Run With the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader

by Charles Bukowski

  listening. there is something wrong with him,

  isn’t there?

  he came to hear the

  music.

  a radio with guts

  it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street

  I used to get drunk

  and throw the radio through the window

  while it was playing, and, of course,

  it would break the glass in the window

  and the radio would sit out there on the roof

  still playing

  and I’d tell my woman,

  “Ah, what a marvelous radio!”

  the next morning I’d take the window

  off the hinges

  and carry it down the street

  to the glass man

  who would put in another pane.

  I kept throwing that radio through the window

  each time I got drunk

  and it would sit out there on the roof

  still playing—

  a magic radio

  a radio with guts,

  and each morning I’d take the window

  back to the glass man.

  I don’t remember how it ended exactly

  though I do remember

  we finally moved out.

  there was a woman downstairs who worked in

  the garden in her bathing suit

  and her husband complained he couldn’t sleep nights

  because of me

  so we moved out

  and in the next place

  I either forgot to throw the radio out the window

  or I didn’t feel like it

  anymore.

  I do remember missing the woman who worked in the

  garden in her bathing suit,

  she really dug with that trowel

  and she put her behind up in the air

  and I used to sit in the window

  and watch the sun shine all over that tiling

  while the music played.

  Layover

  Making love in the sun, in the morning sun

  in a hotel room

  above the alley

  where poor men poke for bottles;

  making love in the sun

  making love by a carpet redder than our blood,

  making love while the boys sell headlines

  and Cadillacs,

  making love by a photograph of Paris

  and an open pack of Chesterfields,

  making love while other men—poor fools—

  work.

  That moment—to this …

  may be years in the way they measure,

  but it’s only one sentence back in my mind—

  there are so many days

  when living stops and pulls up and sits

  and waits like a train on the rails.

  I pass the hotel at 8

  and at 5; there are cats in the alleys

  and bottles and bums,

  and I look up at the window and think,

  I no longer know where you are,

  and I walk on and wonder where

  the living goes

  when it stops.

  3

  get your name in lights

  get it up there in

  8½ × 11 mimeo

  22,000 Dollars in 3 Months

  night has come like something crawling

  up the bannister, sticking out its tongue

  of fire, and I remember the

  missionaries up to their knees in muck

  retreating across the beautiful blue river

  and the machine gun slugs flicking spots of

  fountain and Jones drunk on the shore

  saying shit shit these Indians

  where’d they get the fire power?

  and I went in to see Maria

  and she said, do you think they’ll attack,

  do you think they’ll come across the river?

  afraid to die? I asked her, and she said

  who isn’t?

  and I went to the medicine cabinet

  and poured a tall glassful, and I said

  we’ve made 22,000 dollars in 3 months building roads

  for Jones and you have to die a little

  to make it that fast … Do you think the communists

  started this? she asked, do you think it’s the communists?

  and I said, will you stop being a neurotic bitch.

  these small countries rise because they are getting

  their pockets filled from both sides … and she

  looked at me with that beautiful schoolgirl idiocy

  and she walked out, it was getting dark but I let her go,

  you’ve got to know when to let a woman go if you want to keep her,

  and if you don’t want to keep her you let her go anyhow,

  so it’s always a process of letting go, one way or the other,

  so I sat there and put the drink down and made another

  and I thought, whoever thought an engineering course at Old Miss

  would bring you where the lamps swing slowly

  in the green of some far night?

  and Jones came in with his arm around her blue waist

  and she had been drinking too, and I walked up and said,

  man and wife? and that made her angry for if a woman can’t

  get you by the nuts and squeeze, she’s done,

  and I poured another tall one, and

  I said, you 2 may not realize it

  but we’re not going to get out of here alive.

  we drank the rest of the night.

  you could hear, if you were real still,

  the water coming down between the god trees,

  and the roads we had built

  you could hear animals crossing them

  and the Indians, savage fools with some savage cross to bear.

  and finally there was the last look in the mirror

  as the drunken lovers hugged

  and I walked out and lifted a piece of straw

  from the roof of the hut

  then snapped the lighter, and I

  watched the flames crawl, like hungry mice

  up the thin brown stalks, it was slow but it was

  real, and then not real, something like an opera,

  and then I walked down toward the machine gun sounds,

  the same river, and the moon looked across at me

  and in the path I saw a small snake, just a small one,

  looked like a rattler, but it couldn’t be a rattler,

  and it was scared seeing me, and I grabbed it behind the neck

  before it could coil and I held it then

  its little body curled around my wrist

  like a finger of love and all the trees looked with eyes

  and I put my mouth to its mouth

  and love was lightning and remembrance,

  dead communists, dead fascists, dead democrats, dead gods and

  back in what was left of the hut Jones

  had his dead black arm around her dead blue waist.

  Maja Thurup

  It had gotten extensive press coverage and T.V. coverage and the lady was to write a book about it. The lady’s name was Hester Adams, twice divorced, two children. She was 35 and one guessed that it was her last fling. The wrinkles were appearing, the breasts had been sagging for some time, the ankles and calves were thickening, there were signs of a belly. America had been taught that beauty only resided in youth, especially in the female. But Hester Adams had the dark beauty of frustration and upcoming loss; it crawled all over her, the upcoming loss, and it gave her a sexual something, like a desperate and fading woman sitting in a bar full of men. Hester had looked around, seen few signs of help from the American male, and had gotten onto a plane for South America. She had entered the jungle with her camera, her portable typewriter, her thickening ankles and her white skin and had gotten herself a cannibal, a black cannibal: Maja Thurup. Maja Thurup had a good look to his face. His f
ace appeared to be written over with one thousand hangovers and one thousand tragedies. And it was true—he had had one thousand hangovers, but the tragedies all came from the same root: Maja Thurup was overhung, vastly overhung. No girl in the village would accept him. He had torn two girls to death with his instrument. One had been entered from the front, the other from the rear. No matter.

  Maja was a lonely man and he drank and brooded over his loneliness until Hester Adams had come with guide and white skin and camera. After formal introductions and a few drinks by the fire, Hester had entered Maja’s hut and taken all Maja Thurup could muster and had asked for more. It was a miracle for both of them and they were married in a three-day tribal ceremony, during which captured enemy tribesmen were roasted and consumed amid dancing, incantation, and drunkenness. It was after the ceremony, after the hangovers had cleared away that trouble began. The medicine man, having noted that Hester did not partake of the flesh of the roasted enemy tribesmen (garnished with pineapple, olives, and nuts) announced to one and all that this was not a white goddess, but one of the daughters of the evil god Ritikan. (Centuries ago Ritikan had been expelled from the tribal heaven for his refusal to eat anything but vegetables, fruits, and nuts.) This announcement caused dissension in the tribe and two friends of Maja Thurup were promptly murdered for suggesting that Hester’s handling of Maja’s overhang was a miracle in itself and the fact that she didn’t ingest other forms of human meat could be forgiven—temporarily, at least.

  Hester and Maja fled to America, to North Hollywood to be precise, where Hester began proceedings to have Maja Thurup become an American citizen. A former schoolteacher, Hester began instructing Maja in the use of clothing, the English language, California beer and wines, television, and foods purchased at the nearby Safeway market. Maja not only looked at television, he appeared on it along with Hester and they declared their love publicly. Then they went back to their North Hollywood apartment and made love. Afterwards Maja sat in the middle of the rug with his English grammar books, drinking beer and wine, and singing native chants and playing the bongo. Hester worked on her book about Maja and Hester. A major publisher was waiting. All Hester had to do was get it down.

  One morning I was in bed about 8:00 a.m. The day before I had lost $40 at Santa Anita, my savings account at California Federal was getting dangerously low, and I hadn’t written a decent story in a month. The phone rang. I woke up, gagged, coughed, picked it up.

  “Chinaski?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Dan Hudson.”

  Dan ran the magazine Flare out of Chicago. He paid well. He was the editor and publisher.

  “Hello, Dan, mother.”

  “Look, I’ve got just the thing for you.”

  “Sure, Dan. What is it?”

  “I want you to interview this bitch who married the cannibal. Make the sex BIG. Mix love with horror, you know?”

  “I know. I’ve been doing it all my life.”

  “There’s $500 in it for you if you beat the March 27 deadline.”

  “Dan, for $500, I can make Burt Reynolds into a lesbian.”

  Dan gave me the address and phone number. I got up, threw water on my face, had two Alka-Seltzers, opened a bottle of beer and phoned Hester Adams. I told her that I wanted to publicize her relationship with Maja Thurup as one of the great love stories of the 20th century. For the readers of Flare magazine. I assured her that it would help Maja obtain his American citizenship. She agreed to an interview at 1:00 p.m.

  It was a walk-up apartment on the third floor. She opened the door. Maja was sitting on the floor with his bongo drinking a fifth of medium priced port from the bottle. He was barefooted, dressed in tight jeans, and in a white t-shirt with black zebra-stripes. Hester was dressed in an identical outfit. She brought me a bottle of beer, I picked up a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table and began the interview.

  “You first met Maja when?”

  Hester gave me a date. She also gave me the exact time and place.

  “When did you first begin to have love feelings for Maja? What exactly were the circumstances which tripped them off?”

  “Well,” said Hester, “it was …”

  “She love me when I give her the thing,” said Maja from the rug.

  “He has learned English quite quickly, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s brilliant.”

  Maja picked up his bottle and drained off a good slug.

  “I put this thing in her, she say, ‘Oh my god oh my god oh my god!’ Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

  “Maja is marvelously built,” she said.

  “She eat too,” said Maja, “she eat good. Deep throat, ha, ha, ha!”

  “I loved Maja from the beginning,” said Hester, “it was his eyes, his face … so tragic. And the way he walked. He walks, well, he walks something like a tiger.”

  “Fuck,” said Maja, “we fuck we fucky fuck fuck fuck. I am getting tired.”

  Maja took another drink. He looked at me.

  “You fuck her. I am tired. She big hungry tunnel.”

  “Maja has a genuine sense of humor,” said Hester, “that’s another thing that has endeared him to me.”

  “Only thing dear you to me,” said Maja, “is my telephone pole piss-shooter.”

  “Maja has been drinking since this morning,” said Hester, “you’ll have to excuse him.”

  “Perhaps I’d better come back when he’s feeling better.”

  “I think you should.”

  Hester gave me an appointment at 2:00 p.m. in the afternoon the next day.

  It was just as well. I needed photographs. I knew a down-and-out photographer, one Sam Jacoby, who was good and would do the work cheap. I took him back there with me. It was a sunny afternoon with only a thin layer of smog. We walked up and I rang. There was no answer. I rang again. Maja answered the door.

  “Hester not in,” he said, “she gone to grocery store.”

  “We had an appointment for two o’clock. I’d like to come in and wait.”

  We walked in and sat down.

  “I play drums for you,” said Maja.

  He played the drums and sang some jungle chants. He was quite good. He was working on another bottle of port wine. He was still in his zebra-striped t-shirt and jeans.

  “Fuck fuck fuck,” he said, “that’s all she want. She make me mad.”

  “You miss the jungle, Maja?”

  “You just ain’t just shittin’ upstream, daddy.”

  “But she loves you, Maja.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  Maja played us another drum solo. Even drunk he was good.

  When Maja finished Sam said to me, “You think she might have a beer in the refrigerator?”

  “She might.”

  “My nerves are bad. I need a beer.”

  “Go ahead. Get two. I’ll buy her some more. I should have brought some.”

  Sam got up and walked into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open.

  “I’m writing an article about you and Hester,” I said to Maja.

  “Big-hole woman. Never fill. Like volcano.”

  I heard Sam vomiting in the kitchen. He was a heavy drinker. I knew he was hungover. But he was still one of the best photographers around. Then it was quiet. Sam came walking out. He sat down. He didn’t have a beer with him.

  “I play drums again,” said Maja. He played the drums again. He was still good. Though not as good as the preceding time. The wine was getting to him.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Sam said to me.

  “I have to wait for Hester,” I said.

  “Man, let’s go,” said Sam.

  “You guys want some wine?” asked Maja.

  I got up and walked into the kitchen for a beer. Sam followed me. I moved toward the refrigerator.

  “Please don’t open that door!” he said.

  Sam walked over to the sink and vomited again. I looked at the refrigerator door. I didn’t open it. When Sam finished, I
said, “O.k., let’s go.”

  We walked into the front room where Maja still sat by his bongo.

  “I play drum once more,” he said.

  “No, thanks, Maja.”

  We walked out and down the stairway and out to the street. We got into my car. I drove off. I didn’t know what to say. Sam didn’t say anything. We were in the business district. I drove into a gas station and told the attendant to fill it up with regular. Sam got out of the car and walked to the telephone booth to call the police. I saw Sam come out of the phone booth. I paid for the gas. I hadn’t gotten my interview. I was out $500. I waited as Sam walked toward the car.

  —SOUTH OF NO NORTH

  the trash men

  here they come

  these guys

  grey truck

  radio playing

  they are in a hurry

  it’s quite exciting:

  shirt open

  bellies hanging out

  they run out the trash bins

  roll them out to the fork lift

  and then the truck grinds it upward

  with far too much sound …

  they had to fill out application forms

  to get these jobs

  they are paying for homes and

  drive late model cars

  they get drunk on Saturday night

  now in the Los Angeles sunshine

  they run back and forth with their trash bins

  all that trash goes somewhere

  and they shout to each other

  then they are all up in the truck

  driving west toward the sea

  none of them know

  that I am alive

  REX DISPOSAL CO.

  the strangest sight you ever did see—

  I had this room in front on DeLongpre

  and I used to sit for hours

  in the daytime

  looking out the front

  window.

  there were any number of girls who would

  walk by

  swaying;

  it helped my afternoons,

  added something to the beer and the

  cigarettes.

  one day I saw something

  extra.

  I heard the sound of it first.