When I came back the waiter had my bill ready. I paid, tipped 20% and thanked him.
"See you tomorrow, amigo,“ he said.
"Maybe,“ I said.
"You'll be here,“ he said.
The other races ground on. I bet early on the 9th and left. I left ten minutes before post. I got to my car and moved out. At the end of parking on Century Boulevard by the signal there was an ambulance, a fire engine and two police cars. Two cars had hit head-on. There was glass everywhere, the cars were really mangled. Somebody had been in a hurry to get in and somebody had been in a hurry to get out. Horseplayers.
I moved around the crash and took a left on Century.
Just another day shot through the head and buried. It was Saturday afternoon in hell. I drove along with the others.
9/15/92 1:06 AM
Talk about a writer's block. I believe I was bitten by a spider. Three times. Noticed these 3 large red welts on my left arm the night of 9-08-92. Around 9 p.m. There was a slight pain to the touch. I decided to ignore it. But after 15 minutes I showed the marks to Linda. She had been to an emergency room earlier in the day. Something had left a stinger in her back. Now it was after 9 p.m., everything was closed except the Emergency Ward of the local hospital. I had been there before: I had fallen into a hot fireplace while drunk. I had not fallen into the fire directly but had fallen upon the hot surface while only wearing my shorts. Now, it was this. These welts.
"I think I'd feel like a fool going in there with just these welts. There are people in there bloodied from car crashes, knifings, shootings, attempted suicides, and all I have are 3 red welts.
"I don't want to wake up with a dead husband in the morning,“ Lidna said.
I thought about it for 15 minutes, then said, "All right, let's go in.“
It was quiet in there. The lady at the desk was on the telephone. She was on the telephone for some time. Then she was finished.
"Yes?“ she asked.
"I think I've been bitten by something,“ I said. "Maybe I should be looked at.“
I gave her my name. I was in the computer. Last visit: TB time.
I was walked into a room. The nurse did the usual. Blood pressure. Temperature.
The the doctor. He examined the welts.
"Looks like a spider,“ he said, "they usually bite 3 times.“
I was given a tetanus shot, a prescription for some antibiotics and some Benadryl.
We drove off to an all-night Sav-on to get the stuff.
The 500 mg Duricef was to be taken one capsule every 12 hours. The Benadryl one every 4 to 6 hours.
I began. And this is the point. After a day or so I felt similar as I had to the time I had been taking antibiotics for TB. Only then, due to my weakened state, I was barely able to walk up and down the stairway, having to pull myself along by the banister. Now it was just the nauseous feeling, the dullness of mind. About the 3rd day I sat down in front of this computer to see if anything would come out of it. I only sat there. This must be, I thought, the way it feels when it finally leaves you. And there is nothing you can do. At the age of 72 it was always possible that it would leave me. The ability to write. It was a fear. And it was not about fame. Or about money. It was about me. I release of writing. The safety of writing. All that mattered was the next line. And if the next line wouldn't come, I was dead, even though, technically, I was living.
I have been off the antibiotics now for 24 hours but I still feel dull, a bit ill. The writing here lacks spark and gamble. Too bad, kid.
Now, tomorrow, I must see my regular doctor to find out if I need more antibiotics or what. The welts are still there, though smaller. Who knows what the hell?
Oh yes, the nice lady at the receptionist's desk, just as I was leaving, began talking about spider bites. "Yes, there was this fellow in his twenties. He got bit by a spider, now he's paralyzed from the waist up.“
"Is that so?“ I asked.
"Yes,“ she said, "and there was another case. This fellow...“
"Never mind,“ I told her, "we have to leave.“
"Well,“ she said, "have a nice night.“
"You too,“ I said.
11/6/82 12:08 AM
I feel poisoned tonight, pissed-on, used, worn to the nub. It's not entirely old age but it might have something to do with it. I think that the crowd, that crowd. Humanity which has always been difficult for me, that all repeat performance for them. There's no freshness in them. Not even the tiniest miracle. They just grind on and over me. If, one day, I could just see ONE person doing or saying something unusual it would help me get on with it. But the are stale, grimy. There's no lift. Eyes, ears, legs, voices but... nothing. They congeal within themselves, kid themselves along, pretending to be alive.
It was better when I was young. I was still looking. I prowled the streets of night looking, looking... mixing, fighting, searching... I found nothing. I never really found a friend. With women, there was hope with each new one but that was in the beginning. Even early on, I got it, I stopped looking for the Dream Girl, I just wanted one that wasn't a nightmare.
With people, all I found were the living who were now dead – in books, in classical music. But that helped, for a while. But there were only so many lively and magical book, then in stopped. Classial musics was my stronghold. I heard most of it on the radio, still do. And I am ever surprised, even now, when I hear something strong and new and unheard before and it happens quite often. As I write this I am listening to something on the radio that I have never heard before. I feast on each note like a man starving for a new rush of blood and meaning and it's there. I am totally astonished by the mass of great music, centuries and centuries of it. It must be that many great souls once lived. I can't explain it but it is my great luck in life to have this, to sense this, to feed upon and celebrate it. I never write anything without the radio on to classical music, it has always been a part of my work, to hear this music as I write. Perhaps, some day, somebody will explain to me why so much of the energy of the Miracle is contained in classical music? I doubt that this will ever be told to me. I will only be left to wonder. Why, why, why aren't there more books with this power? What's wrong with the writers? Why are there so few good one?
Rock music does not do it for me. I went to rock concert, mainly for the sake of my wife, Linda. Sure, I'm a good guy, huh? Huh? Anyhow, the tickets were free, courtesy of the rock musician who reads my books. We were to be in a special section with the big shots. A director, former actor, made a trip to pick us up in his sport wagon. Another actor was with him. These are talented people, in their way, and not bad human beings. We drove to the director's place, there was his lady friend, we saw their baby and then off we all went in a limo. Drinks, talk. The concert was to be at Dodger Stadium. We arrived late. The rock group was on, blasting, enormous sound. 25,000 people. There was a vibrancy there but it was short-lived. It was fairly simplistic. I suppose the lyrics were all right if you could understand them. They were probably speaking of Causes, Decencies, Love found and lost, etc. People need that – anti-establisment, anti-parent, anti-something. But a successful millionaire groupe like that, no matter what they said, THEY WERE NOW ESTABLISHMENT. Then, after a while, the leader said, "This concert is dedicated to Linda and Charles Bukowski!“ 25,000 people cheered as if they knew who we were. It is to laugh.
The big shot movie starts milled about. I had met them before. I worriend about that. I worried about directors and actors coming to our place. I disliked Hollywood, the movies seldom ever worked for me. What was I doing with these people? Was I being sucked in? 72 years of fighting the good fight, then to be sucked away?
The concert was almost over and we followed the director to the VIP bar. We were among the select. Wow!
There were tables tables in there, a bar. And the famous. I made for the bark. Drinks were free. There was a huge black bartender. I ordered my drink and told him, "After I drink this one, we'll go out back and duke it out.“
&nb
sp; The bartender smiled.
"Bukowski!“
"You know me?“
"I used to read your "Notes of a Dirty Old Man“ in the L.A. Free Press and Open City.“
"Well, I'll be god-damned...“
We shook hands. The fight was off.
Linda and I talked to various people, about what I don't know. I kept going back to the bar again and again for my vodka 7's. The bartender poured me tall ones. I'd also loaded up in the limo on the way in. The night got easier for me, it was only a matter of drinking them down big, fast and often.
When rock star came in I was fairly far gone but still there. He sat down and we talked but I don't know about what. Then came black-out time. Evidently we left. I only know what I heard later. The limo got us back but as I reached the steps of the house I fell and cracked my head on the bricks. We had just had the bricks put in. The right side of my head was bloody and I had hurt my right hand and my back.
I found most of this in the morning when I rose to take a piss. There was the mirror. I looked like the old days after the barroom fights. Christ. I washed some of the blood away, fed our 9 cats and went back to bed. Linda wasn't feeling too well either. But she had seen her rock show.
I knew I wouldn't be able to write for 3 or 4 days and that it would a couple of days before I got back to the racetrack.
It was back to classical music for me. I was honored and all that. It's great that the rocks start read my work but I've heard from men in jails and madhouses who do too. I can't help it who reads my work. Forget it.
It's good sitting here tonight in this little room on the second floor listening on the radio, the old body, the old mind mending. I belong here, like this. Like this. Like this.
2/21/93 12:33 AM
Went to the track today in the rain and watched 7 consensus favorites out of 9 win. There is no way I can make it when this occurs. I watched the hours get slugged in the head and looked at the people studying their tout sheets, newspapers and Racing Forms. Many of them left early, taking the escalators down and out. (Gunshot outside now as I write this, life back to normal.) After about 4 or 5 races I left the clubhouse and went own to the grandstand area. There was a difference. Fewer whites, of course, more poor, of course. Down there, I was a minority. I walked about and I could feel the desperation in the air. These were 2 dollar bettors. They didn't bet favorites. They bet the shots, the exactas, the daily doubles. They were looking for a lot of money of a little money and they were drowning. Drowning in the rain. It was grim there. I needed a new hobby.
The track had changed. Forty years ago there had been some joy out there, even among the losers. The bars had been packed. This was a different world. There was no money to blow to the sky, no to-hell-with-it money, no we'll-be-back-tomorrow money. This was the end of the world. Old clothing. Twisted and bitter faces. The rent money. The 5 dollars an hour money. The money of the unemployed, of the illegal immigrants. The money of the petty thieves, the burglars, the money of the disinherited. The air was dark. And the lines were long. They made the poor wait in long lines. The poor were used to long lines. And they stood in them to have their small dreams smashed.
This was Hollywood Park, located in the black district, in the district of Central Americans and other minorities.
I went back upstairs to the clubhouse, to the shorter lines. I got into line, bet 20 win on the second favorite.
"When ya gonna do it?“ the clerk asked me.
"Do what?“ I asked.
"Cash some tickets.“
"Any day now,“ I told him.
I turned and walked away. I could hear him say something else. Old bent white haired guy. He was having a bad day. Many of the mutuel clerks bet. I tried to go to a different clerk each time I bet, I didn't want to fraternize. The fucker was out of line. It was none of his business if I ever cashed a bet. The clerks rode with you when you were running hot. They would ask each other, "What'd he bet?“ But go cold on them, they got pissed. They should do their own thinking. Just because I was there every day didn't mean I was a professional gambler. I was a professional writer. Sometimes.
I was walking along and I saw this kid rushing toward me. I knew what it was. He blocked my path.
"Pardon me,“ he said, "are you Charles Bukowski?“
"Charles Darwin,“ I said, then spepped around him.
I didn't want to hear it, whatever he had to say.
I watched the race and my horse came in second, beaten out by another favorite. On off or muddy tracks too many favorites win. I don't know the reason but it occurs. I got the hell out of the racetrack and drove on in.
Got to the place, greeten Linda. Checked the mail.
Rejection letter from the Oxford American. I checked my poems. Not bad, good but not exceptional. Just a losing day. But I was still alive. It was almost the year 2,000 and I was still alive, whatever it meant.
We went out to eat at a Mexican place. Much talk about the fight that night. Chavez and Haugin before 130,000 in Mexico City. I didn't give Haugin a chance. He had guts but no punch, no movement and he was about 3 years past his prie. Chavez could name the round.
That night it was the way it was. Chavez didn't even sit down between rounds. He was hardly breathing heavily. The whole thing was a clean, sheer, brutal event. The body shots Chavez landed made me wince. It was like hitting a man in the ribs with a sledgehammer. Chavez finally got bored with carrying his man and took him out.
"Well, hell,“ I said to my wife, "we paid to see exactly what we thought we would see.“
The tv was off.
Tomorrow the Japanese were coming by to interview me. One of my books was now in Japanese and another was on the way. What would I tell them? About the horses? Maybe they would just ask questions. They should. I was a writer, huh? How strange it was but everybody had to be something didn't they? Homeless, famous, gay, mad, whatever. If they ever again run in 7 more favorites on a 9 race card, I'm going to start doing something else. Jogging. Or the museums. Or finger painting. Or chess. I mean, hell, that's just as stupid.
2/27/93 12:56 AM
The captain is out and the sailors have taken over the ship.
Why are there so few interesting people? Out of the millions, why aren't there a few? Must we continue to live with this drab and ponderous species? Seems their only act is Violence. They are so good at that. They truly blossom. Shit flowers, stinking up our chance. Problem is, if I want the lights to go on, if I want this computer repaired, if I want to flush the toilet, buy a new tire, get a tooth pulled or my gut cut open, I must continue to interact. I need the fuckers for the minute necessities, even if they, themselves appall me. And appall is a kind word.
But they pound on my consciousness with their failure in vital areas. For instance, every day as I drive to the track I keep punching the radio to different stations looking for music, decent music. It's all bad, flat lifeless, tuneless, listless. Yet some of these compositions sell in millions and their creators consider themselves true Artists. It's horrible, horrible drivel entering the minds of you heads. They like it. Christ, hand them shit, they eat it up. Can't they discern? Can't they hear? Can't they feel the dilution, the staleness?
I can't believe that there is nothing. I keep punching in new statios. I've had my car less than a year yet the button I push has the black paint completely worn off. It is white, ivory-like, staring at me.
Well, yes, there is classical music. I finally have to settle for that. But I know that is always there for me. I listen to that 3 or 4 hours a night. But I still keep searching for other music. It's just not there. It should be there. It disturbs me. We've been cheated out of a whole other area. Think of all the people alive who have never heard decent music. No wonder their faces are falling off, no wonder they kill thoughtlessly, no wonder the heat is missing.
Well, what can I do? Nothing.
The movies are just as bad. I will listen to or read the critics. A great movie, they will say. And I will go see said
movie. And sit there feeling like a fucking fool, feeling robbed, tricked. I can guess each scene before it arrives. And the obvious motives of the characters, what drives them, what they yearn for, what is of importance to them is so juvenile and pathetic, so boringly gross. The love bits are galling, old hat, precious drivel.
I believe that most people see too many movies. And certainly the critics. When they say that a movie is great, they mean it's great in relation to other movies they have seen. They've lost their overview. They are clubbed by more and more new movies. They just don't know, they are lost in it all. They have forgotten what really stinks, which is almost everything they view.
And let's not even talk about television.
And as a writer... am I one? Oh well. As a writer I have trouble reading other writing. It just isn't there for me. To begin with, they don't know how to lay down a line, a paragraph. Just looking at the print from distance, it looks boring. And when you really get down there, it's worse than boring. There's no pace. There's nothing startling or fresh. There's no gamble, no fire, no juice. What are they doing? It looks like hard work. No wonder mostwriters say writing is painful to them. I can understand that.
Sometimes with my writing, when it hasn't roared, I have attempted other things. I have pouren wine on the pages, I have held the pages to a match and burned holes in them. "What are you DOING in there? I smell smoke!“
"No, it's all right, baby, it'all right...“
Once my wastebasket caught fire and I rushed it out of my little balcony, poured beer over it.
The Captain Is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship Page 8
