. The blood from inside is dark, a
purple, almost black, and it stinks, it stinks worse than shit. all that
life giving fluid, it smelled worse than a beer shit.
I felt another vomiting spasm coming on. It was the same feeling as
throwing up food and when the blood came out, one felt better. But it was
only an illusion-each mouthful out brought one closer to Pappa Death.
"O good Lord God, I never thought-"
The blood came up and I held it in my mouth. I didn't know what to do.
Up there on the upper tier I would have wetted my friends down quite good. I
held the blood in my mouth trying to think about what to do. The ambulance
turned a corner and the blood began to dribble out the corners of my mouth.
Well, a man had to maintain decencies even while he was dying. I got myself
together, closed my eyes and swallowed my blood back down. I was sickened.
But I had solved the problem. I only hoped we got some- place soon where I
could let the next one go.
Really, there wasn't any thought of dying; the only thoughts I had were
(was) one: this is a terrible convenience, I am no longer in control of what
is happening. They narrowed down your choices and pushed you around.
The ambulance got there and then I was on a table and they were asking
me questions: what was my religion? Where was I born? did I owe the country
any $$$ from earlier trips to the hospital? when was I born? Parents alive?
Married? all that, you know. They talk to a man as if he had all his
faculties; they don't even pretend that you are dying. And they are hardly
in a hurry. It does have a calming effect but that's not their reason: they
are simply bored and they don't care whether you die, fly or fart. No, they
rather you didn't fart.
Then I was on an elevator and the door opened into what appeared to be
a dark cellar. I was rolled out. They placed me on a bed and left. An
orderly appeared out of nowhere and gave me a small white pill.
"Take this," he said. I swallowed the pill and he handed me a glass of
water and then vanished. It was the kindest thing that had happened to me in
some time. I leaned back and noticed my sur- roundings. There were 8 or ten
beds, all occupied by male Ameri- cans. We each had a tin bucket of water
and a glass on the night stand. The sheets seemed clean. It was very dark in
there and cold, much the feeling of an apartment house cellar. There was one
small light bulb, unshaded. Next to me was a huge man, he was old, in his
mid fifties, but he was huge; although much of the hugeness was fat, he did
give off the feeling of much strength. He was strapped down in his bed. He
stared straight up and spoke to the ceiling.
"-and he was such a nice boy, such a clean nice boy, he needed the job,
he said he needed the job, and I said, 'I like your looks, boy, we need a
good fry cook, a good honest fry cook, and I can tell an honest face, boy, I
can tell character, you work with me and my wife and you got a job here for
life, boy-' and he said, 'All right, sir,' just like that he said it and he
looked happy about getting' that job and I said, 'Martha, we got us a good
boy here, a nice clean cut boy, he ain't gonna tap the till like the rest of
those dirty sons of bitches.' Well, I went out and got a good buy on
chickens, a real good buy on chickens. Martha can do more things with a
chick- en, she's got that magic touch with chicken. Col. Sanders can't touch
her with a 90 foot pole. I went out and bought 20 chickens for that weekend.
We are going to have a good weekend, a chicken special. 20 chickens I went
out and got. We were going to put Col. Sanders out of business. A good
weekend like that, you can pull 200 bucks clear profit. That boy even helped
us pluck and cut those chickens, he did it on his own time. Martha and I
didn't have no children. I was really taking a liking to that boy. Well,
Martha fixed the chicken in the back, she got all that chicken ready-we had
chicken 19 different ways, we had chicken coming out of our assholes. All
the boy had to do was cook up the other stuff like burgers and steak and so
forth. The chicken was set. And by god, we had a big weekend. Friday night,
Saturday and Sunday. That boy was a good worker, and pleasant too. He was
nice to be around. He made these funny jokes. He called me Col. Sanders and
I called him son. Col. Sanders and Son, that's what we were. When we closed
Saturday night we were all tired but happy. Every damned bit of chicken was
gone. The place had been packed, people waitin' on seats, you never saw any-
thing like it. I locked the door and got out a 5th of good whiskey and we
sat there, tired and happy, having a few drinks. The boy washed all the
dishes and swept the floor. He said, 'All right, Col. Sanders, when do I
report tomorrow?' He smiled. I told him 6:30 a.m. and he got his cap and
left. 'That's a hell of a nice boy, Martha,' I said and then I walked over
to the till to count the profits. The till was EMPTY! That's right, I said,
'The til was EMPTY!' And the cigar box with the other 2 days profit, he
found that too. Such a clean cut boy-I don't understand it-I said he could
have a job for life, that's what I told him. 20 chickens-Martha really knows
her chickens-And that boy, that dirty chickenshit, he ran off with all that
damned money, that boy-"
Then he screamed. I've heard a great many people scream but I've never
heard anybody scram like that. He rose up against his straps and screamed.
It looked as if those straps were going to break. The whole bed rattled, the
wall roared the scream back at us. The man was in total agony. It wasn't a
short scream. It was a long one and it went on and on. Then he stopped. We 8
or ten male Ameri- cans, ill, stretched in our beds and enjoyed the silence.
Then he began talking again. "He was such a nice boy, I liked his
looks. I told him he could have the job for life. He made these funny jokes,
he was nice to be around. I went out and got those 20 chickens. 20 chickens.
On a good weekend you can clear 200. We had 20 chickens. The boy called me
Col. Sanders-"
I leaned out of bed and vomited out a mouthful of blood-
The next day a nurse came out and got me and helped me on a rolling
platform. I was still vomiting up blood and was quite weak. She rolled me on
the elevator.
The technician got behind his machine. They poked a point into my belly
and told me to stand there. I felt very weak.
"I'm too weak to stand up," I said.
"Just stand there," said the technician.
"I don't think I can," I said.
"Hold still."
I felt myself slowly beginning to fall over backwards.
"I'm falling." I said.
"Don't fall." He said.
"Hold still," said the nurse.
I fell over backwards. I felt as if I were made of rubber. There was no
feeling when I hit the floor. I felt very light. I probably was.
"Oh god damn it!" said the technician.
The nurse helped me up and stood me up against the machine with this
point jamming into my stomach.
"I can't stand it," I said, "I think I'm dying. I can't stand up. I'm
sorry but I can't stand up."
"Stand still," said the technician, "just stand there."
"Stand still," said the nurse.
I could feel myself falling. I fell over backwards.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"God damn you!" the technician screamed, "you made me waste two films!
Those god damned films cost money!"
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Take him out of here," said the technician.
The nurse helped my up and put me back on the roller. The humming nurse
rolled me back to the elevator, humming.
They did take me out of that cellar and put me into a large room, a
very large room. There were about 40 people dying in there. The wires to the
buttons had been cut and large wooden doors, thick wooden doors coated with
slabs of tin on both sides closed up away from the nurses and the doctors.
They had put the sides up around my bed and I was asked to use the bedpan
but I didn't like the bedpan, especially to vomit blood into and far less to
shit into. If a man ever invents a comfortable and usable bedpan he will be
hated by doctors and nurses for eternity and beyond.
I kept having a desire to shit but not much luck. Of course, all I was
getting was milk and the stomach was ripped open so it had offered me some
tough roast beef with half-cooked carrots and half-mashed potatoes. I
refused. I knew they just wanted another empty bed. Anyhow, there was still
this desire to shit. Strange. It was my second or third night in there. I
was very weak. I managed to unattach one side and get out of bed. I made it
to the crapper and sat there. I strained and sat there and strained. Then I
got up. Noth- ing. Just a little whirlpool of blood. Then a merry-go-round
started in my head and I leaned against the wall with one hand and vomited
up a mouthful of blood. I flushed the toilet and walked out. I got halfway
to my bed and another mouthful came up. I fell. Then on the floor I vomited
up another mouthful of blood. I didn't know that there was so much blood
inside of people. I let go another mouthful.
"You son of a bitch," an old man hollered at me from his bed, "shut up
so we can get some sleep."
"Sorry, comrade," I said, and then I was unconscious-
The nurse was angry. "You bastard," she said, "I told you not to take
down the sides of your bed. You fuckin' creeps sure make my night a drag!"
"your pussy stinks," I told her, "you belong in a Tijuana whore house."
She lifted my head by the hair and slapped me hard across the left side
of my face and then backhanded me across the right.
"Take that back!" she said. "Take that back!"
"Florence Nightingale," I said, "I love you."
She put my head back down and walked out of the room. She was a lady of
true spirit and fire; I liked that. I rolled over into my own blood, getting
my smock wet. That'd teach her.
Florence Nightingale came back with another female sadist and they put
me in a chair and slid the chair across the room toward my bed.
"Too much god damned noise!" said the old man. He was right.
They got me back into bed and Florence put the bed side back up. "Son
of a bitch," she said. "stay in there now or next time I'm gonna lay on
you."
"Suck me off," I said, "suck me off before you leave."
She leaned over the railing and looked into my face. I have a very
tragic face. It attracts some women. Her eyes were wide and passionate and
looked into mine. I pulled the sheet down and pulled up my smock. She spit
into my face, then walked out-
Then the head nurse was there.
"Mr. Bukowski," she said, "we can't let you have any blood. You don't
have any blood credit."
She smiled. She was letting me know that they were going to let me die.
"All right," I said.
"Do you want to see the priest?"
"What for?"
"We have on your admissions card that you are a Catholic."
"I just put that down."
"Why?"
"I used to be. You put down 'no religion', people always ask a lot of
questions."
"We have you down as Catholic, Mr. Bukowski."
"Listen, it's hard for me to talk. I'm dying. All right, all right, I'm
a Catholic, have it your way."
"We can't let you have any blood, Mr. Bukowski."
"Listen, my father works for the county. I think they have a blood
program. L.A. County Museum. A Mr. Henry Bukowski. He hates me."
"We'll check it out."
There was something about my papers going down while I was upstairs. I
didn't see a doctor until the fourth day and by then they found that my
father who hated me was a good guy who had a job and who had a drunken dying
son without a job and the good guy had given blood to the blood program and
so they hooked up a bottle and poured it to me. 13 pints of blood and 13
pints of glucose without stop. The nurse ran out of places to stick the
needle-
I awakened once and the priest was standing over me.
"Father," I said, "please go away. I can die without this."
"You want me to leave, my son?"
"Yes, Father."
"Have you lost the faith?"
"Once a Catholic always a Catholic, my son."
"Bullshit, Father."
An old man in the next bed said, "Father, Father, I'll talk to you. You
talk to me, Father."
The priest went over there. I waited to die. You know god damned well I
didn't die then or I wouldn't be telling you this now-
They moved me into a room with a black guy and a white guy. The white
guy kept getting fresh roses every day. He raised roses which he sold to
florists. He wasn't raising any roses right then. The black guy had busted
open like me. The white guy had a bad heart, a very bad heart. We lay around
and the white guy talked about breed- ing roses and raising roses and how he
could sure use a cigarette, my god, how he needed a cigarette. I had stopped
vomiting blood. Now I was just shitting blood. I felt like I had it made. I
had just emptied a pint of blood and they had taken the needle out.
"I'll get you some smokes, Harry."
"God, thanks, Hank."
I got out of bed. "Give me some money."
Harry gave me some change.
"If he smokes he'll die," said Charley. Charley was the black guy.
"Bullshit, Charley, a couple of little smokes never hurt any- body."
I walked out of the room and down the hall. There was a cigarette
machine in the waiting lobby. I got a pack and walked back. Then Charley and
Harry and I lay there smoking cigarettes. That was morning. About noon the
doctor came by and put a ma- chine on Harry. The machine spit and farted and
roared.
"You've been smoking, haven't you?" the doctor asked Harry.
"No doctor, honest, I haven't been smoking."
"Which one of you guys bought him these smokes?"
Charley looked at the ceiling. I looked at the ceiling.
"You smoke another cigarette and you're dead," said the doc- tor.
Then he took his machine and walked out. As soon as he left I took the
pack out from under the pillow.
"Lemme have one," said Harry.
"You heard what the doctor said," said Charley.
"Yeah," I said, exhaling a sheath of beautiful blue smoke, "you heard
what the doctor said: 'You smoke another cigarette and you're dead.'"
"I'd rather die happy than live in misery," said Harry.
"I can't be responsible for your death, Harry," I said, "I'm going to
pass these cigarettes to Charley and if he wants to give you one he can."
I passed them over to Charley who had the center bed.
"All right, Charley," said Harry, "let's have 'em."
"I can't do it, Harry, I can't kill you Harry."
Charley passed the cigarettes back to me.
"Come on, Hank, lemme have a smoke."
"No, Harry."
"Please, I beg you, man, just one smoke just one!"
"Oh, for Christ's sake!"
I threw him the whole pack. His had trembled as he took one out.
"I don't have any matches. Who's got matches?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake," I said.
I threw him the matches-
They came in and hooked me to another bottle. About ten minutes my
father arrived. Vicky was with him, so drunk she could hardly stand up.
"Lover!" she said, "Lover boy!"
She staggered up against the edge of the bed.
I looked at the old man. "You son of a bitch," I said, "you didn't have
to bring her up here drunk."
"I warned you not to get involved with a woman like that." "She's
broke. You bastard, you bought her whiskey, got her drunk and brought her up
here."
"I told you she was no good, Henry. I told you she was a bad woman."
"Don't you love me anymore, lover boy?"
"Get her out of here- NOW!" I told the old man.
"No, no, I want you to see what kind of a woman you have."
"I know what kind of woman I have. Now get her out of here now, or so
help me Christ I'm going to pull this needle out of my arm and whip your
ass!"
The old man moved her out. I fell back on my pillow.
"She's a looker," said Harry.
"I know," I said, "I know."
I stopped shitting blood and I was given a list of what to eat and I
was told that the first drink would kill me. They had also told me that I
would die without an operation. I had had a terrible argument with a female
Japanese doctor about operation and death. I had said "No operation" and she
had walked out, shaking her ass at me in anger. Harry was still alive when I
left, nursing his cigarettes. I walked along in the sunlight to see how it
felt. It felt all
right. The traffic went by. The sidewalk was as sidewalks had always
been. I was wondering whether to take a bus in or try to phone somebody to
come and get me. I walked into this place to phone. I sat down first and had
a smoke.
The bartender walked up and I ordered a bottle of beer.
"What's new?" he asked.
"Nothing much," I said. He walked off. I poured the beer into a glass,
then I looked at the glass a while and then I emptied half of it. Somebody
put a coin in the juke box and we had some music. life looked a little
better. I finished that glass, poured another and wondered if my pecker
would ever stand up again. I looked around the bar: no women. I did the next
best thing: I picked up the glass and drained it
-charles bukowski -
from the books: The Most Beautiful Woman in Town and Erections,
Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness
===
**BEER AND POETS AND TALK**
it was a hell of a night. Willie had slept in the weeds outside
Bakersfield the night before. Dutch was there, and a buddy, the beer was on
me. I made sandwiches. Dutch kept talking about literature, poetry; I tried
to get him off it but he laid right in there. Dutch runs a bookshop around
Pasadena or Glendale or somewhere. then talk about the riots came up. they
asked me what I thought about the riots and I told them that I was waiting,
that the thoughts would have to come by themselves. it was nice to be able
to wait. Willie picked up one of my cigars, took the paper off, lit it.
Somebody said, "how come you're writing a column? you used to laugh at
Lipton for writing a column, now you're doing the same thing."
"Lipton writes a kind of left-wind Walter Winchell thing. I create Art.
There's a difference."
"hey, man, you got any ore of these green onions?" asked Willie.
I went into the kitchen for more green onions and beer. Willie was one
right out of the book---a book that hadn't been written yet. he was a mass
of hair, head and beard. bluejeans with patches. one week he was in Frisco.
2 weeks later he was in Albuquerque. then, somewhere else. He carried with
him, everywhere, this batch of poems he had accepted for his magazine.
whether the crazy maga zine ever evolved or not was anybody's guess. Willie
the Wire, slim, bouncy, immortal. he wrote very well. even when he put the
knock on somebody it was a kind of without hatred knock. he just laid the
statement down, then it was yours. a graceful carelessness.
I cracked some new beers. Dutch was still on literature. he had just
published "18th Dynasty Egyptian Automobile Turnon" by D. R. Wagner. and a
nice job too. Dutch's young buddy just listened --- he was the new breed:
quiet but very much there.
Willie worked on an onion. "I talked to Neal Cassady. he's gone
completely crazy."
"yeah, he's begging for busts. it's stupid. building a forced myth.
being in Kerouac's book screwed up his mind."
"man," I said, "there's nothing like a bit of dirty literary gossip, is
there?"
"sure," said Dutch, "let's talk shop. everybody talks shop."
"listen, Bukowski, do you think that there's any poetry being written
now? by anybody? Lowell made time, you know."
"almost all the great names have died recently --- Frost, cum- mings,
Jeffers, W.C. Williams, T.S. Eliot, the rest. a couple of nights ago,
Sandburg. in a very short period, they all seemed to die to- gether, throw
in Vietnam and the ever-riots and it has been a very strange and quick and
festering and new age. look at those skirts now, almost up around the ass.
we are moving quickly and I like it, it is not bad. but the Establishment is
worried about its culture. culture is a steadier. there's nothing as good as
a museum, a Verdi opera or a stiff-neck poet to hold back progress. Lowell
was rushed into the breach, after a careful check of credentials. Lowell is
interesting enough not to put you to sleep but diffuse enough so as not to
be dangerous. the first thoughts you have after reading his work is, this
baby has never missed a meal or even had a flat tire or toothache. Creeley
is a near similarity, and I imagine the Establish- ment balanced Creely and
Lowell for some time but had to finally come up with Lowell because Creeley
just didn't seem like such a very good dull guy, and you couldn't trust him
as much --- he might even show up at the president's lawn party and tickle
the guests with his beard, so, it had to be Lowell, and so it's Lowell we've
got."
"so who's writing it? where are they?"
"not in America. and there are only 2 that I can think of. Harold Norse
who is nursing his melancholia-hypochondria in Switz- erland, taking
handouts from rich backers, and having the running shits, fainting spells,
the fear of ants, so forth. and writing very little now, kind of going crazy
like the rest of us. but then WHEN he writes, it's all there. the other guy
is Al Purdy. not Al Purdy the novelist, I mean Al Purdy the poet. they are
not the same people. Al Purdy lives in Canada and grows his own grapes which
he squeezes Into his own wine. he is a drunk, an old hulk of a man who must
now be somewhere in his mid-forties. his wife supports him so he can write
his poetry, which, you've got to admit, is some wonderful kind of wife. I've
never met one like that or have you. but, anyhow, the Canadian government is
always laying some kind of grant on him, $4,000 here and there, and they
send him up to the Pole to write about life there, and he does it, crazy
clear poems about birds and people and dogs. god damn, he wrote a book of
poems once called "Songs for All the Annettes" and I almost cried all the
qay through the book reading it. it's nice to look up sometimes, it's nice
to have heroes, it's nice to have somebody else carrying some of the load."
"don't you think you write as well as they?"
"only at times. most of the time, no."
the beer ran out and I had to take a shit. I gave Willie a five and
told him it'd be good if he got 2 six packs, tall, Schlitz (this is an
advertisement), and all 3 of them left and I went in and sat down. it wasn't
bad to be more or less asked questions of the age. it was better yet to be
doing what I was doing. I thought about the hospi- tals, the racetracks,
some of the women I used to know, some of the women I had buried, outdrunk,
outfucked but not outargued. the lcoholic madwomen who had brought love to
me especially and in their own way. then I heard it though the wall:
"listen, Johnny, you ain't even kissed me in a week. what's wrong,
Johnny? listen, talk to me, I want you to talk to me."
"god damn you, get away from me. I don't want to talk to you. LEAVE ME
ALONE, WILL YOU? GOD DAMN YOU, LEAVE ME ALONE!"
"listen, Johnny, I just want you to talk to me, I can't stand it. you
don't have to touch me, just talk to me, jesus christ Johnny I can't stand
it, I CAN'T STAND IT, JESUS!"
"GOD DAMN IT, I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE! LEAVE ME ALONE, GOD DAMN
YOU, LEAVE ME ALONE, LEAVE ME ALONE, LEAVE ME ALONE, WILL YOU?"
"Johnny-"
he hit her a good one, a real good one. open hand. I almost fell off
the stool. I heard her choking the crap and walking off.
then Dutch and Willie and crew were back. they ripped open the cans. I
finished my business and walked back in.
"I'm gonna get up an anthology," said Dutch, "an anthology of the best
living poets, I mean the real best."
"sure," said Willie, "why not?" then he saw me: "enjoy your crap?"
"not too much."
"no?"
"no."
"you need more roughage. you ought to eat more green onions."
"you think so?"
"yeah."
I reached over and got 2 of them, jammed them down. maybe next time
would be better. meanwhile there were riots, beer, talk, literature, and the
lovely young ladies were making the fat million- aires happy. I reached
over, got one of my own cigars, took off the paper, took off the cigar band,
jammed the thing into my screwed- up and complex face, then lit it, the
cigar. bad writing's like bad women: there's just not much you can do about
it.
===
**THE GREAT ZEN WEDDING**
I was in the rear, stuck in with the Rumanian bread, liverwurst, beer,
soft drink; wearing a green necktie, first necktie since the death of my
father a decade ago. Now I was to be best man at a Zen wedding, Hollis
driving 85 m.p.h., Roy's four-foot beard flowing into my face. It was my '62
Comet, only I couldn't drive--- no insurance, two drunk-driving raps, and
already getting drunk. Hollis and Roy had lived unmarried for three years,
Hollis support- ing Roy. I sat in the back and sucked at my beer. Roy was
explain- ing Hollis' family to me one by one. Roy was better with the intel-
lectual shit. Or the tongue. The walls of their place were covered with
these many photos of guys bending into the muff and chewing.
Also a snap of Roy reaching climax while jacking off. Roy had done it
alone. I mean, tripped the camera. Himself. String. Wire. Some arrangement.
Roy claimed he had to jackoff six times in order to get the perfect snap. A
whole day's work: there it was: this milky glob: a work of art. Hollis
turned off the freeway. It wasn't too far. Some of the rich have driveways a
mile long. This one wasn't too bad: a quarter of a mile. We got out.
Tropical gardens. Four or five dogs. Big black woolly stupid slobbering-at-
the-mouth beasts. We never reached the door---there he was, the rich one,
standing on the veranda, looking down, drink in hand. And Roy yelled, "Oh,
Har- vey, you bastard, so good to see you!"
Harvey smiled the little smile: "Good to see you too, Roy."
One of the big black woollies was gobbling at my left leg. "Call your
dog off, Harvey, bastard, good to see you!" I screamed.
"Aristotle, now STOP that!"
Aristotle left off, just in time.
And.
We went up and down the steps with the salami, the Hungarian pickled
catfish, the shrimp. Lobstertails. Bagels. Minced dove ass- holes.
Then we had it all in there. I sat down and grabbed a beer. I was the
only one with a necktie. I was also the only one who had bought a wedding
gift. I hid it between the wall and the Aristotle- chewed leg.
"Charles Bukowski-"
I stood up.
"Oh, Charles Bukowski!"
"Uh huh."
Then:
"This is Marty."
"Hello, Marty."
"And this is Elsie."
"Hello, Elsie."
"Do you really, she asked, "break up furniture and windows, slash your
hands, all that, when you're drunk?"
"Uh huh."
"You're a little old for that."
"Now listen, Elsie, don't give me any shit-"
"And this is Tina."
"Hello, Tina."
I sat down.
Names! I had been married to my first wife for two-and-one- half years.
One night some people came in. I had told my wife: "This is Louie the half-
ass and this is Marie, Queen of the Quick Suck, and this is Nick, the half-
hobble." Then I had turned to them and said, "This is my wife- this is my
wife-this is-" I finally had to look at her and ask: "WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR
NAME ANYHOW?"
"Barbara."
"This is Barbara," I had told them-
The Zen master hadn't arrived. I sat and sucked at my beer.
Then here came more people. On and on up the steps. All Hollis' family.
Roy didn't seem to have a family. Poor Roy. Never worked a day in his life.
I got another beer.
They kept coming up the steps: ex-cons, sharpies, cripples, Dealers in
various subterfuges, Family and friends. Dozens of them. No wedding
presents. No neckties.
I pushed further back into my corner.
One guy was pretty badly fucked-up. It took him 25 minutes to get up
the stairway. He had especially-made crutches, very power- ful looking
things with round bands for the arms. Special grips here and there. Aluminum
and rubber. No wood for that baby. I figured it: watered-down stuff or a bad
payoff. He had taken the slugs in the old barber chair with the hot and wet
shaving towel over his face. Only they'd missed a few vital spots.
There were others. Somebody taught class at UCLA. Some- body else ran
in shit through Chinese fishermen's boats via San Pedro Harbor.
I was introduced to the greatest killers and dealers of the century.
Me, I was between jobs.
Then Harvey walked up.
"Bukowski, care for a bit of scotch and water?"
"Sure, Harvey, sure."
We walked toward the kitchen.
"What's the necktie for?"
"The top of the zipper on my pants is broken. And my shorts are too
tight. End of necktie covers stinkhairs just above my cock."
I think that you are the modern living master of the short story.
Nobody touches you."
"Sure, Harvey. Where's the scotch.
"I always drink this kind since you always mention it in your short
stories."
"But I've switched brands now, Harv. I found some better stuff."
"What's the name of it?"
"Damned if I can remember."
I found a tall water glass, poured in half scotch, half water.
"For the nerves," I told him. "You know?"
"Sure, Bukowski."
I drank it straight down.
"How about a refill?"
"Sure."
I took the refill and walked to the front room, sat in my corner.
Meanwhile there was a new excitement: The Zen master had ARRIVED!
The Zen master had on this very fancy outfit and kept his eyes very
narrow. Or maybe that's the way they were.
The Zen master needed tables. Roy ran around looking for tables.
Meanwhile, the Zen master was very calm, very gracious. I downed my
drink, went in for a refill. Came back. A golden-haired kid ran in. About
eleven years old. "Bukowski, I've read some of your stories. I think that
you are the greatest writer I have ever read!"
Long blond curls. Glasses. Slim body.
"Okay, baby. You get old enough. We'll get married. Live off of your
money. I'm getting tired. You an just parade me around in a kind of glass
cage with little airholes in it. I'll let the young boys have you. I'll even
watch."
"Bukowski! Just because I have long hair, you think I'm a girl! My name
is Paul! We were introduced! Don't you remember?"
Paul's father, Harvey, was looking at me. I saw his eyes. Then I knew
that he had decided that I was not such a good writer after all. maybe even
a bad writer. Well, no man can hide forever.
But the little boy was all right: "That's okay, Bukowski! You are still
the greatest writer I have ever read! Daddy has let me read some of your
stories-"
Then all the lights went out. That's what the kid deserved for his big
mouth-
But there were candles everywhere. Everybody was finding candles,
walking around finding candles and lighting them.
"Shit, it's just a fuse. Replace the fuse," I said.
Somebody said it wasn't the fuse, it was something else, so I gave up
and while all the candle-lighting went on I walked into the kitchen for more
scotch. Shit, there was Harvey standing there.
"Ya got a beautiful son, Harvey. Your boy, Peter-"
"Paul."
"Sorry. The Biblical."
"I understand."
(The rich understand; they just don't do anything about it.)
Harvey uncorked a new fifth. We talked about Kafka. Dos. Turgenev,
Gogel. All that dull shit. Then there were candles every-where. The Zen
master wanted to get on with it. Roy had given me the two rings. I felt.
They were still there. Everybody was waiting on us. I was waiting for Harvey
to drop to the floor from drinking all that scotch. It wasn't any good. He
had matched me one drink for two and was still standing. That isn't done too
often. We had knocked off half a fifth in the ten minutes of candle-
lighting. We went out to the crowd. I dumped the rings on Roy. Roy had com-
municated, days earlier, to the Zen master that I was a drunk --- unreliable
--- either faint-hearted or vicious ---therefore, during the ceremony, don't
ask Bukowski for the rings because Bukowski might not be there. Or he might
lose the rings, or vomit, or lose Bukowski.
So here it was, finally. The Zen master began playing with his little
black book. It didn't look too thick. Around 150 pages, I'd say.
"I ask," said the Zen, "no drinking or smoking during the ceremony."
I drained my drink. I stood to Roy's right. Drinks were being drained
all over the place.
Then the Zen master gave a little chickenshit smile. I knew Christian
wedding ceremonies by the sad note of experience. And the Zen ceremony
actually resembled the Christian, with a small amount of horseshit thrown
in. Somewhere along the way, three small sticks were lit. Zen had a whole
box of the things --- two or three hundred. After the lighting, one stick
was places in the center of a jar of sand. That was the Zen stick. Then Roy
was asked to place his burning stick upon one side of the Zen stick, Hollis
asked to place hers on the other.
But the sticks weren't quite right. The Zen master, smiling a bit, had
to reach forward and adjust the sticks to new depths and elevations.
Then the Zen master dug out a circle of brown beads.
He handed the circle of beads to Roy.
"Now?" asked Roy.
Damn, I thought, Roy always read up on everything else. Why not his own
wedding?
Zen reached forward, placed Hollis' right hand within Roy's left. And
the beads encircled both hands that way.
"Do you-"
"I do-"
(This was Zen? I thought.)
"And do you, Hollis-"
"I do-"
Meanwhile, in the candlelight, there was some asshole taking hundreds
of photos of the ceremony. It made me nervous. It could have been the F.B.I.
"Plick! Plick! Plick!"
Of course, we were all clean. But it was irritating because it was
careless.
Then I noticed the Zen master's ears in the candlelight. The
candlelight shone through them as if they were made of the thinnest of
toilet paper.
The Zen master had the thinnest ears of any man I had ever seen. That
was what made him holy! I had to have those ears! For my wallet or my tomcat
or my memory. Or for under the pillow.
Of course, I knew that it was all the scotch and water and all the beer
talking to me, and then, in another way, I didn't know that at all.
I kept staring at the Zen master's ears.
And there were more words.
"-and you Roy, promise not to take any drugs while in your relationship
with Hollis?"
There seemed to be an embarrassing pause. Then, their hands locked
together in the brown beads: "I promise," said Roy, "not to-"
Soon it was over. Or seemed over. The Zen master stood straight up,
smiling just a touch of a smile.
I touched Roy upon a shoulder: "Congratulations." Then I leaned over.
Took hold of Hollis' head, kissed her beautiful lips.
Still everybody sat there. A nation of subnormals.
Nobody moved. The candles glowed like subnormal candles.
I walked over to the Zen master. Shook his hand: "Thank you. you did
the ceremony quite well."
He seemed really pleased, which made me feel a little better. but the
rest of those gangsters --- old Tammany Hall and the Mafia: they were too
proud and stupid to shake hands with an Oriental. Only one other kissed
Hollis. Only one other shook the hand of the Zen master. It could have been
a shotgun wedding. All that family! Well, I'd be the last to know or the
last to be told.
Now that the wedding was over, it seemed very cold in there. They just
sat and stared at each other. I could never comprehend the human race, but
somebody had to play clown. I ripped off my green necktie, flipped it into
the air:
"HEY! YOU COCKSUCKERS! ISN'T ANYBODY HUN- GRY?"
I walked over and started grabbing at cheese, pickled-pigs' feet and
chicken cunt. A few stiffly warmed up, walked over and grabbed at the food,
not knowing what else to do.
I got them to nibbling. Then I left and hit for the scotch and water.
As I was in the kitchen, refilling, I heard the Zen master say, "I must
leave now."
"Oooh, don't leave-" I heard an old, squeaky and female voice from
among the greatest gangland gathering in three years. And even she didn't
sound as if she meant it. What was I doing in with these? Or the UCLA prof?
No, the UCLA prof belonged there.
There must be a repentance. Or something. Some action to humanize the
proceedings.
As soon as I heard the Zen master close the front door, I drained my
waterglass full of scotch. Then I ran out through the candlelit room of
jabbering bastards, found the door (that was a job, for a moment), and I
opened the door, closed it, and there I was- about 15 steps behind Mr. Zen.
We still had 45 or 50 steps to go to get down to the parking lot.
I gained upon him, lurching, two steps to his one.
I screamed: "Hey, Masta!"
Zen turned. "Yes, old man?"
Old man?
We both stopped and looked at each other on that winding stairway there
in the moonlit tropical garden. It seemed like a time for a closer
relationship.
Then I told him: "I either want bother your motherfucking ears or your
motherfucking outfit --- that neon-lighted bathrobe you're wearing!"
"old man, you are crazy!"
"I thought Zen had more moxie than to make unmitigated and offhand
statements. You disappoint me, Masta!"
Zen placed his palms together and looked upward.
I told him, "I either want you motherfucking outfit or your
motherfucking ears!"
He kept his palms together, while looking upward.
I plunged down the steps, missing a few but still flying for- ward,
which kept me from cracking my head open, and as I fell downward toward him,
I tried to swing, but I was all momentum, like something cut loose without
direction. Zen caught me and straightened me.
"My son, my son-"
We were in close. I swung. Caught a good part of him. I heard him hiss.
He stepped one step back. I swung again. Missed. Went way wide left. Fell
into some imported plants from hell. I got up. Moved toward him again. And
in the moonlight, I saw the front of my own pants --- splattered with blood,
candle-drippings and puke.
"You've met you master, bastard!" I notified him as I moved toward him.
He waited. The years of working as a factotum had not left muscles entirely
lax. I gave him one deeply into the gut, all 230 pounds of my body behind
it.
Zen let out a short gasp, once again supplicated the sky, said
something in the Oriental, gave me a short karate chop, kindly, and left me
wrapped within a series of senseless Mexican cacti and what appeared to be,
from my eye, man-eating plants from the inner Brazilian jungles. I relaxed
in the moonlight until this purple flower seemed to gather toward my nose
and began to delicately pinch out my breathing.
Shit, it took at least 150 years to break into the Harvard Classics.
There wasn't any choice: ...
