Чарльз Буковски. Рассказы из разных сборников (engl)

        Charles Bukowski. Short stories collection


     Confession of a Coward
     God, she thought lying in bed naked and re-reading Aldington's Portrait
of  a  Genius, But... he's an impostor! Not D.H. Lawrence, but her  husband-
Henry-with  his bauble of a belly and all the hair he never combed  and  the
way  he  stood around in his shorts, and the way he stood naked  before  the
window like an Arabian and howled; and he told her that he was turning  into
a  toad and that he wanted to buy a Buddha and that he wanted to be old  and
drown in the sea, and that he was going to grow a beard and that he felt  as
if he was turning into a woman.
      And Henry was poor, poor and worthless and miserable and sick. And  he
wanted to join the Mahler Society. His breath was bad, his father was insane
and his mother was dying of cancer.
     And besides all this, the weather was hot, hot as hell.
      "I've  got a new system," he said. "All I need is four or five  grand.
It's  a  matter  of investment. We could travel from track  to  track  in  a
trailer."
      She felt like saying something blas+ like, "We don't have four or five
grand," but it didn't come out. Nothing came out: all the doors were  closed
and  all  the windows were down, and it was in the middle of the  desert-not
even  vultures-and they were about to drop the Bomb. She should have  stayed
in  Texas, she should have stayed with Papa-this man is a goon, a gunnysack,
a  gutless  no-nothing in a world of doers. He hides behind  symphonies  and
poetic fancies; a weak and listless soul.
     "Are you going to take me to the museum?" she asked.
     "Why?"
     "They're having an Art Exhibit."
     "I know."
     "Well, don't you want to see Van Gogh?"
     "To hell with Van Gogh! What's Van Gogh to me?"
     The doors closed again and she couldn't think of an answer.
     "I don't like museums," he continued. "I don't like museum-people."
      The fan was going but it was a small apartment and the heat held as if
enclosed in a kettle.
      "In  fact," he said, peeling off his T-shirt and standing in just  his
shorts, "I don't like any kind of people."
     Amazingly, he had hair on his chest.
      "In  fact," he continued, pulling his shorts down and over the end  of
one  foot, "I'm going to write a book some day and call it Confession  of  a
Coward."
     The doorbell rang like a rape, or the tearing of ripe flesh.
     "Jesus Christ!" he said like something trapped.
      She  jumped off the bed, looking very white and unpeeled. Like a candy
banana. Aldington and D.H. Lawrence and Taos fell to the floor.
      She  ran  to the closet and began stuffing herself inside  the  flying
cloth of female necessaries.
     "Never mind the clothes," he said.
     "Aren't you going to answer?"
     "No! Why should I?"
     It rang again. The sound of the bell entered the room and searched them
out, scaled and scalded their skins, pummeled them with crawling eyes.
     Then it was silent.
     And the feet turned with their sound, turning and guiding some monster,
taking it back down the stairwell, one two three, 1, 2, 3; and then gone.
     "I wonder," he said, still not moving, "what that was?"
      "I  don't know," she said, bending double at the waist and pulling her
petticoat back over her head.
     "Here!" she yelled. "Here!" holding her arms out like feelers.
     He finished yanking the petticoat off over her head with some distaste.
     "Why do you women wear this crap?" he asked in a loud voice.
      She  didn't  feel  an answer was necessary and went  over  and  pulled
Lawrence out from under the bed. Then she got into bed with Lorenzo and  her
husband sat on the couch.
     "They built a little shrine for him," he said.
     "Who?" she asked irritably.
     "Lawrence."
     "Oh."
     "They have a picture of it in that book."
     "Yes, I've seen it."
     "Have you ever seen a dog-graveyard?"
     "What?"
     "A dog-graveyard."
     "Well, what about it?"
      "They always have flowers. Every dog always has flowers, fresh, all in
neat little clusters on each grave. It's enough to make you cry."
      She  found  her place in the book again, like a person  searching  for
solitude in the middle of a lake: So the bitter months dragged by miserably,
accompanied by Lorenzo's tragic feeling of loss, his-
      "I  wish I had studied ballet," he said. "I go about all slumped  over
but that's because my spirit is wilted. I'm really lithe, ready to tumble on
spring  mattresses of some sort. I should have been a frog, at least. You'll
see. Someday I'm going to turn into a frog."
      Her lake rippled with the irritating breeze: "Well, for heaven's sake,
study ballet! Go at night! Get rid of your belly! Leap around! Be a frog!"
     "You mean after WORK?" he asked woefully.
     "God," she said, "you want everything for nothing." She got up and went
to the bathroom and closed the door.
      She  doesn't understand, he thought, sitting on the couch  naked,  she
doesn't  understand that I'm joking. She's so god-damned serious. Everything
I  say is supposed to carry truth or tragic import, or insight or something.
I've been through all that!
     He noticed a pencil-scrawled piece of paper, in her handwriting, on the
side table. He picked it up:
     My husband is a poet published alongside Sartre and Lorca;
     he writes about insanity and Nietzsche and Lawrence,
     but what has he written about me?
     she reads the funnies
     and empties garbage
     and makes little hats
     and goes to Mass at 8 AM
     I too am a poet and an artist, some discerning critics
     say, but my husband wrote about me:
     she reads the funnies...
     He heard the toilet flush, and a moment later, out she came.
     "I'd like to be a clown in a circus," he greeted her.
     She got back on the bed with her book.
      "Wouldn't  you like to be a tragicomic clown stumbling  about  with  a
painted face?" he asked her.
     She didn't answer. He picked up the Racing Form:
     POWER 114 B.g.4, by Cosmic Bomb-
     Pomayya, by Pompey
     Breeder, Brookmeade Stable.
     1956 12 2 4 1 $12,950
     July 18-Jam I I/16 1:45 1/5ft. 3 122 2
     1/2 3 2h GuerinE'Alw 86
     "I'm going to Caliente next Sunday," he said.
     "Good. I'll have Charlotte over. Allen can bring her in the car."
      "Do  you believe she really got propositioned by the preacher in  that
movie like she claimed?"
     She turned the page of her book.
     "God damn you, answer me!" he screamed, angry at last.
     "What about?"
      "Do  you think she's a whore and making it all up? Do you think  we're
all  whores? What are we trying to do, reading all these books? Writing  all
the  poems they -send back, and working in some dungeon for nothing  because
we're not really interested in money?"
     She put the book down and looked back over her shoulder at him. "Well,"
she said in a low voice, "do you want to give it all up?"
      "Give WHAT all up? We don't have anything! Or, do you mean Beethoven's
Fifth or Handel's Water Music? Or do you mean the SOUL?"
     "Let's not argue. Please. I don't want to argue.
     "Well, I want to know what we are trying to do!"
     The doorbell rang like all the bells of doom sweeping across the room.
     "Shhh," he said, "shhh! Be quiet!"
      The  doorbell rang again, seeming to say, I know you are in  there,  I
know you are in there.
     "They know we're in here." she whispered.
     "I feel that this is it, " he said.
     "What?"
     "Never mind. Just be quiet. Maybe it will go away."
      "Isn't it wonderful to have all these friends?" she took up the  joke-
cudgel.
     "No. We have no friends. I tell you, this is something else!"
      It  rang again, very short, flat and spiritless. "I once tried to make
the Olympic swimming team," he said, getting completely off the point.
     "You make more ridiculous statements by the minute, Henry."
     "Will you get off my back? Just for that!," he said, raising his voice,
"WHO IS IT?"
     There was no answer.
      Henry  rose  wide-eyed, as if in a trance, and flung  the  door  open,
forgetting  his  nakedness. He stood there transfixed in  thought  for  some
time, but it was obvious to her that nobody was therein his state of undress
there  would  have  been  quite a commotion or,  at  the  very  least,  some
sophisticated comment.
      Then  he closed the door. He had a strange look on his face, a  round-
eyed  almost  dull look and he swallowed once as he faced  her.  His  pride,
perhaps?
      "I've decided," he announced, "that I'm not going to turn into a woman
after all."
     "Well, that will help matters between us considerably, Henry."
      "And  I'll even take you to see Van Gogh. No wait, I'll let  you  take
me."
     "Either way, dear. It doesn't matter."
     "No," he said, "you'll have to take me!"
     He marched into the bathroom and closed the door.
     "Don't you wonder," she said through the door, "who that was?"
     "Who what was?"
     "Who that was at the door? Twice?"
     "Hell," he said, "I know who it was."
     "Who was it, then?"
     "Ha!"
     "What?"
     "I said, 'Ha!' I'm not telling!"
      "Henry,  you simply don't know who it was, anymore than I  do.  You're
simply being silly again."
      "If  you promise to take me to see Van Gogh, I'll tell you who was  at
the door."
     "All right," she humored him along, "I promise."
     "O.K., it was me at the door!"
     "You at the door?"
      "Yes,"  he  laughed  a silly little laugh, "me looking  for  me!  Both
times."
     "Still playing the clown aren't you, Henry?"
      She  heard  the water running in the basin and knew he  was  going  to
shave.
     "Are you going to shave, Henry?"
     "I've decided against the beard," he answered.
     He was boring her again and she simply opened her book at a random page
and began reading:
     You don't want any more of me?
     I want us to break off-you be free of me, I free of you.
     And what about these last months?
     I don't know. I've not told you anything but what I thought was true.
     Then why are you different now?
     I'm not-I'm the same-only I know it's no good going on.
     She closed the book and thought about Henry. Men were children. You had
to  humor  them. They could take no hurt. It was a thing every  woman  knew.
Henry tried-he was just so-all this playing the clown. All the poor jokes.
     She rose from the bed as if in a dream, walked across the floor, opened
the  door and stared. Against the basin stood a partly soaped shaving  brush
and  his still wet shaving mug. But the water in the basin was cold  and  at
the  bottom,  against the plug, green and beyond her reach at last  and  the
size of a crumpled glove, stared back the fat, living frog.
     Black Sparrow "New Year's Greeting" 1995


        THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN TOWN
      Cass  was the youngest and most beautiful of 5 sisters. Cass  was  the
most  beautiful girl in town. 1/2 Indian with a supple and strange  body,  a
snake-like  and  fiery body with eyes to go with it. Cass was  fluid  moving
fire.  She was like a spirit stuck into a form that would not hold her.  Her
hair  was  black and long and silken and whirled about as did her body.  Her
spirit  was either very high or very low. There was no in between for  Cass.
Some  said she was crazy. The dull ones said that. The dull ones would never
understand  Cass. To the men she was simply a sex machine  and  they  didn't
care  whether she was crazy or not. And Cass danced and flirted, kissed  the
men,  but except for an instance or two, when it came time to make  it  with
Cass, Cass had somehow slipped away, eluded the men.
      Her  sisters accused her of misusing her beauty, of not using her mind
enough, but Cass had mind and spirit; she painted, she danced, she sang, she
made  things of clay, and when people were hurt either in the spirit or  the
flesh,  Cass  felt a deep grieving for them. Her mind was simply  different;
her  mind was simply not practical. Her sisters were jealous of her  because
she  attracted their men, and they were angry because they felt  she  didn't
make the best use of them. She had a habit of being kind to the uglier ones;
the  so-called handsome men revolted her- "No guts," she said, "no zap. They
are  riding on their perfect little earlobes and well- shaped nostrils...all
surface and no insides..." She had a temper that came close to insanity, she
had  a  temper that some call insanity. Her father had died of alchohol  and
her mother had run off leaving the girls alone. The girls went to a relative
who  placed  them in a convent. The convent had been an unhappy place,  more
for  Cass  than the sisters. The girls were jealous of Cass and Cass  fought
most  of  them.  She had razor marks all along her left arm  from  defending
herself in two fights. There was also a permanent scar along the left  cheek
but the scar rather than lessening her beauty only seemed to highlight it. I
met  her  at  the  West End Bar several nights after her  release  from  the
convent. Being youngest, she was the last of the sisters to be released. She
simply  came in and sat next to me. I was probably the ugliest man  in  town
and this might have had something to do with it.
     "Drink?" I asked.
     "Sure, why not?"
      I  don't  suppose there was anything unusual in our conversation  that
night, it was simply in the feeling Cass gave. She had chosen me and it  was
as  simple as that. No pressure. She liked her drinks and had a great number
of them. She didn't seem quite of age but they served he anyhow. Perhaps she
had  forged  i.d., I don't know. Anyhow, each time she came  back  from  the
restroom  and sat down next to me, I did feel some pride. She was  not  only
the  most beautiful woman in town but also one of the most beautiful  I  had
ever seen. I placed my arm about her waist and kissed her once.
     "Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked.
      "Yes, of course, but there's something else... there's more than  your
looks..."
     "People are always accusing me of being pretty. Do you really think I'm
pretty?"
     "Pretty isn't the word, it hardly does you fair."
      Cass  reached  into her handbag. I thought she was  reaching  for  her
handkerchief. She came out with a long hatpin. Before I could stop  her  she
had  run  this  long  hatpin  through her nose,  sideways,  just  above  the
nostrils. I felt disgust and horror. She looked at me and laughed,  "Now  do
you  think  me pretty? What do you think now, man?" I pulled the hatpin  out
and  held  my handkerchief over the bleeding. Several people, including  the
bartender, had seen the act. The bartender came down:
      "Look,"  he said to Cass, "you act up again and you're out.  We  don't
need your dramatics here."
     "Oh, fuck you, man!" she said.
     "Better keep her straight," the bartender said to me.
     "She'll be all right," I said.
     "It's my nose, I can do what I want with my nose."
     "No," I said, "it hurts me."
     "You mean it hurts you when I stick a pin in my nose?"
     "Yes, it does, I mean it."
     "All right, I won't do it again. Cheer up."
      She  kissed  me,  rather grinning through the  kiss  and  holding  the
handkerchief to her nose. We left for my place at closing time. I  had  some
beer and we sat there talking. It was then that I got the perception of  her
as  a  person  full  of kindness and caring. She gave herself  away  without
knowing it. At the same time she would leap back into areas of wildness  and
incoherence. Schitzi. A beautiful and spiritual schitzi. Perhaps  some  man,
something, would ruin her forever. I hoped that it wouldn't be me.  We  went
to bed and after I turned out the lights Cass asked me,
     "When do you want it? Now or in the morning?"
     "In the morning," I said and turned my back.
      In  the morning I got up and made a couple of coffees, brought her one
in bed. She laughed.
     "You're the first man who has turned it down at night."
     "It's o.k.," I said, "we needn't do it at all."
     "No, wait, I want to now. Let me freshen up a bit."
      Cass  went  into  the  bathroom. She came out shortly,  looking  quite
wonderful, her long black hair glistening, her eyes and lips glistening, her
glistening... She displayed her body calmly, as a good thing. She got  under
the sheet.
     "Come on, lover man."
     I got in. She kissed with abandon but without haste. I let my hands run
over  her body, through her hair. I mounted. It was hot, and tight. I  began
to  stroke  slowly, wanting to make it last. Her eyes looked  directly  into
mine.
     "What's your name?" I asked.
     "What the hell difference does it make?" she asked.
      I  laughed and went on ahead. Afterwards she dressed and I  drove  her
back  to  the  bar but she was difficult to forget. I wasn't working  and  I
slept until 2 p.m. then got up and read the paper. I was in the bathtub when
she came in with a large leaf- an elephant ear.
     "I knew you'd be in the bathtub," she said, "so I brought you something
to cover that thing with, nature boy."
     She threw the elepahant leaf down on me in the bathtub.
     "How did you know I'd be in the tub?"
     "I knew."
      Almost  every day Cass arrived when I was in the tub. The  times  were
different but she seldom missed, and there was the elephant leaf.  And  then
we'd  make love. One or two nights she phoned and I had to bail her  out  of
jail for drunkenness and fighting.
      "These  sons of bitches," she said, "just because they buy you  a  few
drinks they think they can get into your pants."
     "Once you accept a drink you create your own trouble."
     "I thought they were interested in me, not just my body."
      "I'm  interested in you and your body. I doubt, though, that most  men
can see beyond your body."
      I  left  town  for  6 months, bummed around, came back.  I  had  never
forgotten  Cass, but we'd had some type of arguement and I felt like  moving
anyhow,  and when I got back i figured she'd be gone, but I had been sitting
in the West End Bar about 30 minutes when she walked in and sat down next to
me.
     "Well, bastard, I see you've come back."
      I ordered her a drink. Then I looked at her. She had on a high- necked
dress. I had never seen her in one of those. And under each eye, driven  in,
were  2 pins with glass heads. All you could see were the heads of the pins,
but the oins were driven down into her face.
     "God damn you, still trying to destroy your beauty, eh?"
     "No, it's the fad, you fool."
     "You're crazy."
     "I've missed you," she said.
     "Is there anybody else?"
      "No there isn't anybody else. Just you. But I'm hustling. It costs ten
bucks. But you get it free."
     "Pull those pins out."
     "No, it's the fad."
     "It's making me very unhappy."
     "Are you sure?"
     "Hell yes, I'm sure."
     Cass slowly pulled the pins out and put them back in her purse.
     "Why do you haggle your beauty?" I asked. "Why don't you just live with
it?"
      "Because people think it's all I have. Beauty is nothing, beauty won't
stay.  You  don't know how lucky you are to be ugly, because if people  like
you you know it's for something else."
     "O.k.," I said, "I'm lucky."
      "I  don't mean you're ugly. People just think you're ugly. You have  a
fascinating face."
     "Thanks."
     We had another drink.
     "What are you doing?" she asked.
     "Nothing. I can't get on to anything. No interest."
     "Me neither. If you were a woman you could hustle."
     "I don't think I could ever make contact with that many strangers, it's
wearing."
     "You're right, it's wearing, everything is wearing."
     We left together. People still stared at Cass on the streets. She was a
beautiful  woman, perhaps more beautiful than ever. We made it to  my  place
and I opened a bottle of wine and we talked. With Cass and I, it always came
easy.  She  talked  a while and I would listen and then i  would  talk.  Our
conversation simply went along without strain. We seemed to discover secrets
together.  When we discovered a good one Cass would laugh that  laugh-  only
the  way  she  could. It was like joy out of fire. Through  the  talking  we
kissed and moved closer together. We became quite heated and decided  to  go
to  bed. It was then that Cass took off her high -necked dress and I saw it-
the ugly jagged scar across her throat. It was large and thick.
      "God  damn you, woman," I said from the bed, "god damn you, what  have
you done?
     "I tried it with a broken bottle one night. Don't you like me any more?
Am I still beautiful?"
      I  pulled  her  down on the bed and kissed her. She  pushed  away  and
laughed, "Some men pay me ten and I undress and they don't want to do it.  I
keep the ten. It's very funny."
     "Yes," I said, "I can't stop laughing... Cass, bitch, I love you...stop
destroying yourself; you're the most alive woman I've ever met."
     We kissed again. Cass was crying without sound. I could feel the tears.
The long black hair lay beside me like a flag of death. We enjoined and made
slow  and  sombre  and wonderful love. In the morning  Cass  was  up  making
breakfast. She seemed quite calm and happy. She was singing. I stayed in bed
and enjoyed her happiness. Finally she came over and shook me,
      "Up,  bastard! Throw some cold water on your face and pecker and  come
enjoy the feast!"
      I drove her to the beach that day. It was a weekday and not yet summer
so  things  were splendidly deserted. Beach bums in rags slept on the  lawns
above the sand. Others sat on stone benches sharing a lone bottle. The gulls
whirled  about, mindless yet distracted. Old ladies in their 70's  and  80's
sat on the benches and discussed selling real estate left behind by husbands
long ago killed by the pace and stupidity of survival. For it all, there was
peace  in the air and we walked about and stratched on the lawns and  didn't
say  much.  It  simply  felt  good being together.  I  bought  a  couple  of
sandwiches, some chips and drinks and we sat on the sand eating. Then I held
Cass  and  we  slept  together about an hour. It  was  somehow  better  than
lovemaking. There was flowing together without tension. When we awakened  we
drove  back  to my place and I cooked a dinner. After dinner I suggested  to
Cass that we shack together. She waited a long time, looking at me, then she
slowly  said,  "No." I drove her back to the bar, bought  her  a  drink  and
walked out. I found a job as a parker in a factory the next day and the rest
of  the  week  went to working. I was too tired to get about much  but  that
Friday night I did get to the West End Bar. I sat and waited for Cass. Hours
went  by  .  After I was fairly drunk the bartender said to me,  "I'm  sorry
about your girlfriend."
     "What is it?" I asked.
     "I'm sorry, didn't you know?"
     "No."
     "Suicide. She was buried yesterday."
      "Buried?"  I  asked. It seemed as though she would  walk  through  the
doorway at any moment. How could she be gone?
     "Her sisters buried her."
     "A suicide? Mind telling me how?"
     "She cut her throat."
     "I see. Give me another drink."
      I  drank until closing time. Cass was the most beautiful of 5 sisters,
the  most  beautiful  in town. I managed to drive to my  place  and  I  kept
thinking, I should have insisted she stay with me instead of accepting  that
"no."Everything  about her had indicated that she had cared.  I  simply  had
been  too  offhand about it, lazy, too unconcerned. I deserved my death  and
hers.  I  was a dog. No, why blame the dogs? I got up and found a bottle  of
wine  and  drank from it heavily. Cass the most beautiful girl in  town  was
dead  at  20. Outside somebody honked their automobile horn. They were  very
loud  and  persistent.  I sat the bottle down and screamed  out:  "GOD  DAMN
YOU,YOU  SON  OF  A  BITCH ,SHUT UP!" The night kept coming  and  there  was
nothing I could do.

     ===

     **A Lovely Love Affair**

      I  went  broke --- again --- but this time in the French Quarter,  New
Orleans,  and Joe Blanchard, editor of the underground paper OVERTHROW  took
me  down to this place around the corner, one of those dirty white buildings
with  green storm windows, steps that ran almost straight up. It was  Sunday
and  I  was  expecting a royalty, no, and advance from a dirty  book  I  had
written for the Germans, but the Germans kept writing me this bullshit about
the  owner, the father, being a drunk, they were deep in the red because the
old  man had withdrawn their funds from the bank, no, overdrawn them for his
drinking  and  fucking bouts and therefore, they were broke  but  they  were
kicking the old man out and as soon as-
     Blanchard rang the bell.
      This old fat girl came to the door, and she weighed about between  250
and  300  pounds. She kind of wore this vast sheet as a dress and  her  eyes
were  very small. I guess that was the only small thing about her.  She  was
Marie  Glaviano, owner of a caf+ in the French Quarter, a very  small  caf+.
That was another thing that was not very big about her --- her caf+. But  it
was  a  nice caf+, red and white tablecloths, expensive menus and no  people
about.  One of those old-time black mammy dolls standing near the  entrance.
The  old  black mammy doll signified good times, old times, good old  times,
but  the good old times were gone. The tourists were walkers now. They  just
liked to walk around and look at things. They didn't go into the cafes. They
didn't  even  get  drunk. Nothing paid anymore. The good  times  were  over.
Nobody  gave a shit and nobody had any money and if they had any, they  kept
it.  It  was  a  new age and not a very interesting one. Everybody  kind  of
watched  the revolutionaries and the pigs rip at each other. That  was  good
entertainment and it was free and they kept their money in their pockets, if
they had any money.
      Blanchard said, "Hello, Marie. Marie, this is Charley Serkin. Charley,
this is Marie."
     "Hi," I said.
     "Hello," said Marie Glaviano.
     "Let us come in a minute, Marie," said Blanchard.
      (There  are only two things wrong with money: too much or too  little.
And there I was down at the "too little" stage again.)
     We climbed the steep steps and followed her down one fo those long long
sideways-built places ---I mean all length and no width, and then we were in
the  kitchen, sitting at a table. There was a bowl of flowers.  Marie  broke
open 3 bottles of beer. Sat down.
     "Well, Marie," said Blanchard, "Charley's a genius. He's up against the
knife. I'm sure he'll pull out, but meanwhile- meanwhile, he's got no  place
to stay."
     Marie looked at me. "Are you a genius?"
     I took a long drag at the beer. "Well, frankly, it's hard to tell. More
often,  I feel like some type of subnormal. Rather like all these great  big
white blocks of air in my head."
     "He can stay," said Marie.
      It  was Monday, Marie's only day off and Blanchard got up and left  us
there in the kitchen. Then the front door slammed and he was out of there.
     "What do you do?" asked Marie.
     "Live on my luck," I said.
     "You remind me of Marty," she said.
     "Marty?" I asked, thinking, my god, here it comes. And it came.
      "Well, you're ugly, you know. Well, I don't mean ugly, I mean beat-up,
you  know.  And you're really beat-up, you're even more beat-up  than  Marty
was. And he was a fighter. Were you a fighter?"
     "That's one of my problems: I could never fight worth a damn."
      "Anyhow,  you  got that same look as Marty. You been beat  but  you're
kind. I know your type. I know a man when I see a man. I like your face. You
got a good face."
      Not  being able to say anything about her face, I asked, "You got  any
cigarettes, Marie?"
      "Why  sure, honey," she reached down into that great sheet of a  dress
and  pulled a full pack out from between her tits. She could have carried  a
week's  worth  of groceries in there. It was kind of funny.  She  opened  me
another beer.
      I took a good drain, then told her, "I could probably fuck you until I
made you cry."
     "Now look here, Charley," she said, "I won't have you talking that way.
I'm  a  nice girl. My mother brought me up right. You keep talking that  way
and you can't stay."
     "Sorry, Marie, I was just kidding."
     "Well, I don't like that kind of kidding."
     "Sure, I understand. You got any whiskey?"
     "Scotch."
     "Scotch is fine."
      She brought out an almost full fifth. 2 waterglasses. We had ourselves
some  scotch and water. That woman had been around. That was obvious.  She's
probably been around ten years longer than I. Well, age wasn't any crime. It
was only that most people aged badly.
     "You're just like Marty," she said again.
     "And you're not like anybody I've ever seen," I said.
     "Do you like me?" she asked.
      "I've got to," I said, and she didn't give me any snot over that  one.
We drank another hour or two,. Mostly beer but with a bit of scotch here and
there, and then she took me down to my bed. And on the way down we passed  a
place  and she was sure to say, "That's my bed." It was quite wide.  My  bed
was next to another one. Very strange. But it didn't mean anything. "You can
sleep in either bed," said Marie, "or both of them."
     There was something about that that felt like a putdown-
     Well, sure, I had a head in the morning and I heard her rattling in the
kitchen but I ignored it as any wise man would, and I heard her turn on  the
tv  for the morning news, she had the tv on the breakfast nook table, and  I
heard the coffee perking, it smelled rather good but the smell of bacon  and
eggs  and potatoes I didn't like, and the sound of the morning news I didn't
like, and I felt like pissing and I was thirsty, but I didn't want Marie  to
know  that I was awake, so I waited, mildly pissed (haha, yes), but  wanting
to  be  alone,  wanting to own the place alone and she kept  fucking  around
fucking around and finally I heard her running past my bed-
     "Gotta go, " she said, "I'm late."
     "Bye, Marie," I said.
      When  the  door slammed I got up and walked to the crapper and  I  sat
there  and I pissed and I crapped and I sat there in New Orleans,  far  from
home, wherever my home was, and then I saw a spider sitting in a web in  the
corner,  looking at me. Now that spider had been there a long time,  I  knew
that. Much longer than I had. First, I thought of killing him. But he was so
fat  and  happy  and ugly, he owned the joint. I'd have to wait  some  time,
until  it  was proper. I got up and wiped my ass and flushed. As I left  the
crapper, the spider winked at me.

      I  didn't want to play with what was left of the 5th, so I sat in  the
kitchen,  naked, wondering, how can people trust me so? Who  was  I?  People
were crazy, people were simple. That gave me and edge. Hell ys, it did.  I'd
lived  for ten years without a trade. People gave me money, food, places  to
stay. Whether they thought I was an idiot or a genius, that didn't matter. I
knew  what  I  was.  I was neither. What made people give  me  gifts  didn't
concern  me. I took the gifts and I took them without a feeling  of  victory
or/and  coercion. My only premise was that I couldn't ask for  anything.  On
top of it all, I rather had this little phonograph record spinning around on
top  of my brain and it kept playing the same tune: don't try don't try.  It
seemed like and all right idea.
      Anyhow, after Marie left I sat in the kitchen and drank 3 cans of beer
I  found  in  the refrigerator. I never cared much for food.  I'd  heard  of
people's love for food. But food only bored me. Liquid was o.k. but bulk was
a  dragdown.  I liked shit, I liked to shit, I liked turds but it  was  such
terrible work creating them.
      After the 3 cans of beer I noticed this purse on the seat next to  me.
Of  course,  Marie  had taken another purse to work. Would  she  be  foolish
enough  or  kind  enough to leave money? I opened the purse.  There  at  the
bottom was a ten dollar bill.
     Well, Marie was testing me and I'd prove worthy of her test.
      I  took  the ten, walked back to my bedroom and dressed. I felt  good.
After all, what did a man need to survive? Nothing. It was true. And I  even
had the key to the place.
      So  I  stepped  outside and locked the door to keep out  the  thieves,
hahaha, and there I was out on the streets, the French Quarter, and  what  a
stupid place that was, but I had to make it do. Everything had to serve  me,
that's  the way it went. So-oh yes, I was walking down the street,  and  the
trouble  with  the  French Quarter was that there just  weren't  any  liquor
stores  around  like  in  other decent parts of  the  world.  Maybe  it  was
deliberate.  One had to guess that it helped those horrible  shit  holes  on
every  corner that were called bars. The first thing I ever thought of  when
walking into one of those "quaint" French Quarter bars was vomiting.  And  I
usually did, running back to some urine-stinking pisspot and letting  go  --
tons  and  tons of fried eggs and half-cooked greasy potatoes.  And  walking
back  in,  after heaving, and looking upon them: the only thing more  lonely
and  inane  than the patrons was the bartender, especially if he also  owned
the place. O.k., so I walked around, knowing that the bars were the lie, and
you know where I found my 3 six packs? A little grocery with stale bread and
all about it, even peeling into the paint, this half-sex smile of loneliness-
help me, help me, help me-terrible, yes, and they can't even light the place
up,  electricity costs money, and here I was, the first guy to buy three six
packs  in  18 years, and my god, she almost came across the top of the  cash
register-It was too much. I grabbed my change and 18 tall cans of  beer  and
ran out into the stupid French Quarter sunlight-

      I  placed  the  remainder  of the change back  in  the  purse  in  the
breakfastnook and then left the purse open so Marie could see it. Then I sat
down and opened a beer.
      It  was good being alone. Yet, I wasn't alone. Each time I had to piss
I'd  see that spider and I thought, well, spider, you've got to go, soon.  I
just don't like your looks in that dark corner, catching bugs and slies  and
sucking the blood out of them. You see, you're bad, Mr. Spider. And I'm o.k.
At  least,  that's the way I like to see it. You're nothing but  a  frigging
dark brainless wart of death, that's what you are. Suck shit. You've had it.
      I  found a broom in the backporch and came back in there and I crashed
him  out  of his web and brought him his own death. All right, that was  all
right,  he  was out there ahead of me, somewhere, I couldn't help that.  But
how  could Marie put her big ass down on the rims of that lid and  shit  and
look at that thing? Did she even see it? Perhaps not.
     I went back in the kitchen and had some more beer. Then I turned on the
tv.  Paper people. Glass people. I felt as if I were going insane and turned
the  thing  off. I drank some more beer. Then I boiled 2 eggs and fried  two
strips of bacon. I managed to eat. You forgot about food sometimes. The  sun
came  through  the  curtains. I drank all day. I threw the  empties  in  the
trash. Time went. Then the door opened. It flew open. It was Marie.
     "Jesus Christ!" she screamed, "you know what happened?"
     "No, no, I don't."
     "Oh, god damn it!"
     "Whatssa matta, honey?"
     "I burned the strawberries!"
     "Oh, yes?"
     She ran around the kitchen in little circles, that big ass bobbing. She
was crazy. She was out of it. Poor old fat cunt.
      "I  had this pot of strawberries going in the kitchen and one of these
tourists  came in, rich bitch, first customer of the day, and she likes  the
little  hats I make, you know-Well, she's kinda cute and all the  hats  look
good  on  her  and so she's got a problem, and then we get to talking  about
Detroit,  she  knew  somebody in Detroit that I knew, you  know,  and  we're
talking and then all of a sudden I SMELL IT!!! THE STRAWBERRIES ARE BURNING!
I  ran  into  the kitchen, but it's too late-.what a mess! The  strawberries
have  boiled  over and they are everywhere and it stinks, it's burned,  it's
sad, and nothing can be saved, nothing! What hell!"
     "I'm sorry. But did you sell her a hat?"
     "I sold her two hats. She couldn't make up her mind."
     "I'm sorry about the strawberries. And I killed the spider."
     "What spider?"
     "I didn't think you'd know."
     "Know what? What's this spiders? They're just bugs."
      "They tell me a spider isn't a bug. Something to do with the number of
legs- I really don't know or care."
     "A spider ain't a bug? What kinda shit is that?"
     "Not an insect. So they say. Anyhow, I killed the damn thing."
     "Sure. You left it there. I had to have beer."
     "You have to have beer all the time?"
     "Yes."
     "You're going to be a problem. You had anything to eat?"
     "2 eggs, 2 slices of bacon."
     "You hungry?"
     "Yes. But you're tired. Relax. Have a drink."
     "Cooking relaxes me. But first I gotta have a hot bath."
     "Go ahead."
      "O.k.,"  she reached over and turned on the tv and then  went  to  the
bathroom. I had to listen to tv. A news broadcast. Perfectly ugly bastard. 3
nostrils.  Perfectly  hateful bastard dressed  like  a  little  inane  doll,
sweating,  and  looking  at me, saying words I hardly  understood  or  cared
about.  I  knew that Marie would be looking at tv for hours,  so  I  had  to
adjust  to  it. When Marie came back I was looking directly into the  glass,
which  made  her  feel  better.  I looked  as  harmless  as  a  man  with  a
checkerboard and the sports page.
      Marie  had  come  out, dolled in another outfit. She might  have  even
looked  cute, but she was so god damned fat. Well, anyhow, I wasn't sleeping
on a park bench.
     "You want me to cook, Marie?"
     "No, it's all right. I'm not so tired now."
     She began preparing the food. When I got up for the next beer, I kissed
her behind the ear.
     "You're a good sport, Marie."
     "You got enough drink for the rest of the night?" she asked.
     "Sure, kid. And there's still that 5thy. Everything's fine. I just want
to sit here and look at the set and listen to you talk. O.k?"
     "Sure, Charley."
     I sat down. She had something going. It smelled good. She was evidently
a  fine  cook. The whole walls crawled with this warm smell of  cooking.  No
wonder  she  was so fat: good cook, good eater. Marie was making  a  pot  of
stew.  Every  now and then she'd get up and add something  to  the  pot.  An
onion.  A piece of cabbage. A few carrots. She knew. And I drank and  looked
at  that big sloppy old gal and she sat there making these most magic  hats,
her hands working into a basket, picking up first the color, then that, this
length  of ribbon, then that, and then twisting it so, sewing it so, placing
it  against the hat, and that 2 bit straw was just more magic. Marie created
masterpieces that would never be discovered --- walking down the  street  on
top of bitches' heads.
     As she worked and tended stew, she talked.
     "It's not like it used to be. People don't have any money. Everything's
Traveler's  checks and checkbooks and credit cards. People just  don't  have
money.  They don't carry it. Credit's everything. A guy gets a paycheck  and
it's  already taken. They mortgage their whole lives away to buy one  house.
And  then  they've got to fill that house with shit and have a car.  They're
hooked  on  house and the legislators know this and tax them to  death  with
property taxes. Nobody has any money. Small businesses just can't last."
     We sat down to the stew and it was perfect. After dinner we brought out
the  whiskey  and she brought me two cigars and we looked at tv  and  didn't
talk much. I felt as if I had been there for years. She kept working on  the
hats, talking now and then, and I'd say, yeh, that's right, or, is that  so?
And the hats kept flying off of her hands, masterpieces.
     "Marie," I told her, "I'm tired. Got to go to bed."
     She told me to take the whiskey with me, so I did. But instead of going
down  to my bed, I threw back the cover of Marie's bed and crawled in. After
undressing, of course. It was a fine mattress. It was a fine bed. It was one
of  those  old-fashioned highpost jobs with a wooden roof, or whatever  they
call them. I guess if you fucked until the roof came down, you made it.  I'd
never bring that roof down without help from the gods.
     Marie kept looking at tv and making hats. Then I heard her turn off the
set,  switch out the kitchen light and she came into the bedroom, right past
the bedroom and she didn't see me, she went right n down to the crapper. She
was  in  there a while and then I watched her switch out of her clothes  and
into this big pink nightie. She fucked with her face a bit, gave up, put  on
a  couple of curlers, then turned around and walked toward the bed  and  saw
me.
     "My god, Charley, you're in the wrong bed."
     "Uh, uh."
     "Listen, honey, I'm not that kind of woman."
     "O, cut the horseshit and climb in."
      She  did.  My god, she was nothing but meat. Actually,  I  was  a  bit
frightened.  What  did  you do with all that stuff?  Well,  I  was  trapped.
Marie's whole side of the bed sank down.
     "Listen, Charley-"
     I grabbed her head, turned it, and she seemed to be crying, and then my
lips  were on hers. We kissed. Damn it, my cock was getting hard. Good  god.
What was it?
     "Charley," she said, "you don't have to."
     I took one of her hands and placed it around my cock.
     "O shit," she said, "o shit!"
     Then she kissed me, tongued me. She had a small tongue ---at least that
was small ---and it ripped in and out, rather full of saliva and passion.  I
pulled away.
     "Whatza matta?"
     "Wait uh minute."
      I reached over and got the fifth and took a good long pull, then I sat
it  down  again and I reached on under and lifted that huge pink nightie.  I
got  to  feeling and I didn't know what I had but it seemed to be  it,  very
small  though, but in the right place. Yes, it was her cunt. I poked  at  it
with  my  pecker.  Then she reached down and guided me in. Another  miracle.
That  thing  was  tight. It almost ripped the skin off  of  me.  We  started
working. I was looking for the long ride but I didn't care. She had  me.  It
was  one of the best fucks of my life. I moaned and hollered, then finished,
rolled  off. Unbelievable. When she came back from the bathroom we talked  a
while, then she went to sleep. But she snored. SO I had to go down to my own
bed. And I awakened the next morning as she went to work.
     "Gotta hurry, Charley," she said.
     "Sure, baby."
      As  soon as she left I went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water.
She'd left her purse there. Ten dollars. I didn't take it. I walked back  to
the bathroom and took a good crap, without the spider. Then I took a bath. I
tried  to  brush  my  teeth, vomited a bit. I dressed and  walked  into  the
kitchen. I'd gotten hold of a piece of paper and pen:

     Marie:
     I love you. You are very good to me. But I must leave. And I don't know
exactly why. I'm crazy, I guess. Goodbye.
     Charley

     I propped the note up against the television set. I didn't feel good. I
felt  like  crying. It was quiet in there, it was quiet in there the  way  I
liked  it.  Even the stove and the refrigerator looked human,  I  mean  good
human  ---  they seemed to have arms and voices and they said, hang  around,
kid, it's good here, it can be very good here. I found what was left of  the
5th  in  the  bedroom.  I drank that. Then I found a  can  of  beer  in  the
refrigerator. I drank that. Then I got up and made the long walk  down  that
narrow  place, it seemed like A hundred yards. I got to the door and then  I
remembered I had the key. I walked back and put the key with the note.  Then
I  looked  at the ten in the purse again. I left it there. I made  the  walk
again.  When I got to the door, I knew that when I closed it there would  be
no  going  back. I closed it. It was final. Down those steps.  I  was  alone
again  and nobody gave a damn. I walked south, then took a right.  I  walked
along,  I  walked along and got out of the French Quarter. I  crossed  Canal
Street. I walked along for some blocks and then I turned this way and then I
crossed another street and turned that way. I didn't know where I was going.
I  passed  a place to my left and a man was standing in the doorway  and  he
said,
     "Hey, man, you want a job?"
      And I looked into the doorway and here were these rows of men lined up
at  wooden  tables and they had hammers and they were hitting at  things  in
shells,  they  looked like clam shells and they broke  the  shells  and  did
something with the meat, and it was dark in there; it seemed as if  the  men
were  beating at themselves with hammers and tossing away what was  left  of
them, and I told the man,
     "No, I don't want a job."
     I was facing the sun as I walked.
     I had 74 cents.
     The sun was all right.


     ===

     **My Big-Assed Mother**

      they were tow good girls, Tito and Baby. they both looked near 60  but
they  were close to 40. all that wine and worry. I was 29 and looked  closer
to  50.  all that wine and worry. I had gotten the apartment first and  then
they  had moved in. it worried the apartment house manager who kept  sending
the  cops up when we made the least bit of noise. it was jumpy. I was afraid
to piss in the center of the bowl.
     the best time was the MIRROR, watching myself, bloated belly, with Baby
and  Tito,  drunk and sick for nights and days, all of us, the  cheap  radio
playing, tubes all worn-out sitting there on that worn-down rug, ah my,  the
MIRROR, and I'd be watching, and I'd say:

     "Tito, it's in your ass. feel it?"
     "oh yes, oh my yes - SHOVE! hey! where ya GOING?"
      "now,  Baby, you got it in front here, umm? feel it? big purple  head,
like a snake singing arias! feel me love?"
     "oooh, dahling, I think I'm gonna c-..HEY! where ya GOING?"
      "Tito,  I  am back in your rumble seat. I am parting you in  two.  you
don't have a chance!"
     "oooh god ooooh, HEY where ya GOING? get back in there!"
     "I dunno."
      "I  dunno  who I want to catch it. what can I do? I want you  both,  I
can't HAVE you both! And while trying to make up my mind I am in a terror of
demise  and  agony  trying  to  hold  it!  doesn't  anybody  understand   my
suffering?"
     "no, just give it to me!"
     "no, me, me!"
     THEN THE BIG FIST OF THE LAW.
     "bang! BanG! BANG!
     "hey, what's going on in there?"
     "nuttin'."
      "nothing?  what's all that moaning and hollering and  screaming?  it's
3:30 a.m. you've got four floors of people wide awake and wonderin-"
      "please  go away. my mother has a bad heart. you are terrorizing  her.
and she's down to her last pawn."
     "and YOU are too, buddy! In case you don't know, this happens to be the
Los Angeles Police Department-"
     "christ, I'd have never guessed-"
     "now you've guessed. o.k. open up or we'll kick it down!"
      Tito and Baby ran into the far corner of the dining room, crouched and
shivering, holding, hugging their aging wrinkled and wino and insane bodies.
they were stupidly lovely.
     "open up here, buddy, we been up here four times in the past week and a
half  on the same call. you think we like to go around just throwing  people
in jail just because it makes us feel good?"
     "yeah."
     "Captain Bradley says he doesn't care whether you are black or white."
     "you tell Captain Bradley that I feel the same way."
      I  kept  quiet. the two whores shivering and clutching their  wrinkled
bodies  by the corner lampshade. the bland and smothering silence of  willow
leaves in a chickenshit and unkind winter.
     they had gotten the key from the manager and the door was open 4 inches
but  it  was being held by the chain which I had on there. one of  the  cops
talked  to me while the other pushed with a screwdriver, trying to work  the
chain  out of the slot-holder. I'd let the cop get it almost out,  then  I'd
push  the  end of the chain all the way back in. while standing there  naked
with this hard-on.
      "you are violating my rights. you need a search warrant to enter here.
you  can't  force entry just on your own behest. What the hell's wrong  with
you guys."
     "which one of those is supposed to be our mother."
     "the one with the biggest ass."
      the other cop almost had the chain off again. I pushed it back with my
finger.
     "come on, let us in, we'll just talk."
     "what about? the wonders of Disneyland?"
     "no, no, you sound like an interesting man. we just want to come in and
talk."
     "you must think I'm subnormal. if I ever get queer enough for bracelets
I'll buy them at Thrifty's. I'm not guilty of a damn thing but a hard-on and
a loud radio and you haven't asked me to shut either of them off."
     "just let us in. all we want to do is talk."
      "listen, you are attempting to break and enter without a permit.  now,
I've got the best lawyer in town-"
     "a lawyer? whatta you got a lawyer for?"
      "I've  used  him  for years - draft dodging, indecent exposure,  rape,
drunk  driving, disturbing the peace, assault and battery, arson ---all  bad
raps."
     "he won all those cases?"
     "he's the best. now look, I'm giving you three minutes. either you stop
trying  to  force the door and leave me in peace of I'm getting him  on  the
phone. he won't like to be awakened at this time of the morning. he'll  have
your badges."
     the cops stepped back, a little way down the hall. I listened.
     "you think he knows what he's talking about?"
     "yes, I think he does."
     They came back.
     "your mother sure has a big ass."
     "too bad you can't have it, eh?"
     "all right, we're leaving, but you keep it quiet in there. we want that
radio off and all that moaning and hollering stopped."
     "all right, we'll turn off the radio."
      they left. what a pleasure to hear them leave. what a pleasure it  was
to have a good lawyer. what a pleasure it was to stay out of jail.
     I closed the door.
      "all  right, girls, they're gone. 2 nice young boys on the wrong path.
And now look!"
     I looked down. "it's gone, all gone away."
     "yes, it's all gone." said Baby. "where does it go? it's so sad."
     "shit," said Tito, "it looks like a dad little vienna sausage."
      I  walked  over and sat in a chair, poured a wine. Baby  rolled  us  3
cigarettes.
     "how's the wine?" I asked.
     "down to 4 bottles."
     "fifths or gallons?"
     "fifths."
     "jesus, we gotta get lucky."
      I  picked up a 4 day old newspaper. read the funnies. then went to the
sports section. while I was reading, Tito came on over, dropped down to  the
rug.  I  felt her working. she had a mouth like one of those toilet plungers
that unstopped toilets. I drank my wine and puffed at my cigarette.
      they'd  suck your brains out if you let them. I think they did  it  to
each other when I wasn't around.
      I  got  to  the horse page. "look here," I told Tito, "this horse  cut
fractions  of 22 and one fifth for the quarter, he's 44 and 4/5ths  for  the
half,  then  one  o nine for 6 furlongs, he must have thought  it  was  a  6
furlong race---"
     vurp virp slooom
     vissaaa ooop
     vop bop vop bop vop
      "---it's  a mile and a quarter, he's trying to sprint away from  these
routers, he's got 6 lengths turning the last curve and backing up, the horse
is dying, he wants to be back in the stable---"
     sllllurrrp
     sllurrrr vip vop vop
     vip vop vop
      "now  check  the jock --- if it's Blum he'll win by a  nose;  if  it's
Volske he'll win by 3/4's of a length. it's Volske. he wins by 3/4's  a  bet
down  from  12  to 8. all stable money, the public hates Volske.  they  hate
Volske and Harmatz. so the stables use these guys 2 or 3 times a meet on the
goodies to keep the public off. if it weren't for these two great riders, at
the right time, I'd be down on East 5th Street ---"
      "oooh,  you  bastard!" Tito lifted her head and screamed, knocked  the
newspaper out of my hand. then went back to work. I didn't know what to  do.
she  was really angry. then Baby walked over. Baby had very good legs and  I
lifted  her  purple  skirt and looked at the nylons. Baby  leaned  over  and
kissed  me, gave me the tongue down the throat. I got my palm on her haunch.
I  was  trapped. I didn't know what to do. I needed a drink. 3 idiots locked
together. o moaning and the flight of the last bluebird into the eye of  the
sun, it was a child's game, a stupid game.
      first quarter, 22 and 1/4, the half in 44 and 1/5, she smoked it  out,
victory  by  a  head, Calif. Rain of my body. figs broken lovely  open  like
great  red guts in the sun and sucked loose while your mother hated you  and
your father wanted to kill you and the backyard fence was green and belonged
to the Bank of America. Tito smoked it out while I fingered Baby.
      then  we seperated, each waiting the bathroom's turn to wipe the  snot
from  our  sexual noses. I was always last. I came out and took one  of  the
winebottles and went over to the window and looked out.
     "Baby, roll me another smoke."
      we  were on the top floor, the 4th. Floor, high up on a hill. but  you
can  look  out  on Los Angeles and get nothing, nothing at  all.  all  those
people down there sleeping, waiting to get up and go to work. it was stupid.
Stupid,  stupid  and  horrible. we had it right: eye,  say,  blue  on  green
staring deeply through shreds of beanfields, into each other, come.
     Baby brought me the cigarette. I inhaled and watched the sleeping city.
we  sat  and waited on the sun and whatever there was to be. I did not  like
the world, but at cautious and easy times you could almost understand it.
     I don't know where Tito and Baby are now, if they are dead or what, but
those  nights  were  good, pinching those high-heeled  legs,  kissing  nylon
knees.  all  that color of dresses and panties, and making the  L.A.  Police
Force earn the green.
     Spring or flowers or Summer will never be like that again.

     -charles bukowski -
      from  the  books:  The  Most Beautiful Woman in  Town  and  Erections,
Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness





     ===

        POLITICS IS LIKE TRYING TO SCREW
     A CAT IN THE ASS

     "Dear Mr. Bukowski:
     Why don't you ever write about politics or world affairs?"
     M.K.

     "Dear M.K.:
     What for? Like, what's new? --- everybody knows the bacon is
     burning."

      our raving takes place quite quietly while we are staring down at  the
hairs of a rug --- wondering what the shit went wrong when they blew up  the
trolley full of jellybeans with the poster of Popeye the Sailor stuck on the
side.
     that's all that matters: the good dream gone, and when that's gone it's
all  gone.  the  rest is horseshit games for the Generals and  money-makers,
speaking  of which --- I see where another U.S. bomber full of H-bombs  fell
out  of the sky again --- THIS time into the sea while SUPPOSEDLY protecting
my  life.  the  State Dept. says the H-bombs were "unarmed,"  whatever  that
means.  then we continue to read where one of the H-bombs (lost)  had  split
open   and  was  spreading  radioactive  shit  everywhere  while  supposedly
protecting  me  WHILE  I  hadn't even asked for protection.  the  difference
between a Democracy and a Dictatorship is that you don't have to waste  your
time voting.
      getting  back to the H-bomb dropout --- a little while back  the  same
thing  happened off the coast of SPAIN. (we are everywhere, protecting  me.)
again the bombs get lost --- careless little toys. it took them 3 months ---
if  I remember properly --- to find and lift that last bomb out of there. it
may  have  been 3 weeks but to the people in that coast town  it  must  have
seemed  3  years. that last bomb --- the god damned thing had gotten  itself
wedged  on  the  edge of a sandhill far down in the sea. and everytime  they
tried to hook the thing, so tenderly, it would shake loose and roll a little
further  down  the hill. meanwhile, all the poor people in that  coast  town
were  tossing in their beds at night wondering if they'd be blown  to  hell,
courtesy of the Stars and Stripes. of course, the U.S. State Dept. issued  a
state ment saying the H-bomb had no detonation fuse, but meanwhile the  rich
had  left  for  other parts and the American sailors and townspeople  looked
very  nervous.  (after all, it the things couldn't blow up  what  were  they
flying  them  around  for?  might as well carry 2-ton  salamis.  fuse  means
"spark"  or  "trigger," and "spark" can come from any where,  and  "trigger"
means  "jolt" or any similar action that will set off the firing  mechanism.
NOW the terminology is "unarmed," which sounds safer but is the same thing.)
anyhow, they hooked at the bomb but as the saying goes, the thing seemed  to
have a mind of its own. then a few undersea storms came about and our lovely
little bomb rolled further and further down its hill. the sea is very  deep,
much deeper than our leadership.
      finally, special equipment was designed just to haul bomb-ass and  the
thing  was  pulled from the sea. Palomares. yes, that's where  it  happened:
Palomares. and you know what they did next? ---
     the American Navy had a BAND CONCERT in the town park in celebration of
finding  the  bomb - if the thing wasn't dangerous they were really  cutting
loose.  yes, and the sailors played the music together, one big  sexual  and
spiritual release. whatever happened to the bomb they pulled out of the sea,
I  don't know, nobody (except the few) knows, and the band played on.  while
1,000  tons of radio- active Spanish topsoil was shipped to Aiken,  S.C.  in
sealed containers. I'll be the rent is cheap in Aiken, S.C.
      so  now  our  bombs are swimming and sinking, chilled and "un-  armed"
about Iceland.
      so  what do you do when you've got the people's minds on something not
so  good?  easy, you get their minds on something else. they can only  think
about one thing at a time. like, all right, head line of Jan. 23, 1968: B-52
CRASHES OFF GREENLAND WITH H-BOMBS; DANES IRKED. Danes irked? oh, mother!
      anyhow,  suddenly, Jan. 24, headline: NORTH KOREANS  SEIZE  U.S.  NAVY
SHIP.
      oh  boy, patriotism is back! why, those dirty bastards! I thought THAT
war was over! ah ha, I see --- the REDS! Korean puppets!
      it  says  under the A.P. wirephoto, something like this ---  the  U.S.
intelligence shop Pueblo --- formerly an army cargo ship, now converted into
one  of  the Navy's secret spy ships equipped with electric monitoring  gear
and  oceanographic equipment was forced into Wonsan Harbor off the coast  of
North Korea.
     those dirty Red bastards, always fucking around!
      but  I  DID notice that the lost H-bomb story got shoved into a  small
space: "Radiation Detected at B-52 Crash Site; Split Bomb hinted."
      we  are  told that the president was awakened between 2 a.m. and  2:30
a.m. and told of the capture of the Pueblo.
     I presume he went back to sleep.
      the U.S. says the Pueblo was in international waters; the Koreans  say
the shop was in territorial waters. one country is lying, one is not.
     then one wonders, what good is a spy ship in international waters? it's
like wearing a raincoat on a sunny day.
     the closer you can get on in, the better your instruments pick up.
     headline: Jan. 26, 1968: U.S. CALLS UP 14,700 AIR RESERVISTS.
      the lost H-bombs off Iceland have completely disappeared from print as
if it had never happened.
     meanwhile:
      Sen. John C. Stennis (D.-Miss.) said Mr. Johnson's decision (the call-
up of Air Reserves_ was "necessary and justified" and added, "I hope he will
not hesitate to mobilize ground reserve components as well."
      Senate  minority  leader, Richard B. Russell (D.-Ga.):  "In  the  last
analysis,  this country must get the return of that ship and  the  men  that
were  seized.  after  all, great wars have started from  much  less  serious
incidents than this."
      House Speaker John W. McCormack (D.-Mass.): "The American people  have
to  wake  up  to  the  realization that communism is  still  bent  on  world
domination. there is too much apathy about it."
      I  think  that if Adolph Hitler were around now he would  pretty  much
enjoy the present scene.
      what's  there  to  say about politics and world  affairs?  the  Berlin
Crisis,  the  Cuban crisis, spy planes, spy ships, Vietnam, Korea,  lost  H-
bombs,  riots in American cities, starvation in India, purge in  Red  China?
are there good guys and bad guys? some that always lie, some that never lie?
are  there  good  governments and bad governments? no, there  are  only  bad
governments and worse governments. will there be a flash of light  and  heat
that  rips  us apart one night while we are screwing or crapping or  reading
the  comic strips or pasting blue-chip stamps into a book? instant death  is
nothing  new, nor is mass instant death new. but we've improved the product;
we've  had  these centuries of knowledge and culture and discovery  to  work
with;  the libraries are fat and crawling and overcrowded with books;  great
paintings  sell  for  hundreds of thousands of dollars; medical  science  is
transplanting the human heart; you can't tell a madman from a sane one  upon
the  streets,  and suddenly we find our lives, again, in the  hands  of  the
idiots.  the  bombs  may never drop; the bombs might  drop.  eeney,  meeney,
miney, mo-
     now if you'll forgive me, dear readers, I'll get back to the whores and
the  horses and the booze, while there's time. if these contain death, then,
to me, it seems far less offensive to be responsible for your own death than
the  other  kind which is brough to you fringed with phrases of Freedom  and
Democracy and Humanity and/or any of all that Bullshit.
      first  post,  12:30. first drink, now. and the whores will  always  be
around. Clara, Penny, Alice, Jo-
     eeny, meeney, miney, mo-


     ===

     swastika

      The  President  of  the  United States of  America  entered  his  car,
surrounded  by  his  agents. He sat in the back seat.  It  was  a  dark  and
unimpressive morning. Nobody spoke. They rolled away and the tires could  be
heard on a street still wet from the preceding night's rain. The silence was
more unusual than it had ever been before.
     They drove along a while and then the President spoke:
     "Say, this isn't the way to the airport."
      His agents didn't answer. A vacation had been scheduled. Two weeks  at
his private home. His plane was waiting at the airport.
      It  began  to drizzle. It looked as if it might rain again.  The  men,
including the President, were dressed in heavy overcoats; hats; it made  the
car seem very full. Outside, the cold wind was steady.
     "Driver," said the President, "I believe you're on the wrong course."
     The driver didn't answer. The other agents stared straight ahead.
      "Listen," said the President, "will somebody tell that man the way  to
the airport?"
      "We're  not  going to the airport," said the agent to the  President's
left.
     "We're not going to the airport?" the President asked.
     The agents were again quiet. The drizzle became rain. The driver turned
the wipers on.
     "Listen, what is it?" asked the President. "What's going on here?"
      "It's been raining for weeks," said the agent next to the driver.  "It
gets depressive. "I'll certainly be glad to see a little sunshine."
     "Yes, me too," said the driver.
     "Something's wrong here," said the President, "I demand to know-"
      "You  are  no longer in a position to demand," said the agent  to  the
President's right.
     "You mean?-"
     "We mean," said the same agent.
     "Is it to be an assassination?" asked the President.
     "Hardly. That's old-fashioned."
     "Then what-"
     "Please. We have orders not to discuss anything."

     They drove for some hours. It continued to rain. Nobody spoke.
     "Now," said the agent to the President's left, "circle again, then turn
in. We're not being followed. The rain has been very helpful."
      The  car  circled the area, then turned up a small dirt road.  It  was
muddy  and now and then the tires spun, slipped, then gripped again and  the
car  went on. A man in a yellow raincoat held a flashlight and directed them
into  an  open  garage. It was an isolated area with  many  trees.  A  small
farmhouse sat to the left of the garage. The agents opened the car doors.
      "Get  out," they told the President. The President did so. The  agents
kept  the  President carefully between them, although there wasn't  a  human
within miles except for the man with the flashlight and the yellow raincoat.
      "I don't see why we couldn't have done the whole thing here," said the
man in the yellow raincoat. "It certainly seems much riskier the other way."
     "Orders," said one of the agents. "You know how it is. He's always gone
a lot on intuition. He does so now, more than ever."
     "It's very cold. Do you have time for a cup of coffee? It's ready."
     "That's good of you. It's been a long drive. I presume the other car is
all ready to go?"
      "Of  course. It's been checked again and again. Actually, we're  about
ten  minutes  ahead  on  the timetable. That's one reason  I  suggested  the
coffee. You know how he is about precision."
     "O.K., then, let's go in."
      Keeping  the  President  carefully  between  them,  they  entered  the
farmhouse.
     "You sit there," one of the agents told the President.
     "It's good coffee," said the man in the yellow raincoat, "hand-ground."
      He  walked around with the pot. He poured himself one, then sat  down,
still in the yellow raincoat, only the headpiece thrown on the stove.
     "Ah, it is good," said on of the agents.
     "Cream And sugar?" one of them asked the President.
     "All right," he said-

      There wasn't much room in the old car but they all managed to get  in,
with  the President again in the back seat-The old car also slipped  in  the
mud  and rutholes but made it to the road. Again, it was a silent ride  most
of the way. Then one of the agents lit a cigarette.
     "Damn it, I just can't stop smoking!"
     "Well, it's a hard thing to do, that's all. Don't worry about it."
     "I'm not worried about it. Just disgusted with myself."
     "Well, forget all that. This is a great day in History."
     "I'll say so!" said the one with the cigarette.
     Then he inhaled-

     They parked outside an old roominghouse. It continued to rain. They sat
there some moments.
      "Now,"  said the agent next to the driver, "get him out.  It's  clear.
Nobody on the streets."
      They  walked the President between them, first through the front door,
then  up 3 flights of steps, always keeping the President between them. They
stopped and knocked at 306. The signal: one knock, pause, two knocks-
      The  door was opened and the men quickly pushed the President  inside.
The door was then locked and bolted. Three men were waiting inside. Two were
in their 50's. The other sat in an outfit that consisted of an old laborer's
shirt,  2nd-hand trousers that were too large and ten dollar shoes,  scuffed
and  unpolished. He sat in a rocker in the center of the room. He was in his
80's  but  he smiled-and the eyes were those same eyes; the nose, the  chin,
the forehead hadn't changed much.
     "Welcome, Mr. President. I've waited a long time on History and Science
and You, and all have arrived, on schedule, today-"
      The President looked at the old man in the rocker. "Great God! You're-
you are-"
      "You've  recognized me! Others of your citizens have made jokes  about
the similarity! Too stupid to even realize that I was-"
     "But it was proven that-"
      "Of course, it was proven. The bunkers: April 30th, 1945. We wanted it
that way. I've been patient. Science was with us but at times I had to speed-
up  History. We wanted the right man. You are the right man. The others were
too  impossible --- too alienated from my political philosophy- You are  far
more  ideal. By working through you it will be easier. But as I said, I  had
to speed-up the reel of History a bit-my age-I had to-"
     "You mean-?"
     "Yes. I had your president Kennedy assassinated. And then, his brother-
"
     "But why the 2nd assassination?"
      We had information that that young man would have won the presidential
election."
      "But what are you going to do with me? I've been told that I'm not  to
be assassinated-"
     "May I introduce Drs. Graf and Voelker?"
     The two men nodded at the President and smiled.
     "But what is going to happen?" asked the President.
      "Please.  Just a moment. I must question my men. Karl, how did  it  go
with The Double?"
      "Fine.  We phoned from the farm. The Double arrived at the airport  on
schedule.  The  Double  announced, that due to weather  conditions,  he  was
canceling the flight until tomorrow. Then The double announced that he would
take a pleasure drive-that it pleased him to be driven about in the rain-"
     "And the rest?" asked the old man.
     "The Double is dead."
      "Fine. Let's get on with it then. History and Science have arrived  on
Time."
      The agents began walking the President toward one of the two operating
tables.  They  asked him to disrobe. The old man walked to the other  table.
Drs.  Graf  and Voelker climbed into their medical gowns and made ready  for
the task-
      The young-looking of the 2 men arose from one of the operating tables.
He  dressed  himself in the President's clothing, then walked to  the  full-
length  mirror  on  the north wall. He stood for a good 5 minutes.  Then  he
turned.
     "It is miraculous! Not even any operating scars-no recuperating period.
Congratulations, gentlemen! How do you do it?"
      "Well,  Adolph," answered one of the doctors, "we've come a  long  way
since-"
      "WAIT!  I am never to be addressed as 'Adolph' again-until the  proper
time,  until I say so!-Until then, there will be no German spoken-I  am  now
the President of the United States of America!"
     "Yes, Mr. President!"
     Then he reached and touched above his upper lip:
     "But I do miss the old mustache!"
     They smiled.
     Then he asked:
     "And the old man?"
      "We've placed him in the bed. He will not awaken for 24 hours. At this
moment-everything-all  appendages of the oper- ation  have  been  destroyed,
dissolved.  All  we  need  do is walk out of here," said  Dr.Graf.  "But-Mr.
President, it is my suggestion that this man be-"
     "No, I tell you, he's helpless! Let him suffer as I have suffered!"
      He  walked  over to the bed and looked down at the man. A white-haired
old man in his 80's.
     "Tomorrow I'll be in his private home. I wonder how his wife will enjoy
my lovemaking?" he gave a small laugh.
     "I'm sure, mein Fuhrer-I'm sorry! Please! I'm sure, Mr. President, that
she will enjoy your love-making very much."
      "Let's leave this place, then. The doctors first, to go their way.then
the  rest of us-one or two at a time-a transfer of cars, then a good night's
sleep at the White House."

      The old man with the white hair awakened. He was alone in the room. He
could  escape.  He got out of the bed in search of his clothing  and  as  he
walked across the room he saw an old man in a full-length mirror.

     No, he thought, oh my god, no!
      He  raised an arm. The old man in the mirror raised an arm.  He  moved
forward. The old man in the mirror enlarged. He looked down at his hands ---
wrinkled,  and not his hands! And he looked down at his feet!  They  weren't
his feet! It wasn't his body!
     "My God!" he said aloud, "OH MY GOD!"
      Then  he  heard  his  voice.  It wasn't even  his  own  voice.  They'd
transferred  the  voice  box also. He felt his throat,  his  head  with  his
fingers. No scars! No scars anywhere. He got into the old man's clothing and
ran  down the stairway. At the first door he knocked on the door was  marked
"Landlady."
     The door opened. An old woman.
     "Yes, Mr. Tilson?" she asked.
      "'Mr.  Tilson?'  Lady,  I am the President of  the  United  States  of
America! This is an emergency!"
     "Oh, Mr. Tilson, you're so funny!"
     "Look, where's your telephone?"
      "Right where it has always been, Mr. Tilson. Just to the left  of  the
entrance door."
      He  felt in his pockets. They had left him change. He looked into  the
wallet. $18. He put a dime in the phone.
     "Lady, what's the address here?"
      "Now,  Mr. Tilson, you know the address. You've lived here for  years!
You're  acting  very  strange today, Mr. Tilson. And  I  want  to  tell  you
something else!"
     "Yes, yes- what is it?"
     "I want to remind you that your rent is due today!"
     "Oh, lady, please tell me the address here!"
     "As if you didn't know! It's 2435 Shoreham Drive."
      "Yes,"  he  said into the phone, "cab? I want a cab at  2435  Shoreham
Drive.  I'll be waiting on the first floor. My name? My name? All right,  my
name is Tilson-"
      It's  no  use  going to the White House, he thought,  they  have  that
covered-I'll  go  to the largest newspaper. I'll tell them.  I'll  tell  the
editor everything, everything that happened-

      The  other patients laughed at him. "See that guy? The guy that  kinda
looks  like that dictator-fellow, what'-his-name, only a lot older.  Anyhow,
when he came in here a month ago he claimed that he was the President of the
United  States of America. That was a month ago. He doesn't say it too  much
now. But he sure likes to read the newspapers. I never saw a guy who was  so
eager  to  read  a newspaper. He does know a lot about politics,  though.  I
guess that's what drove him crazy. Too much politics."
     The dinner bell rang. All the patients responded. Except one.
     A male nurse walked up to him.
     "Mr. Tilson?"
     There wasn't any answer.

        "MR. TILSON?"
     "Oh-yes?"
     "It's time to eat, Mr. Tilson!"
      The  old  white-haired man rose and walked slowly toward the patients'
dining room.

     -charles bukowski -
      from  the  books:  The  Most Beautiful Woman in  Town  and  Erections,
Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness


     ===

     **Trouble with a Battery**

      I  bought her a drink and then another drink and then we went  up  the
stairway  behind the bar. there were several large rooms there. she  had  me
hot.  sticking  her  tongue out at me. and we played  all  the  way  up  the
stairway. I took the first one, standing up, inside the door. she just  slid
back her panties and I put it in.
      then we went into the bedroom and there was some kid in the other bed,
there were two beds, and the kid said, "hello."
     "it's my brother," she said.
      the kid looked real thin and vicious, but then almost everybody in the
world looked vicious when you thought about it.
      there were several bottles of wine along the headboard. they opened  a
bottle  and  I  waited until they both drank from the bottle, then  I  tried
some.
     I threw a ten on the dresser.
     the kid really drank at the wine.
     "his big brother is the great bullfighter, Jaime Bravo."
     "I've heard of Jaime Bravo, he fights mostly out of T.," I said,
     "but you don't have to give me any bullshit."
     "o.k.," she said, "no bullshit."
      we  drank and talked for some time, just small easy talk. and then she
turned out the lights and with the brother there in the other bed, we did it
again. I had my wallet under her pillow.
      when we finished she hit the light and went to the bathroom while  her
brother  and I passed the bottle. while the brother wasn't looking  I  wiped
off on the sheet.
      she  came out of the bathroom and she still looked good, I mean  after
two  shots  at it, she still looked good. her breasts were small  but  firm;
what there was of them really jutted. and her ass was big, big enough.
     "why did you come to this place?" she asked, moving toward the bed. she
slid in beside me, pulled up the sheet, pulled from the bottle.
     "I had to get my battery charged across the street."
     "after that one," she said, "you'll need a charge."
     we all laughed. even the brother laughed. then he looked at her:
     "is he all right?"
     "sure he's all right," she said.
     "what's all that?" I asked.
     "we have to be careful."
     "I don't know what you mean."
      "one  of  the  girls was almost murdered up here last year.  some  guy
gagged  her so she couldn't scream and then took a pen knife and  cut  these
crosses all over her body. she almost bled to death."
      the  brother dressed very slowly, then left. I gave her  a  five.  she
threw it on the dresser with the ten.
     she passed the wine. it was good wine, French wine. you didn't gag.
     she put her leg up against mine. we were both sitting up in bed. it was
very comfortable.
     "how old are you?" she asked.
     "damn near half a century."
     "you can sure go, but you look real beat-up."
     "I'm sorry. I'm not very pretty."
     "oh no, I think you're a beautiful man. didn't anybody ever tell you?"
     "I'll bet you say that to all the men you fuck."
     "no, I don't."
     we sat there a while, passing the bottle. it was very quiet except that
you  could hear a little music from the bar downstairs. I passed into a kind
of dream-trance.
     "HEY!" she yelled. she jammed a long fingernail into my bellybutton.
     "ow! god damn!"
     "LOOK at me!"
     I turned and looked at her.
     "what do you see?"
     "a fine-looking Mexican-Indian girl."
     "how can you see?"
     "what?"
      "how  can  you see? you don't open your eyes. you keep  your  eyes  in
little slits. why?"
     it was a fair question. I took a good pull at the French wine.
      "I don't know. maybe I'm afraid. afraid of everything. I mean, people,
buildings, things, everything. mainly people."
     "I'm afraid too," she said.
     "but your eyes are open. I like your eyes."
      she was hitting the wine. hard. I knew those Mexican-Americans. I  was
waiting for her to get nasty.
      then there was a rapping on the door that damn near shitted me out. it
was flung open, viciously, American-style, and there was the bartender - big
red brutal banal bastard.
     "ain't you through with that son of a bitch yet?"
     "I think he wants some more," she said.
     "do you? asked Mr. Banal.
     "I think so," I said.
      his  eyes  eagled over to the money on the dresser and he slammed  the
door. a money society. THEY thought it was magic.
     "that was my husband, sort of," she said.
     "I don't think I want to go again," I said.
     "why not?"
      "first, I'm 48. second, it's kind of like fucking in the waiting  room
of a bus station."
      she  laughed. "I'm what you guys call a 'whore.' I must fuck 8 or  ten
guys a week, at least."
     "that sure doesn't help my cause."
     "it helps mine."
     "yeh."
     we passed the bottle back and forth.
     "you like to fuck women?"
     "that's why I'm here."
     "how about men?"
     "I don't fuck men."
     she pulled at the bottle. she must have taken a good one-quarter of it.
      "maybe you'd like it in the ass? maybe you'd like a man to fuck you in
the ass?"
     "you're talking crazy now."
      she  looked  straight ahead. there was a little silver Christ  on  the
further wall. she kept looking at the little silver Christ on his cross.  he
was very pretty.
      "maybe you've been hiding it. maybe you want somebody to fuck  you  in
the ass."
     "o.k., have it your way - maybe that's what I really want."
      I  got  the  corkscrew and pulled out the top of a  new  French  wine,
meanwhile  getting a bunch of cork and shit into the wine as I  always  did.
only a waiter in the movies could open a French wine without that trouble.
      I took the first good gulp. cork and all. I handed her the bottle. her
leg  had dropped away. she had a fish-like look on her face. She took a good
swallow.
      I  took the wine back from her. the little splints of cork didn't seem
to know where to go in the bottle. I got rid of some of them.
     "you want me to fuck you in the ass?" she asked.
     "WHAT?"
     "I can DO it!"
      she  got  out  of  bed and went to the top drawer of the  dresser  and
strapped this belt around her waist and then faced me ---and there,  looking
at me, was this BIG celluloid cock.
      "ten  inches!" she laughed, pushing out her belly, jutting  the  thing
toward me, "and it never gets soft and it never wears out!"
     "I liked you better the other way."
       "you   don't  believe  my  big  brother  is  Jaime  Bravo  the  great
bullfighter?"
      there  she was standing there with this celluloid cock on,  asking  me
about Jaime Bravo.
     "I don't think Bravo could cut it in Spain," I said.
     "could you cut it in Spain?"
      "hell,  I can't cut it in Los Angeles. Now please take that ridiculous
artificial cock off-"
     she unhooked the thing and put it back in the top dresser drawer.
     I got out of bed and sat in a straight-backed chair, drinking the wine.
she  found  another chair, and there we sat across from each  other,  naked,
passing the wine.
      "this reminds me somehow of an old Leslie Howard movie, although  they
wouldn't  shoot this part. wasn't Howard in the Somerset Maugham  thing?  OF
HUMAN BONDAGE?"
     "I don't know those people."
     "that's right. you're too young."
     "did you like this Howard, this Maugham?"
     "they both had style. plenty of style. but, somehow, with both of them,
hours or days or years later, you felt gypped, finally."
     "but they had this thing you call 'style'?"
     "now you're learning."
      then I got back into bed. she came on in. I tried it again. I couldn't
make it.
     "you suck?" I asked.
     "sure."
     she took it in her mouth and got it out of me.
      I gave her another five, dressed, took another drink of wine, and made
it  down the stairway, across the street to the gas station. the battery was
fully-charged. I paid the attendant and then backed on out, hit up 8th  ave.
a  cop  on the bike finally gave up and tailed after a Jap who made a sudden
left  turn  without blinkers or hand signal on Wilshire blvd. they  deserved
each other.
      when I got to my place the woman was asleep and the little girl wanted
me  to read to her from a book called BABY SUSAN'S CHICKEN. it was terrible.
Bobby  found a cardboard carton for the chicks to sleep in. he set it  in  a
corner  behind the kitchen stove. and Bobby put some of Baby Susan's  cereal
in  a  little dish and set it carefully in the carton, so the little  chicks
could  have  some dinner, and Baby Susan laughed and clapped her fat  little
hands.
      it turns out later that the 2 other chicks are roosters and Baby Susan
is  a  hen,  a hen who lays a most wondrous egg. I'll say. I put the  little
girl down and went into the bathroom and let the hot water run into the tub.
then I got into the tub and thought, the next time I get a dead battery I'll
go  to  a  movie.  then  I  stretched out into  the  hot  water  and  forgot
everything. almost.


     ===

     **THE COPULATING MERMAID OF VENICE, CALIFORNIA**

      The  bar  had closed and they still had to make the walk to therooming
house, and there it was --- the hearse had driven up across the street where
the Stomach Hospital was.
      "I  think this is THE night," said Tony "I can feel it in my blood,  I
really can!"
     "The night for what?" asked Bill.
     "Look," said Tony, "we know their operation well by now. Let's get one!
What the fuck? You got the guts?"
     "Whatsa matta? You think I'm coward because that runtysailor whipped my
ass?"
     "I didn't say that, Bill."
     "You're the coward! I can whip you, easy-"
      "yeah.  I know. I'm not talking about that. I say, let's grab a  stiff
just for laughs."
     "Shit! Let's grab TEN stiffs!
      "Wait. You're drunk now. Let's wait. We know the operation.We know how
they operate. We been watching every night."
     "And you're not drunk, eh? You wouldn't have the GUTS otherwise!"
      "Quiet now! Watch! Here they come. They've got a stiff. Some poor guy.
Look at that sheet pulled over his head. It's sad."
     "I am looking. And it is sad-"
     "Okay, we know the operation: if it's just one stiff, they toss him in,
light  their  cigarettes and drive off. But if it's two stiffs,  they  don't
bother locking the hearse door twice. They're real cool boys. It's just  old
stuff  with them. If it's two stiffs, they just leave the guy on the  roller
there  behind the hearse, go in and get the other stiff, then toss  them  in
together. How many nights have we watched it?"
     "I dunno," said Bill, "sixty, at least."
      "Okay, now there's the one stiff. If they go back for another --- that
stiff belongs to us. You game for grabs if they go in for another stifff?"
     "I'm game! I got double your guts!"
     "okay, then, watch. We'll know in a minute-Oops, there they go! They're
going in for another stiff!" said Tony. "You game?"
     "Game," said Bill.
      They sprinted across the street and grabbed the corpse by the head and
feet.  Tony had the head, that sad head wrapped so tight in the sheet, while
Bill grabbed the feet.
      Then  they  ran across the street, the pure white sheet of the  corpse
floating  in the momentum --- sometimes you could see an ankle, an elbow,  a
thigh of flesh, and then they ran it up the room- ing house front steps, got
to  the  door  and Bill said, "Jesus Christ, who's got the  key?  Look,  I'm
scared!"
     "We don't have much time! Those bastards are gonna be out soon with the
other  stiff!  Throw him in the hammock! Quick! We gotta  find  a  goddamned
key!"
     They tossed the stiff into the hammock. It rocked back and forth in the
hammock under the moonlight.
      "Can't  we  take  the body back?" asked Bill. "Good God  oh  Mother  o
Mighty, can't we take the body back?"
      "No  time! Too late! They'd see us. HEY! WAIT!" yelled Tony. "I  found
the key!"
     "THANK JESUS!"
      They unlocked the door, then grabbed the thing on the hammock and  ran
up  the  stairway with it. Tony's room was closest. second floor. There  was
quite a bit of bumping with the corpse along the stairway wall and railing.
      Then  they had it outside Tony's door and stretched it out while  Tony
looked  for his door key. They got the door open, plopped the stiff  on  the
bed and then went to the refrigerator and got hold of Tony's cheap gallon of
muscatel, had half a waterglass full each, then refilled, came back  to  the
bedroom, sat down and
     looked at the stiff.
     "Do you suppose anybody saw us?" asked Bill.
     "If they had, I think the cops would be up here by now."
     "Do you think they'll search the neighborhood?"
      "How  can they? How can they go knocking on doors at this time of  the
morning, asking, 'Do you have a dead body?'"
     "Shit, I guess you're right."
      "Sure, I'm right," said Tony, "still, I can't help wondering how those
two  guys felt when they came back and saw the body gone? It must have  been
kind of funny."
     "Yeah," said Bill, "it musta been."
      "Well,  funny or not, we've got the stiff. There he is, right  on  the
bed."
     They looked at the thing under the sheet, had another drink.
      "I  wonder when they begin to stiffen up? I wonder when they begin  to
stink?"
     "That rigor mortis takes a bit of time, I think," said Tony.
      "But he'll probably begin to stink pretty soon. It's just like garbage
left  in  the sink. I don't think they drain the blood until they reach  the
mortuary."
     So, two drunks, they went on drinking the muscatel; they even forgot at
times  about  the  body, and they spoke of those vague and  important  other
things in their rather inarticulate way. Then it was back to the body again.
     The body was still there.
     "What we gonna do with it?" asked Bill.
     "Stand it up in the closet after it stiffens up. It seemed pretty loose
when we were carrying it. Probably died about a half and hour ago or so."
      "So,  okay, we stand it up in the closet. Then what do we do  when  it
starts to stink?"
     "I never thought about that part," said Tony.
     "Think about it," said Bill, pouring a good one.
      Tony tried to think about it. "You know, we might go to jail for this.
If we get caught."
     "Sure, so?"
     "Well, I think we made a mistake, but it's too late."
     "Too late," repeated Bill.
      "So," said Tony, pouring a tall one, "if we are stuck with this  stiff
we might as well have a look at him."
     "Look at him?"
     "Yeah, look at him."
     "You got the guts?" asked Bill.
     "I dunno."
     "You scared?"
     "Sure. No training in this sort of thing," said Tony.
      "All  right. You pull the sheet back," said Bill, "only fill my  glass
first. Fill my glass, then pull the sheet back."
     "Okay," said Tony.
     He filled Bill's glass. Then walked over.
     "All right," said Tony, "here GOES!"
      Tony  pulled the sheet straight back over the body. He kept  his  eyes
closed.
     "Good GOD!" said Bill, "it's a woman! A young woman!"
      Tony  opened  his eyes. "Yeah. Was young. Christ, look  at  that  long
blonde  hair,  goes way down past her asshole. But she's DEAD! terribly  and
finally dead, forever. What a shame! I don't understand it."

     "How old you figure she was?"
     "She doesn't look dead to me," said bill.
     "She is."
      "But  look at those breasts! Those thighs! That pussy! That pussy:  it
still looks alive!"
      "Yeah," said Tony, "the pussy, they say: it's the first thing to  come
and the last thing to go."
      Tony  walked over to the pussy, touched it. then he lifted  a  breast,
kissed the damned dead thing. "It's so sad, everything is so sad --- that we
live all our lives like idiots and then finally die."
     "You shouldn't touch the body," said Bill.
     "She's beautiful," said Tony, "even dead, she's beautiful."
      "Yeah, but if she were alive she wouldn't even look at a bum like  you
twice. You know that, don't you?"
     "Sure! And that's just the point! Now she can't say, 'NO!'"
     "What the hell are you talking about?"
     "I mean," said Tony, "that my cock is hard. VERY HARD!"
     Tony walked over and poured a glassful from the jug. Drank it down.
      Then he walked over to the bed, began kissing the breasts, running his
hands  through her long hair, and then finally kissingthat dead mouth  in  a
kiss from the living to the dead. And then he mounted.
      It  was GOOD. Tony rammed and jammed. Never such a fuck as this in all
his days! He came. Then rolled off, toweled himself with the sheet.
      Bill  had watched the whole thing, lifting the gallon muscatel jug  in
the dim lamplight.
     "Christ, Bill, it was beautiful, beautiful!"
     "You're crazy! You just fucked a dead woman!"
      "And  you've been fucking dead women all your life --- deadwomen  with
dead souls and dead pussies --- only you didn't know it!
     I'm sorry, Bill, she was a beautiful buck. I have no shame."
     "Was she that good?" asked Bill.
     "You'll never believe it."
     Tony walked to the bathroom to take a piss.
      When  he  got  back, Bill had mounted the body. Bill was  going  good.
Moaning  and  groaning a bit. Then he reached over, kissed that dead  mouth,
and came.
     Bill rolled off, hit the edge of the sheet, wiped off.
     "You're right. Best fuck I ever had!"
     Then they both sat in their chairs and looked at her.
     "Wonder what her name was?" asked Tony. "I'm in love."
      Bill laughed. "Now I know you're drunk! Only a damn fool falls in love
with a living woman; now you gotta get hooked on a dead one."
     "Okay, I'm hooked," said Tony.
     "All right, you're hooked," said bill, "whatta we do now?"
     "Get her the hell outa here!" answered Tony.
     "How?"
     "Same way we got her in --- down the stairway."
     "Then?"
      "Then into your car. We drive her down to Venice Beach, throw her into
the ocean."
     "That's cold."
     "She won't feel it any more than she felt your cock."
     "And how about your cock?" asked Bill.
     "She didn't feel that either," answered Tony.
     There she was, double-fucked, dead-laid on the sheets.
     "Let's make it, baby!" screamed Tony.
     Tony grabbed the feet and waited. Bill grabbed the head. As they rushed
out  of Tony's room the doorway was still open. Tony kicked it shut with his
left  foot as they moved toward the top of the stairway, the sheet no longer
wound  about the body but, more or less, flopped over it. Like a wet dishrag
over a kitchen faucet. And again, there was much bumping of her head and her
thighs and her big ass against the stariway walls and stairway railings.
     They threw her into the back seat of Bill's car.
     "Wait, wait, baby!" screamed Tony.
     "What for?"
     The muscatel jug, asshole!"
     "Oh, sure."
     Bill sat waiting with the dead cunt in the back seat.
     Tony was a man of his word. He came running out with the jug of muski.
      They got on the freeway, passing the jug back and forth, drinking good
mouthfuls.  It  was  a warm and beautiful night and the Moon  was  full,  of
course.  But it wasn't exactly night. By then it was 4:15 a.m. A  good  time
anyhow.
      They parked. Then had another drink of the good muscatel, got the body
out  and carried it that long sandy dandy walk toward the sea. Then they got
down  to that part of the sand where the sea reached now and then, that part
of  the  sand that was wet, soaked, full of little sand crabs and  airholes.
They  put  the  body down and drank from the jug. Now and then an  excessive
wave rolled a bit over all of them: Bill, Tony, the dead Cunt.
      Bill  had to get up to piss and having been taught nineteenth  century
morals  he  walked a bit up the shore to piss. As his friend  did  so,  Tony
pulled  back the sheet and looked at the dead face in the seaweed twist  and
swirl, in the salty morning air. Tony looked at the face as Bill was pissing
offshore.  A  lovely kind face, nose a little too sharp,  but  a  very  good
mouth,  and  then  with her body stiffening already, he leaned  forward  and
kissed her very gently upon the mouth and said, "I love you, dead bitch."
     Then he covered her with the sheet.
     Bill finished pissing, came back. "I need another drink."
     "Go ahead. I'll take one too."
     Tony said, "I'm going to swim her out."
     "Can you swim good?"
     "Not too well."
     "I'm a good swimmer. I'll swim her out."
     "NO! NO!" screamed Tony.
     "Goddamn it, stop yelling!"
     "I'm going to swim her out!"
     "All right! All right!"
      Tony  took  another drink, pulled the sheet aside, picked her  up  and
carried  her  step  by  step toward the breakers. He  was  drunker  than  he
figured. Several times the big waves knocked them both down, knocked her out
of  his arms, and he had to get to his feet, run, swim, struggle to find the
body.  Then  he'd  see  her --- that long long hair. She  was  just  like  a
mermaid.  Maybe she was a mermaid. finally Tony floated her out  beyond  the
breakers.  It  was quiet. halfway between moon and sunrise. He floated  with
her  some  moments. It was very quiet. A time within time and a time  beyond
time.
      Finally,  he  gave  the  body a little shove. She  floated  off,  half
underwater, the strands of long hair whirling about the body. She was  still
beautiful,  dead  or  whatever she was. She began to float  away  from  him,
caught in some tide. The sea had her.
      Then suddenly he turned from her, tried to swim back toward the shore.
It seemed very far away. He made it in with the last stroke of his strength,
rolling  in with the force of the last breaker. He picked himself up,  fell,
got up, walked forward, sat down beside Bill.
     "So, she's gone," said Bill.
     "Yeh. Shark meat."
     "Do you think we'll ever be caught?"
     "No. Give me a drink."
     "Go easy. We're getting close to the bottom."
     "Yeah."
     They got back to the car. Bill drove. They argued over the final drinks
on the way home, then Tony thought about the mer- maid. He put his head down
and began to cry.
     "You were always chickenshit," said Bill, "always chickenshit."
     They made it back to the rooming house.
      Bill  went to his room. Tony to his. The sun was coming up. The  world
was  awakening. Some were awakening with hangovers. some were awakening with
thoughts  of  church.  Most were still asleep. A  Sunday  morning.  And  the
mermaid,  the mermaid with that dead sweet tail, she was well  out  to  sea.
While  somewhere  a  pelican dove, came up with a glittering,  guitar-shaped
fish.

     -charles bukowski -
      from  the  books:  The  Most Beautiful Woman in  Town  and  Erections,
Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness



     ===

     **ALL THE GREAT WRITERS**

      Mason  had her on the phone. "yeh, well, listen, I was drunk. I  don't
remember WHAT I said to you! maybe it was true and maybe it wasn't! no,  I'm
NOT  sorry, I'm tired of being sorry-you what? you won't? well, god damn you
then!"
      Henry Mason hung up. it was raining again. even in the rain there  was
always trouble with women, there was always trouble with -
     it was the intercom buzzer. he picked up the phone.
     "there's a Mr. Burkett, a James Burkett-"
      "will  you tell him that his manuscripts have been returned? we mailed
them back yesterday. so sorry, all that."
     "but he insists on seeing you personally."
     "you can't get rid of him?"
     "no."
     "all right, send him in."
      a  bunch of damned extroverts. they were worse than clothing salesmen,
brush salesmen, they were worse than-
     in came James Burkett.
     "sit down, Jimmy."
     "only my friends call me 'Jimmy.'"
     "sit down, Mr. Burkett."
      you could tell by looking at Burkett that he was insane. a great self-
love  covered  him like a neon paint. there was no scrubbing it  off.  truth
wouldn't do it. they didn't know what truth was.
      "listen,"  said Burkett, lighting a cigarette and smiling  around  his
cigarette  like a temperamental & goofy bitch, "how come ya didn't  like  my
stuff? your secretary out there sez ya sent it back?"
      then  Mr. Burkett gave him the direct, the so direct look in the  eye,
playing at having SOUL. you were supposed to LOVE to do, so very hard to do,
and only Mr. Burkett didn't realize this.
     "it just wasn't any good, Burkett. that's all."
     Burkett tapped his cigarette out in the ashtray. now, he rammed it out,
jamming  it and twisting it in the tray. then he lit another cigarette,  and
holding the match out in front of him, flam- ing, he said:
     "hey, listen, man, don't give me that SHIT!"
     "it was terrible writing, Jimmy."
     "I said only my FRIENDS call me 'Jimmy'!"
     "it was shitty writing, Mr. Burkett, in our opinion, only, of course."
      "listen, man, I KNOW this game! you SUCK up right and you're  in!  but
you've got to SUCK! and I don't SUCK, man! my work stands alone!"
     "it certainly does, Mr. Burkett."
      "if  I  were a Jew or a fag or a commy or black it would be all  over,
man, I'd be in."
      "there  was a black writer in here yesterday who told me that  if  his
skin were white he'd be a millionaire."
     "all right, how about the fags?"
     "some fags write pretty good."
     "like Genet, huh?"
     "like Genet."
     "I gotta suck dick, huh? I gotta write about sucking dick, huh?"
     "I didn't say that."
      "listen, man, all I need is a little promotion. a little promotion and
I'll go. people will LOVE me! all they gotta do is SEE my stuff!"
      "listen, Mr. Burkett, this is a business. if we published every writer
who  demanded that we do so because his stuff was so great, we  wouldn't  be
here  very long. we have to make the judgment. if we're wrong too many times
we're finished. It's as simple as that. we print good writing that sells and
we  print bad writing that sells. we're in the selling market. we're  not  a
charity,  and frankly, we don't worry too much about the betterment  of  the
soul or the betterment of the world."
     "but my stuff will GO, Henry-"
     " 'Mr. Mason,' please! only my friends-"
     "what are trying to do, get SHITTY with me?"
      "look, Burkett, you're a pusher. as a pusher, you're great. why  don't
you sell mops or insurance or something?"
     "what's wrong with my writing?"
      "you can't push and write at the same time. only Hemingway was able to
do that, and then even he forgot how to write."
      "I  mean,  man,  what  don't you like about my  writing?  I  mean,  be
DEFINITE! Don't give me a lot of shit about Hemingway, man!"
     "1955."
     "1955? whatcha mean?"
      "I  mean,  you  were good then, but the needle's stuck.  you're  still
playing 1955 over and over again."
      "hell, life is life and I'm still writing about LIFE, man! there isn't
anything else! what the hell you giving me?"
      Henry  Mason  let out a long slow sigh and leaned back.  artists  were
intolerably dull. and near-sighted. if they made it they believed  in  their
own greatness no matter how bad they were. if they didn't make it they still
believed in their greatness