Charles Bukowski - Short Stories Collection Part 11

One of the big black woollies was gobbling at my left leg. "Call your dog off, Harvey, b.a.s.t.a.r.d, 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 a.s.sholes.

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."

"h.e.l.lo, Marty."

"And this is Elsie."

"h.e.l.lo, 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 s.h.i.+t-"

"And this is Tina."

"h.e.l.lo, 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 halfa.s.s 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 h.e.l.l IS YOUR NAME ANYHOW?"

"Barbara."

"This is Barbara," I had told thema"

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 f.u.c.ked-up. It took him 25 minutes to get up the stairway. He had especially-made crutches, very powerful 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 cla.s.s at UCLA. Somebody else ran in s.h.i.+t 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 c.o.c.k."

I think that you are the modern living master of the short story. n.o.body 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?"

"d.a.m.ned if I can remember."

I found a tall water gla.s.s, 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. Gla.s.ses. 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 gla.s.s 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 moutha"

But there were candles everywhere. Everybody was finding candles, walking around finding candles and lighting them.

"s.h.i.+t, 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 candlelighting went on I walked into the kitchen for more scotch. s.h.i.+t, 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 s.h.i.+t. Then there were candles everywhere. 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 candlelighting. 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 a" unreliable a" either faint-hearted or vicious a"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 chickens.h.i.+t 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 horses.h.i.+t thrown in. Somewhere along the way, three small sticks were lit. Zen had a whole box of the things a" 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.

d.a.m.n, 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 a.s.shole 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 relations.h.i.+p with Hollis?"

There seemed to be an embarra.s.sing 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.

n.o.body 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 a" 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 c.o.c.kSUCKERS! ISN'T ANYBODY HUN-GRY?"

I walked over and started grabbing at cheese, pickled-pigs' feet and chicken c.u.n.t. A few stiffly warmed up, walked over and grabbed at the food, not knowing what else to do.