“Do you? Do you?”
“Yes, somehow, yes …”
“All right,” said little Anna to little Marty, “we might as well do it too, even though I don’t love you.”
They embraced in the middle of the coffeetable. I had worked Dawn’s panties off. Dawn groaned. Little Ruthie groaned. Marty closed in on Anna. It was happening everywhere. I got the idea that everybody in the world was doing it. Then I forgot about the rest of the world. We somehow walked into the bedroom. Then I got into Dawn for the long slow ride....
When she came out of the bathroom I was reading a dull dull story in Playboy.
“It was so good,” she said.
“My pleasure,” I answered.
She got back into bed with me. I put the magazine down.
“Do you think we can make it together?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you think we can make it together for any length of time?”
“I don’t know. Things happen. The beginning is always easiest.”
Then there was a scream from the front room. “Oh-oh,” said Dawn. She leaped up and ran out of the room. I followed. When I got there she was holding George in her hands.
“Oh, my god!”
“What happened?”
“Anna did it to him!”
“Did what?”
“She cut off his balls! George is a eunuch!”
“Wow!”
“Get me some toilet paper, quickly! He might bleed to death!”
“That son of a bitch,” said little Anna from the coffeetable, “if I can’t have George, nobody can have him!”
“Now both of you belong to me!” said Marty.
“No, you’ve got to choose between us,” said Anna.
“Which one of us is it?” asked Ruthie.
“I love you both,” said Marty.
“He’s stopped bleeding,” said Dawn. “He’s out cold.” She wrapped George in a handkerchief and put him on die mantel.
“I mean,” Dawn said to me, “if you don’t think we can make it, I don’t want to go into it anymore.”
“I think I love you, Dawn.”
“Look,” she said, “Marty’s embracing Ruthie!”
“Are they going to make it?”
“I don’t know. They seem excited.”
Dawn picked Anna up and put her in the wire cage.
“Let me out of here! I’ll kill both of them! Let me out of here!”
George moaned from inside his handkerchief upon the mantel. Marty had Ruthie’s panties off. I pulled Dawn to me. She was beautiful and young and had insides. I could be in love again. It was possible. We kissed. I fell down inside her eyes. Then I got up and began running. I knew where I was. A cockroach and an eagle made love. Time was a fool with a banjo. I kept running. Her long hair fell across my face.
“I’ll kill everybody!” screamed little Anna. She rattled about in her wire cage at 3 a.m. in the morning.
—SOUTH OF NO NORTH
Dow Jones: Down
how can we endure?
how can we talk about roses
or Verlaine?
this is a hungry band
that likes to work and count
and knows the special laws,
that likes to sit in parks
thinking of nothing valuable.
this is where the stricken bagpipes blow
upon the chalky cliffs
where faces go mad as sunburned violets
where brooms and ropes and torches fail,
squeezing shadows …
where walls come down en masse.
tomorrow the bankers set the time
to close the gates against our flood
and prevaricate the waters;
bang, bang the time,
remember now
the flowers are opening in the wind
and it doesn’t matter finally
except as a twitch in the back of the head
when back in our broad land
dead again
we walk among the dead.
the world’s greatest loser
he used to sell papers in front:
“Get your winners! Get rich on a dime!”
and about the 3rd or 4th race
you’d see him rolling in on his rotten board
with roller skates underneath.
he’d propel himself along on his hands;
he just had small stumps for legs
and the rims of the skate wheels were worn off.
you could see inside the wheels and they would wobble
something awful
shooting and flashing
imperialistic sparks!
he moved faster than anybody, rolled cigarette dangling,
you could hear him coming
“god o mighty, what was that?” the new ones asked.
he was the world’s greatest loser
but he never gave up
wheeling toward the 2 dollar window screaming:
“IT’S THE 4 HORSE, YOU FOOLS! HOW THE HELL YA GONNA BEAT THE
4?”
up on the board the 4 would be reading
60 to one.
I never heard him pick a winner.
they say he slept in the bushes. I guess that’s where he
died, he’s not around any
more.
there was the big fat blond whore
who kept touching him for luck, and
laughing.
nobody had any luck, the whore is gone
too.
I guess nothing ever works for us. we’re fools, of course—
bucking the inside plus a 15 percent take,
but how are you going to tell a dreamer
there’s a 15 percent take on the
dream? he’ll just laugh and say,
is that all?
I miss those
sparks.
a wild, fresh wind blowing …
I should not have blamed only my father, but,
he was the first to introduce me to
raw and stupid hatred.
he was really best at it: anything and everything made him
mad—things of the slightest consequence brought his hatred quickly
to the surface
and I seemed to be the main source of his
irritation.
I did not fear him
but his rages made me ill at heart
for he was most of my world then
and it was a world of horror but I should not have blamed only
my father
for when I left that … home … I found his counterparts
everywhere: my father was only a small part of the
whole, though he was the best at hatred
I was ever to meet.
but others were very good at it too: some of the
foremen, some of the street bums, some of the women
I was to live with,
most of the women, were gifted at
hating—blaming my voice, my actions, my presence
blaming me
for what they, in retrospect, had failed
at.
I was simply the target of their discontent
and in some real sense
they blamed me
for not being able to rouse them
out of a failed past; what they didn’t consider was
that I had my troubles too—most of them caused by
simply living with them.
I am a dolt of a man, easily made happy or even
stupidly happy almost without cause
and left alone I am mostly content.
but I’ve lived so often and so long with this hatred
that
my only freedom, my only peace is when I am away from
them, when I am anywhere else, no matter where—
some fat old waitress bringing me a cup of coffee
is in comparison
/> like a fresh wild wind blowing.
A Working Day
Joe Mayer was a freelance writer. He had a hangover and the telephone awakened him at 9 a.m. He got up and answered it. “Hello?”
“Hi, Joe. How’s it going?”
“Oh, beautiful.”
“Beautiful, eh?”
“Yes?”
“Vicki and I just moved into our new house. We don’t have a phone yet. But I can give you the address. You got a pen there?”
“Just a minute.”
Joe took down the address.
“I didn’t like that last story of yours I saw in Hot Angel.”
“O.K.” said Joe.
“I don’t mean I didn’t like it, I mean I don’t like it compared to most of your stuff. By the way, do you know where Buddy Edwards is? Griff Martin who used to edit Hot Tales is looking for him. I thought you might know.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“I think he might be in Mexico.”
“He might be.”
“Well, listen, we’ll be around to see you soon.”
“Sure.” Joe hung up. He put a couple of eggs in a pan of water, set some coffee water on and took an Alka Seltzer. Then he went back to bed.
The phone rang again. He got up and answered it.
“Joe?”
“Yes?”
“This is Eddie Greer.”
“Oh yes.”
“We want you to read for a benefit …”
“What is it?”
“For the I.R.A.”
“Listen, Eddie, I don’t go for politics or religion or whatever. I really don’t know what’s going on over there. I don’t have a tv, read the papers … any of that. I don’t know who’s right or who’s wrong, if there is such a thing.”
“England’s wrong, man.”
“I can’t read for the I.R.A., Eddie.”
“All right, then …”
The eggs were done. He sat down, peeled them, put on some toast and mixed the Sanka in with the hot water. He got down the eggs and toast and had two coffees. Then he went back to bed.
He was just about asleep when the phone rang again. He got up and answered it.
“Mr. Mayer?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Mike Haven, I’m a friend of Stuart Irving’s. We once appeared in Stone Mule together when Stone Mule was edited in Salt Lake City.”
“Yes?”
“I’m down from Montana for a week. I’m staying at the Hotel Sheraton here in town. I’d like to come see you and talk to you.”
“Today’s a bad day, Mike.”
“Well, maybe I can come over later in the week?”
“Yes, why don’t you call me later on?”
“You know, Joe, I write just like you do, both in poetry and prose. I want to bring some of my stuff over and read it to you. You’ll be surprised. My stuff is really powerful.”
“Oh yes?”
“You’ll see.”
The mailman was next. One letter. Joe opened it:
Dear Mr. Mayer:
I got your address from Sylvia who you used to write to in Paris many years ago. Sylvia is still alive in San Francisco today and still writing her wild and prophetic and angelic and mad poems. I’m living in Los Angeles now and would just love to come and visit you! Please tell me when it would be all right with you.
love, Diane
Joe got out of his robe and got dressed. The phone rang again. He walked over to it, looked at it and didn’t answer it. He walked out, got into his car and drove it toward Santa Anita. He drove slowly. He turned the radio on and got some symphony music. It wasn’t too smoggy. He drove down Sunset, took his favorite cutoff, drove over the hill toward Chinatown, past the Annex, up past Little Joe’s, past Chinatown and took the slow easy ride past the railroad yards, looking down at the old brown boxcars. If he were any damned good at painting he’d like to get that one down. Maybe he’d paint them anyhow. He drove in up Broadway and over Huntington Drive to the track. He got a corned beef sandwich and a coffee, split the Form and sat down. It looked like a fair card.
He caught Rosalena in the first at $10.80, Wife’s Objection in the second at $9.20 and hooked them in the daily double for $48.40. He’d had $2 win on Rosalena and $5 win on Wife’s Objection, so he was $73.20 up. He ran out on Sweetott, was second with Harbor Point, second with Pitch Out, second with Brannan, all win bets, and he was sitting $48.20 ahead when he hit $20 win on Southern Cream, which brought him back to $73.20 again.
It wasn’t bad at the track. He only met three people he knew. Factory workers. Black. From the old days.
The eighth race was the problem. Cougar who was packing 128 was in against Unconscious packing 123. Joe didn’t consider the others in the race. He couldn’t make up his mind. Cougar was 3-to-5 and Unconscious was 7-to-2. Being $73.20 ahead he felt he could afford the luxury of betting the 3-to-5 shot. He laid $30 win. Cougar broke sluggishly, acting as if he were running in a ditch. By the time he was halfway around the first turn he was 17 lengths back of the lead horse. Joe knew he had a loser. At the finish his 3-to-5 was five lengths back and the race was over.
He went $10 and $10 on Barbizon, Jr. and Lost at Sea in the ninth, failed, and walked out with $23.20. It was easier picking tomatoes. He got into his old car and drove slowly back …
Just as he got into the tub the doorbell rang. He toweled and got into his shirt and pants. It was Max Billinghouse. Max was in his early twenties, toothless, red-haired. He worked as a janitor and always wore bluejeans and a dirty white t-shirt. He sat down in a chair and crossed his legs.
“Well, Mayer, what’s happening?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you surviving on your writing?”
“At the moment.”
“Is there anything new?”
“Not since you were here last week.”
“How did your poetry reading come out?”
“It was all right.”
“The crowd that goes to poetry readings is a very phoney crowd.”
“Most crowds are.”
“You got any candy?” Max asked.
“Candy?”
“Yeah, I got a sweet tooth. I’ve got this sweet tooth.”
“I don’t have any candy.”
Max got up and walked into the kitchen. He came out with a tomato and two slices of bread. He sat down.
“Jesus, you don’t have anything to eat around here.”
“I’m going to have to go to the store.”
“You know,” said Max, “if I had to read in front of a crowd, I’d really insult them, I’d hurt their feelings.”
“You might.”
“But I can’t write. I think I’m going to carry around a tape recorder. I talk to myself sometimes when I’m working. Then I can write down what I say and I’ll have a story.”
Max was an hour-and-a-half man. He was good for an hour-and-a-half. He never listened, he just talked. After an hour-and-a-half, Max stood up.
“Well, I gotta go.”
“O.K., Max.”
Max left. He always talked about the same things. How he had insulted some people on a bus. How once he had met Charles Manson. How a man was better off with a whore than with a decent woman. Sex was in the head. He didn’t need new clothes, a new car. He was a loner. He didn’t need people.
Joe went into the kitchen and found a can of tuna and made three sandwiches. He took out the pint of scotch he had been saving and poured a good scotch and water. He flicked the radio to the classical station. “The Blue Danube Waltz.” He flicked it off. He finished the sandwiches. The doorbell rang. Joe walked to the door and opened it. It was Hymie. Hymie had a soft job somewhere in some city government near L.A. He was a poet.
“Listen,” he said, “that book I had an idea for, An Anthology of L.A. Poets, let’s forget it.”
“All right.”
Hymie sat down. “We need a new tide. I think I have it. Mercy for the Warmo
ngers. Think about it.”
“I kind of like it,” said Joe.
“And we can say, ‘This book is for Franco, and for Lee Harvey Oswald and Adolf Hitler.’ Now I’m Jewish, so that takes some guts. What do you think?”
“Sounds good.”
Hymie got up and did his imitation of a typical old-time Jewish fat man, a very Jewish fat man. He spit on himself and sat down. Hymie was very funny. Hymie was the funniest man Joe knew. Hymie was good for an hour. After an hour, Hymie stood up and left. He always talked about the same things. How most of the poets were very bad. That it was tragic, it was so tragic it was laughable. What could a guy do?
Joe had another good scotch and water and walked over to the typewriter. He typed two lines, then the phone rang. It was Dunning at the hospital. Dunning liked to drink a lot of beer. He’d done his 20 in the army. Dunning’s father had been the editor of a famous little magazine. Dunning’s father had died in June. Dunning’s wife was ambitious. She had pushed him to be a doctor, hard. He’d made it to chiropractor. And was working as a male nurse while trying to save up for an eight or ten thousand dollar x-ray machine.
“How about coming over and drinking some beer with you?” asked Dunning.
“Listen, can we put it off?” asked Joe.
“What’sa matter? You writing?”
“Just started.”
“All right. I’ll take a rain check.”
“Thanks, Dunning.”
Joe sat down at the machine again. It wasn’t bad. He got halfway down the page when he heard footsteps. Then a knock. Joe opened the door.
It was two young kids. One with a black beard, the other smooth-shaven.
The kid with the beard said, “I saw you at your last reading.”
“Come in,” said Joe.
They came in. They had six bottles of imported beer, green bottles.
“I’ll get an opener,” said Joe.
They sat there sucking at the beer.
“It was a good reading,” said the kid with the beard.
“Who was your major influence?” asked the one without the beard.
“Jeffers. Longer poems. Tamar. Roan Stallion. So forth.”
“Any new writing that interests you?”
“No.”
“They say you’re coming out of the underground, that you’re part of the Establishment. What do you think of that?”
Run With the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader Page 24
