Charles Bukowski - Short Stories Collection Part 33

I shot a man in Reno Bukowski cried when Judy Garland sang at the N.Y. Philarmonic, Bukowski cried when s.h.i.+rley Temple sang "I Got Animal Crackers in my Soup"; Bukowski cried in cheap flophouses, Bukowski can't dress, Bukowski can't talk, Bukowski is scared of women, Bukowski had a bad stomach, Bukowski is full of fears, and hates dictionaries, nuns, pennies, busses, churches, parkbenches, spiders, flies, fleas, freaks; Bukowski didn't go to war. Bukowski is old, Bukowski hasn't flown a kite for 45 years; if Bukowski were an ape, they'd run him out of the tribea my friend is so worried about tearing the meat of my soul from my bones that he hardly seems to think of his own existence.

"but Bukowski pukes real neat and I've never seen him p.i.s.s on the floor."

so I do have charm after all, you see. then he throws open a little door and there in a 3 by 6 room stacked with papers and rags is an out.

"you can always stay here, Bukowski. you'll never want."

no window, no bed, but I'm next to the bathroom. it still looks good to me.

"but you may have to wear earplugs because of the music I keep playing."

"I can pick up a set, I'm sure."

we walk back into his den. "you wanna hear some Lenny Bruce?"

"no, thanks."

"Ginsberg?"

"no, no."

he had just to keep that tape machine going, or the record player. they finally hit me with Johnny Cash singing to the boys at Folsom.

"I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die."

it seems to me that Johnny is giving them a little s.h.i.+t just like I suspect Bob Hope does to the boys at Viet during Xmas, but I have this kind of mind. the boys holler, they are out of their cells but I feel like it's something like tossing meatless bones instead of biscuits to the hungered and the trapped. I don't feel a d.a.m.n thing holy or brave about it. there's only one thing to do for man in jail: let *em out. there's only one thing to do for man at war: stop the war.

"turn it off," I asked.

"whatsa matta?"

"it's a trick. a publicity man's dream."

"you can't say that. Johnny's done time."

"a lot of people have."

"we think it's good music."

"I like his voice. but the only man who can sing in jail, really, is a man who is in jail, really."

"we still like it."

his wife is there and a couple of young black man who play combo in some band.

"Bukowski likes Judy Garland. Somewhere over the rainbow."

"I liked her that one time in N.Y. her soul was up. you couldn't beat her."

"she's overweight and a lush."

it was the same old thing - people tearing meat and not getting anywhere. I leave a little early. as I do, I hear them put J.Cash back on.

I stop for some beer and just make it in as the phone is ringing.

"Bukowski?"

"yeah?"

"Bill."

"oh, h.e.l.lo Billo."

"what are you doing?"

"nothing."

"what are you doing Sat.u.r.day night?"

"I'm tied then."

"I wanted you to come over, meet some people."

"not this time."

"you know, Charley, I am going to get tired of calling."

"yeah."

"do you still write for that same scurrilous rag?"

"what?"

"that hippie papera"

" have you ever read it?"

"sure. all tha protest stuff. you're wasting your time."

"I don't always write to the paper's policy."

"I thought you did."

"I thought you had read the paper."

"by the way, what have you heard from our mutual friend?"

"Paul?"

"yes, Paul."

"I haven't heard from him."

"you know, he admires your poetry very much."

"that's all right."

"personally, I don't like your poetry."

"that's all right too."

"you can't make it over Sat.u.r.day."

"no."

"well, I'm going to get tired of calling. take care."

"yeah, good night."

another meat tearer. what the h.e.l.l did they want? well, Bill lived in Malibu and Bill made money writing - philosophical s.e.x s.h.i.+t potboilers full of typos and undergraduate Art work - and Bill couldn't write but Bill couldn't stay off the telephone either. He'd phone again. and again. and fling his little scrubby s.h.i.+t t.u.r.ds at me. I was the old man who hadn't sold his b.a.l.l.s to the butcher and it drove them screwy. their final victory over me could only be a physical beating and that could happen to any man at any place.

Bukowski thought Mickey Mouse was a n.a.z.i; Bukowski made an a.s.s out of himself at Barney's Beanery; Bukowski made an a.s.s out of himself at Sh.e.l.ly's Manne-Hole; Bukowski is jealous of Ginsberg, Bukowski is jealous of the 1969 Cadillac, Bukowski can't understand Rimbaud; Bukowski wipes his a.s.s with brown hard toilet paper, Bukowski will be dead in 5 years, Bukowski hasn't written a decent poem since 1963, Bukowski cried when Judy Garlanda shot a man in Reno.

I sit down. stick the sheet in the typer. open a beer. light a smoke.

I get one or two good lines and the telephone rings.

"Buk?"

"yeah?"

"Marty."

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

"listen, I just ran across your last 2 columns. it's good writing. I didn't know you were writing so well. I want to run them in book form. have they come back from GROVE yet?"

"yeah."

"I want them. your columns are as good as your poems."

"a friend of mine in Malibu says my poems stink."

"to h.e.l.l with him. I want the columns."

"they're with a"- a"-."

"h.e.l.l, he's a p.o.r.nie-man. if you go with me you'll hit the universities, the best book stores. when those kinds find you out, it's all over; they're tired of that involute s.h.i.+t they've been getting for centiries. you'll see; I can see bringing out all your back and unavailable stuff and selling it for a buck, or a buck and a half a copy and going into the millions."

"aren't you afraid that will make a p.r.i.c.k out of me?"

"I mean, haven't you always been a p.r.i.c.k, especially when you've been drinkinga by the way, hoh've you been doing?"

"they say I grabbed a guy at Sh.e.l.ly's by the lapels and shook him up a bit. but it could have been worse, you know."

"how do you mean?"

""I mean, he could have grabbed me by the lapels and shook me up a bit. a matter of pride, you know."

"listen, don't die or get killed untill we get you out in those buck and a half editions."

"I'll try not to, Marty."

"how's the *Penguin' coming?"

"Stanges says January. I just got the page proofs. and a 50 puond advance which I blew on the horses."

"can't you stay away from the track?"

"you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds never say anything when I win."

"that's right. well, let me know on the columns."

"right. good night."

"good night."

Bukowski, the big-time writer; a statue of Bukowski in the Kremlin, jacking off; Bukowski and Castro, a statue in Havana in the sunlight covered with birds.h.i.+t, Bukowski and Castro riding a tandem racing bike to victory - Bukowski in the rear seat; Bukowski bathing in a neat of orioles; Bukowski las.h.i.+ng a 19-years-old high-yellow with a tiger whip, a high-yellow with 38 inch busts, a high-yellow who reads Rimbaud; Bukowski kukoo in the walls of the world, wondering who shut off the lucka Bukowski going for Judy Garland when it was too late for everybody.

then I remember the time and get back in the car. just off Wils.h.i.+re Boulevard. there's his name on the big sign. we once worked the same s.h.i.+t job. I am not too crazy about Wils.h.i.+re blvd. but I am still a learner. I don't block out anything. he's half-coloured, from a white mother, black father combo. we fell together on the s.h.i.+t job, something manual. mostly not wanting to wade in s.h.i.+t forever, and although s.h.i.+t was a good teacher there were only so many lessons and then it could drown you and kill you forever.

I parked in back and beat on the back door. he said he'd wait late that night. it was 9:30 p.m. the door opened.

TEN YEARS. TEN YEARS. ten years. ten years. ten. ten f.u.c.king YEARS.

"Hank, you son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

"Jim, you lucky mothera"

"come on up."

I followed him in. jesus, so you don't buy all that. but it's nice especially with the secretaries and staff gone. I block nothing. he has 6 or 8 rooms. we go in to his desk. I rip out the two 6 packs of beers.

ten years.

he is 43. I am 48. I look at least 15 years older than he. and feel some shame. the sagging belly. the hang-dog air. the world has taken many hours and ten years from me with their very dull and routine tasks; it tells. I feel shame for my defeat. the best revolutionary is a poor man; I am not even a revolutionary, I am only tired. what a bucket of s.h.i.+t was mine! mirror, mirror on the walla he looked good in a light yellow sweater, relaxed and really happy to see me.

"I've been going through h.e.l.l," he said, "I haven't talked to a real human being in months."