Run With the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader

by Charles Bukowski

  the few

  good books

  and other

  works.

  and from the

  best of the

  strange ones

  perhaps

  nothing.

  they are

  their own

  paintings

  their own

  books

  their own

  music

  their own

  work.

  sometimes I think

  I see

  them—say

  a certain old

  man

  sitting on a

  certain bench

  in a certain

  way

  or

  a quick face

  going the other

  way

  in a passing

  automobile

  or

  there’s a certain motion

  of the hands

  of a bag-boy or a bag-

  girl

  while packing

  supermarket

  groceries.

  sometimes

  it is even somebody

  you have been

  living with

  for some

  time—

  you will notice

  a

  lightning quick

  glance

  never seen

  from them

  before.

  sometimes

  you will only note

  their

  existence

  suddenly

  in

  vivid

  recall

  some months

  some years

  after they are

  gone.

  I remember

  such a

  one—

  he was about

  20 years old

  drunk at

  10 a.m.

  staring into

  a cracked

  New Orleans

  mirror

  face dreaming

  against the

  walls of

  the world

  where

  did I

  go?

  the last days of the suicide kid

  I can see myself now

  after all these suicide days and nights,

  being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes

  (of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky)

  by a subnormal and bored nurse …

  there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair …

  almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull

  looking

  for the mercy of death …

  “Isn’t it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?”

  “O, yeah, yeah …”

  the children walk past and I don’t even exist

  and lovely women walk by

  with big hot hips

  and warm buttocks and tight hot everything

  praying to be loved

  and I don’t even

  exist …

  “It’s the first sunlight we’ve had in 3 days,

  Mr. Bukowski.”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah.”

  there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair,

  myself whiter than this sheet of paper,

  bloodless,

  brain gone, gamble gone, me, Bukowski,

  gone …

  “Isn’t it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?”

  “O, yeah, yeah …” pissing in my pajamas, slop drooling out of my mouth.

  2 young schoolboys run by—

  “Hey, did you see that old guy?”

  “Christ, yes, he made me sick!”

  after all the threats to do so

  somebody else has committed suicide for me

  at last.

  the nurse stops the wheelchair, breaks a rose from a nearby bush,

  puts it in my hand.

  I don’t even know

  what it is. it might as well be my pecker

  for all the good

  it does.

  Loneliness

  Edna was walking down the street with her bag of groceries when she passed the automobile. There was a sign in the side window:

  WOMAN WANTED.

  She stopped. There was a large piece of cardboard in the window with some material pasted on it. Most of it was typewritten. Edna couldn’t read it from where she stood on the sidewalk. She could only see the large letters:

  WOMAN WANTED.

  It was an expensive new car. Edna stepped forward on the grass to read the typewritten portion:

  Man age 49. Divorced. Wants to meet woman for marriage. Should be 35 to 44. Like television and motion pictures. Good food. I am a cost accountant, reliably employed. Money in bank. I like women to be on the fat side.

  Edna was 37 and on the fat side. There was a phone number. There were also three photos of the gentleman in search of a woman. He looked quite staid in a suit and necktie. Also he looked dull and a little cruel. And made of wood, thought Edna, made of wood.

  Edna walked off, smiling a bit. She also had a feeling of repulsion. By the time she reached her apartment she had forgotten about him. It was some hours later, sitting in the bathtub, that she thought about him again and this time she thought how truly lonely he must be to do such a thing:

  WOMAN WANTED.

  She thought of him coming home, finding the gas and phone bills in the mailbox, undressing, taking a bath, the TV. on. Then the evening paper. Then into the kitchen to cook. Standing there in his shorts, staring down at the frying pan. Taking his food and walking to a table, eating it. Drinking his coffee. Then more T.V. And maybe a lonely can of beer before bed. There were millions of men like that all over America.

  Edna got out of the tub, toweled, dressed and left her apartment. The car was still there. She took down the man’s name, Joe Lighthill, and the phone number. She read the typewritten section again. “Motion pictures.” What an odd term to use. People said “movies” now. WOMAN WANTED. The sign was very bold. He was original there.

  When Edna got home she had three cups of coffee before dialing the number. The phone rang four times. “Hello?” he answered.

  “Mr. Lighthill?”

  “Yes?”

  “I saw your ad. Your ad on the car.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “My name’s Edna.”

  “How you doing, Edna?”

  “Oh, I’m all right. It’s been so hot. This weather’s too much.”

  “Yes, it makes it difficult to live.”

  “Well, Mr. Lighthill …”

  “Just call me Joe.”

  “Well, Joe, hahaha, I feel like a fool. You know what I’m calling about?”

  “You saw my sign?”

  “I mean, hahaha, what’s wrong with you? Can’t you get a woman?”

  “I guess not, Edna. Tell me, where are they?”

  “Women?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, everywhere, you know.”

  “Where? Tell me. Where?”

  “Well, church, you know. There are women in church.”

  “I don’t like church.”

  “Oh.”

  “Listen, why don’t you come over, Edna?”

  “You mean over there?”

  “Yes. I have a nice place. We can have a drink, talk. No pressure.”

  “It’s late.”

  “It’s not that late. Listen, you saw my sign. You must be interested.”

  “Well …”

  “You’re scared, that’s all. You’re just scared.”

  “No, I’m not scared.”

  “Then come on over, Edna.”

  “Well …”

  “Come on.”

  “All right. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

  It was on the top floor of a modern apartment complex. Apt. 17. The swimming pool below threw back the lights. Edna knocked. The door opened and there was Mr. Lighthill. Balding in front
; hawknosed with the nostril hairs sticking out; the shirt open at the neck.

  “Come on in, Edna …”

  She walked in and the door closed behind her. She had on her blue knit dress. She was stockingless, in sandals, and smoking a cigarette.

  “Sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”

  It was a nice place. Everything in blue and green and very clean. She heard Mr. Lighthill humming as he mixed the drinks, hmmmmmmm, hmmmmmmmm, hmmmmmmmmm … He seemed relaxed and it helped her.

  Mr. Lighthill—Joe—came out with the drinks. He handed Edna hers and then sat in a chair across the room from her.

  “Yes,” he said, “it’s been hot, hot as hell. I’ve got air-conditioning, though.”

  “I noticed. It’s very nice.”

  “Drink your drink.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Edna had a sip. It was a good drink, a bit strong but it tasted nice. She watched Joe tilt his head as he drank. He appeared to have heavy wrinkles around his neck. And his pants were much too loose. They appeared sizes too large. It gave his legs a funny look.

  “That’s a nice dress, Edna.”

  “You like it?”

  “Oh yes. You’re plump too. It fits you snug, real snug.”

  Edna didn’t say anything. Neither did Joe. They just sat looking at each other and sipping their drinks.

  Why doesn’t he talk? thought Edna. It’s up to him to talk. There is something wooden about him. She finished her drink.

  “Let me get you another,” said Joe.

  “No, I really should be going.”

  “Oh, come on,” he said, “let me get you another drink. We need something to loosen us up.”

  “All right, but after this one, I’m going.”

  Joe went into the kitchen with the glasses. He wasn’t humming anymore. He came out, handed Edna her drink and sat back down in his chair across the room from her. This drink was stronger.

  “You know,” he said, “I do well on the sex quizzes.”

  Edna sipped at her drink and didn’t answer.

  “How do you do on the sex quizzes?” Joe asked.

  “I’ve never taken any.”

  “You should, you know, so you’ll find out who you are and what you are.”

  “Do you think those things are valid? I’ve seen them in the newspaper. I haven’t taken them but I’ve seen them,” said Edna.

  “Of course they’re valid.”

  “Maybe I’m no good at sex,” said Edna, “maybe that’s why I’m alone.” She took a long drink from her glass.

  “Each of us is, finally, alone,” said Joe.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, no matter how well it’s going sexually or love-wise or both, the day arrives when it’s over.”

  “That’s sad,” said Edna.

  “Of course. So the day arrives when it’s over. Either there is a split or the whole thing resolves into a truce: two people living together without feeling anything. I believe that being alone is better.”

  “Did you divorce your wife, Joe?”

  “No, she divorced me.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Sexual orgies.”

  “Sexual orgies?”

  “You know, a sexual orgy is the loneliest place in the world. Those orgies—I felt a sense of desperation—those cocks sliding in and out—excuse me …”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Those cocks sliding in and out, legs locked, fingers working, mouths, everybody clutching and sweating and determined to do it—somehow.”

  “I don’t know much about those things, Joe,” Edna said.

  “I believe that without love, sex is nothing. Things can only be meaningful when some feeling exists between the participants.”

  “You mean people have to like each other?”

  “It helps.”

  “Suppose they get tired of each other? Suppose they have to stay together? Economics? Children? All that?”

  “Orgies won’t do it.”

  “What does it?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Maybe the swap.”

  “The swap?”

  “You know, when two couples know each other quite well and switch partners. Feelings, at least, have a chance. For example, say I’ve always liked Mike’s wife. I’ve liked her for months. I’ve watched her walk across the room. I like her movements. Her movements have made me curious. I wonder, you know, what goes with those movements. I’ve seen her angry, I’ve seen her drunk, I’ve seen her sober. And then, the swap. You’re in the bedroom with her, at last you’re knowing her. There’s a chance for something real. Of course, Mike has your wife in the other room. Good luck, Mike, you think, and I hope you’re as good a lover as I am.”

  “And it works all right?”

  “Well, I dunno … Swaps can cause difficulties … afterwards. It all has to be talked out … very well talked out ahead of time. And then maybe people don’t know enough, no matter how much they talk …”

  “Do you know enough, Joe?”

  “Well, these swaps … I think it might be good for some … maybe good for many. I guess it wouldn’t work for me. I’m too much of a prude.”

  Joe finished his drink. Edna set the remainder of hers down and stood up.

  “Listen Joe, I have to be going …”

  Joe walked across the room toward her. He looked like an elephant in those pants. She saw his big ears. Then he grabbed her and was kissing her. His bad breath came through all the drinks. He had a very sour smell. Part of his mouth was not making contact. He was strong but his strength was not pure, it begged. She pulled her head away and still he held her.

  WOMAN WANTED.

  “Joe, let me go! You’re moving too fast, Joe! Let go!”

  “Why did you come here, bitch?”

  He tried to kiss her again and succeeded. It was horrible. Edna brought her knee up. She got him good. He grabbed and fell to the rug.

  “God, god … why’d you have to do that? You tried to kill me …”

  He rolled on the floor.

  His behind, she thought, he had such an ugly behind.

  She left him rolling on the rug and ran down the stairway. The air was clean outside. She heard people talking, she heard their T.V. sets. It wasn’t a long walk to her apartment. She felt the need of another bath, got out of her blue knit dress and scrubbed herself. Then she got out of the tub, toweled herself dry and set her hair in pink curlers. She decided not to see him again.

  —SOUTH OF NO NORTH

  alone with everybody

  the flesh covers the bone

  and they put a mind

  in there and

  sometimes a soul,

  and the women break

  vases against the walls

  and the men drink too

  much

  and nobody finds the

  one

  but they keep

  looking

  crawling in and out

  of beds.

  flesh covers

  the bone and the

  flesh searches

  for more than

  flesh.

  there’s no chance

  at all:

  we are all trapped

  by a singular

  fate.

  nobody ever finds

  the one.

  the city dumps fill

  the junkyards fill

  the madhouses fill

  the hospitals fill

  the graveyards fill

  nothing else

  fills.

  I was 50 years old and hadn’t been to bed with a woman for 4 years. I had no women friends. I looked at them as I passed them on the streets or wherever I saw them, but I looked at them without yearning and with a sense of futility. I masturbated regularly, but the idea of having a relationship with a woman—even on non-sexual terms—was beyond my imagination. I had a six-year-old daughter born out of wedlock. She lived with her mother and I paid child support. I had
been married years before at the age of 35. That marriage lasted two and one half years. My wife divorced me. I had been in love only once. She had died of acute alcoholism. She died at 48 when I was 38. My wife had been 12 years younger than I. I believe that she too is dead now, although I’m not sure. She wrote me a long letter each Christmas for 6 years after the divorce. I never responded....

  I’m not sure when I first saw Lydia Vance. It was about 6 years ago and I had just quit a twelve year job as a postal clerk and was trying to be a writer. I was terrified and drank more than ever. I was attempting my first novel. I drank a pint of whiskey and two six packs of beer each night while writing. I smoked cheap cigars and typed and drank and listened to classical music on the radio until dawn. I set a goal of ten pages a night but I never knew until the next day how many pages I had written. I’d get up in the morning, vomit, then walk to the front room and look on the couch to see how many pages were there. I always exceeded my ten. Sometimes there were 17, 18, 23, 25 pages. Of course, the work of each night had to be cleaned up or thrown away. It took me 21 nights to write my first novel.

  The owners of the court where I then lived, who lived in the back, thought I was crazy. Each morning when I awakened there would be a large brown paper bag on the porch. The contents varied but mostly the bags contained tomatoes, radishes, oranges, green onions, cans of soup, red onions. I drank beer with them every other night until 4 or 5 AM. The old man would pass out and the old lady and I would hold hands and I’d kiss her now and then. I always gave her a big one at the door. She was terribly wrinkled but she couldn’t help that. She was Catholic and looked cute when she put on her pink hat and went to church on Sunday morning.

  I think I met Lydia Vance at my first poetry reading. It was at a bookstore on Kenmore Ave., The Drawbridge. Again, I was terrified. Superior yet terrified. When I walked in there was standing room only. Peter, who ran the store and was living with a black girl, had a pile of cash in front of him. “Shit,” he said to me, “if I could always pack them in like this I’d have enough money to take another trip to India!” I walked in and they began applauding. As far as poetry readings were concerned, I was about to bust my cherry.

  I read 30 minutes then called a break. I was still sober and I could feel the eyes staring at me from out of the dark. A few people came up and talked to me. Then during a lull Lydia Vance walked up. I was sitting at a table drinking beer. She put both hands on the edge of the table, bent over and looked at me. She had long brown hair, quite long, a prominent nose, and one eye didn’t quite match the other. But she projected vitality—you knew that she was there. I could feel vibrations running between us. Some of the vibrations were confused and were not good but they were there. She looked at me and I looked back. Lydia Vance had on a suede cowgirl jacket with a fringe around the neck. Her breasts were good. I told her, “I’d like to rip that fringe off your jacket—we could begin there!” Lydia walked off. It hadn’t worked. I never knew what to say to the ladies. But she had a behind. I watched that beautiful behind as she walked away. The seat of her bluejeans cradled it and I watched it as she walked away.