most poets are swans,
egrets.
I sit with 3 junkies
at one-thirty in the afternoon.
the smoke pisses upward.
I wait.
death is a nothing jumbo.
one of the females says that she likes
my yellow shirt.
I believe in a simple violence.
this is
some of it.
hug the dark
turmoil is the god
madness is the god
permanent living peace is
permanent living death.
agony can kill
or
agony can sustain life
but peace is always horrifying
peace is the worst thing
walking
talking
smiling,
seeming to be.
don’t forget the sidewalks
the whores,
betrayal,
the worm in the apple,
the bars, the jails,
the suicides of lovers.
here in America
we have assassinated a president and his brother,
another president has quit office.
people who believe in politics
are like people who believe in god:
they are sucking wind through bent
straws.
there is no god
there are no politics
there is no peace
there is no love
there is no control
there is no plan
stay away from god
remain disturbed
slide.
I was leaning against the bar in Musso’s. Sarah had gone to the lady’s room. I liked the bar at Musso’s, bar just as bar, but I didn’t like the room it was in. It was known as the “New Room.” The “Old Room” was on the other side and I preferred to eat there. It was darker and quieter. In the old days I used to go to the Old Room to eat but I never actually ate. I just looked at the menu and told them, “Not yet,” and kept ordering drinks. Some of the ladies I brought there were of ill-repute and as we drank on and on, often loud arguments began, replete with cursing and spilling of drinks, calls for more to drink. I usually gave the ladies cab fare and told them to get the hell out and I went on drinking alone. I doubt they ever used the cab fare for cab fare. But one of the nicest things about Musso’s was that when I returned again, after fucking up, I was always greeted with warm smiles. So strange.
Anyhow, I was leaning against the bar and the New Room was full, mostly with tourists, they were chatting and they were twisting their necks and they were giving off rays of death. I ordered a new drink and then there was a tap on my shoulder.
“Chinaski, how are you?”
I turned and looked. I never knew who anybody was. I could meet you the night before and not remember you the next day. If they dug my mother out of her grave I wouldn’t know who she was.
“I’m all right,” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“No, thanks. We haven’t met. I’m Harold Pheasant.”
“Oh yeah. Jon told me you were thinking of …”
“Yes. I want to finance your screenplay. I’ve read your work. You’ve got a marvelous sense of dialogue. I’ve read your work: very filmatic!”
“Sure you won’t have a drink?”
“No, I have to get back to my table.”
“Yeah. What ya been doing lately, Pheasant?”
“Just finished producing a film about the life of Mack Derouac.”
“Yeah? What’s it called?”
“The Heart’s Song.”
I took a drink.
“Hey, wait a minute! You’re joking! You’re not going to call it The Heart’s Song?”
“Oh yes, that’s what it’s going to be called.”
He was smiling.
“You can’t fool me, Pheasant. You’re a real joker! The Heart’s Song! Jesus Christ!”
“No,” he said, “I’m serious.”
He suddenly turned and walked off …
Just then Sarah came back. She looked at me.
What are you grinning about?”
“Let me order you a drink and I’ll tell you.”
I got the barkeep over and also ordered another for myself.
“Guess who I saw in the Old Room,” she said.
“Who?”
“Jonathan Winters.”
“Yeah. Guess who I talked to while you were gone.”
“One of your x-sluts.”
“No, no. Worse.”
“There’s nothing worse than those.”
“I talked to Harold Pheasant.”
“The producer?”
“Yes, he’s over at that corner table.”
“Oh, I see!”
“No, don’t look. Don’t wave. Drink your drink. I’ll drink mine.”
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“You see, he was the producer who was going to produce the screenplay that I haven’t written.”
“I know.”
“While you were gone he came over to talk to me.”
“You already said.”
“He didn’t even want a drink.”
“So you screwed it up and you’re not even drunk.”
“Wait. He wanted to talk about a movie he had just produced.”
“How’d you screw it up?”
“I didn’t screw it up. He screwed it up.”
“Sure. Tell me.”
I looked in the mirror. I liked myself but I didn’t like myself in the mirror. I didn’t look like that. I finished my drink.
“Finish your drink,” I said.
She did.
“Tell me.”
“That’s twice you’ve said, ‘Tell me.’”
“Remarkable memory and you’re not even drunk yet.”
I motioned the barkeep in, ordered again.
“Well, Pheasant came over and he told me about this movie he produced. It’s about a writer who couldn’t write but who got famous because he looked like a rodeo rider.”
“Who?”
“Mack Derouac.”
“And that upset you?”
“No, that didn’t matter. It was fine until he told me the title of the movie.”
“Which was?”
“Please. I am trying to drive it out of my mind. It’s utterly stupid.”
“Tell me.”
“All right …”
The mirror was still there.
“Tell me, tell me, tell me …”
“All right: The Furry Flotsam Flies.”
“I like that.”
“I didn’t. I told him so. He walked off. We lost our only backer.”
“You ought to go over there and apologize.”
“No way. Horrendous title.”
“You just wanted his movie to be about you.”
“That’s it! I’ll write a screenplay about myself!”
“Got the title?”
“Yeah: Flies in the Furry Flotsam.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
With that, we did.
—HOLLYWOOD
the proud
thin
dying
I see old people on pensions in the
supermarkets and they are thin and they are
proud and they are dying
they are starving on their feet and saying
nothing. long ago, among other lies,
they were taught that silence was
bravery, now, having worked a lifetime,
inflation has trapped them. they look around
steal a grape
chew on it. finally they make a tiny
purchase, a day’s worth.
another lie they were taught:
thou shalt not steal.
they’d rather starve than steal
(one grape won’t save them)
and in tiny rooms
&
nbsp; while reading the market ads
they’ll starve
they’ll die without a sound
pulled out of roominghouses
by young blond boys with long hair
who’ll slide them in
and pull away from the curb, these
boys
handsome of eye
thinking of Vegas and pussy and
victory.
it’s the order of things: each one
gets a taste of honey
then the knife.
Vin Marbad came highly recommended by Michael Huntington, my official photographer. Michael snapped me constantly, but so far there had been no large call for these efforts.
Marbad was a tax consultant. He arrived one night with his briefcase, a dark little man. I had been drinking quietly for some hours, sitting with Sarah while watching a movie on my old black-and-white tv.
He knocked with a rapid dignity and I let him in, introduced him to Sarah, poured him a wine.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a sip. “You know, that here in America, if you don’t spend money they are going to take it away.”
“Yeah? What you want me to do?”
“Put a payment down on a house.”
“Huh?”
“Mortgage payments are tax deductible.”
“Yeah, what else?”
“Buy a car. Tax deductible.”
“All of it?”
“No, just some. Let me handle that. What we have to do is build you some tax shelters. Look here—”
Vin Marbad opened his briefcase and slipped out many sheets of paper. He stood up and came toward me with the papers.
“Real estate. Here, I’ve bought some land in Oregon. This is a tax write-off. There are some acres still available. You can get in now. We look for a 23% appreciation each year. In other words, after four years your money is doubled …”
“No, no, please sit back down.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t want to buy anything that I can’t see, I don’t want to buy anything that I can’t reach out and touch.”
“You mean, you don’t trust me?”
“I just met you.”
“I have world-wide recommendations!”
“I always go by my instincts.”
Vin Marbad spun back toward the couch where he had left his coat; he slipped into it and then with briefcase he rushed to the door, opened it, was out, closed it.
“You’ve hurt his feelings,” said Sarah. “He’s just trying to show you some ways to save money.”
“I have two rules. One is, never trust a man who smokes a pipe. The other is, never trust a man with shiny shoes.”
“He wasn’t smoking a pipe.”
“Well, he looks like a pipe smoker.”
“You hurt his feelings.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll be back …”
The door flung open and there was Vin Marbad. He rushed across the room to his original place on the couch, took off his coat again, placed the briefcase at his feet. He looked at me.
“Michael tells me you play the horses.”
“Well, yeah …”
“My first job when I came here from India was at Hollywood Park. I was a janitor there. You know the brooms they use to sweep up the discarded tickets?”
“Yeah.”
“Ever notice how wide they are?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that was my idea. Those brooms used to be regular size. I designed the new broom. I went to Operations with it and they put it to use. I moved up into Operations and I’ve been moving up ever since.”
I poured him another wine. He took a sip.
“Listen, do you drink when you write?”
“Yes, quite a bit.”
“That’s part of your inspiration. I’ll make that tax deductible.”
“Can you do that?”
“Of course. You know, I was the one who began making deductions for gasoline use in the automobile. That was my idea.”
“Son of a bitch,” I said.
“Very interesting,” said Sarah.
“I’ll fix it so you won’t have to pay any taxes at all and it will all be legal.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Michael Huntington doesn’t pay taxes. Ask him.”
“I believe you. Let’s not pay taxes.”
“All right, but you must do what I tell you. First, you put a down payment on a house, then on a car. Get started. Get a good car. Get a new BMW.”
“All right.”
“What do you type on? A manual?”
“Yes.”
“Get an electric. It’s tax deductible.”
“I don’t know if I can write on an electric.”
“You can pick it up in a couple of days.”
“I mean, I don’t know if I can create on an electric.”
“You mean, you’re afraid to change?”
“Yes, he is,” said Sarah. “Take the writers of past centuries, they used quill pens. Back then, he would have held on to that quill pen, he would have fought any change.”
“I worry too much about my god damned soul.”
“You change your brands of booze, don’t you?” asked Vin.
“Yeah …”
“O.K., then …”
Vin lifted his glass, drained it.
I poured the wine around.
“What we want to do is to make you a Corporation, so you get all the tax breaks.”
“It sounds awful.”
“I told you, if you don’t want to pay taxes you must do as I say.”
“All I want to do is type, I don’t want to carry around a big load.”
“All you do is to appoint a Board of Directors, a Secretary, Treasurer, so forth … It’s easy.”
“It sounds horrible. Listen, all this sounds like pure shit. Maybe I’d be better off just paying taxes. I just don’t want anybody bothering me. I don’t want a tax man knocking on my door at midnight. I’ll even pay extra just to make sure they leave me alone.”
“That’s stupid,” said Vin, “nobody should ever pay taxes.”
“Why don’t you give Vin a chance? He’s just trying to help you,” said Sarah.
“Look, I’ll mail you the Corporation papers. Just read them over and then sign them. You’ll see that there’s nothing to fear.”
“All this stuff, you see, it gets in the way. I’m working on this screenplay and I need a clear mind.”
“A screenplay, huh? What’s it about?”
“A drunk.”
“Ah, you, huh?”
“Well, there are others.”
“I’ve got him drinking wine now,” said Sarah. “He was about dead when I met him. Scotch, beer, vodka, gin, ale …”
“I’ve been a consultant for Darby Evans for some years now. You heard of him, he’s a screenwriter.”
“I don’t go to movies.”
“He wrote The Bunny That Hopped into Heaven; Waffles with Lulu; Terror in the Zoo. He’s easily into six figures. And, he’s a Corporation.”
I didn’t answer.
“He hasn’t paid a dime in taxes. And, it’s all legal …”
“Give Vin a chance,” said Sarah.
I lifted my glass.
“All right. Shit. Here’s to it!”
“Atta boy,” said Vin.
I drained my glass and got up and found another bottle. I got the cork out and poured all around.
I let my mind go along with it: you’re a wheeler dealer. You’re slick. Why pay for bombs that mangle helpless children? Drive a BMW. Have a view of the harbor. Vote Republican.
Then another thought came to my mind:
Are you becoming what you’ve always hated?
And then the answer came:
Shit, you don’t have any real money anyhow. Why not play around with this thing for laughs?
We went on drinking, celebrating something.
—HOLLYWOOD
3:16
and one half…
here I’m supposed to be a great poet
and I’m sleepy in the afternoon
here I am aware of death like a giant bull
charging at me
and I’m sleepy in the afternoon
here I’m aware of wars and men fighting in the ring
and I’m aware of good food and wine and good women
and I’m sleepy in the afternoon
I’m aware of a woman’s love
and I’m sleepy in the afternoon,
I lean into the sunlight behind a yellow curtain
I wonder where the summer flies have gone
I remember the most bloody death of Hemingway
and I’m sleepy in the afternoon.
some day I won’t be sleepy in the afternoon
some day I’ll write a poem that will bring volcanoes
to the hills out there
but right now I’m sleepy in the afternoon
and somebody asks me, “Bukowski, what time is it?”
and I say, “3:16 and a half.”
I feel very guilty, I feel obnoxious, useless,
demented, I feel
sleepy in the afternoon,
they are bombing churches, o.k., that’s o.k.,
the children ride ponies in the park, o.k., that’s o.k.,
the libraries are filled with thousands of books of knowledge,
great music sits inside the nearby radio
and I am sleepy in the afternoon,
I have this tomb within myself that says,
ah, let the others do it, let them win,
let me sleep,
wisdom is in the dark
sweeping through the dark like brooms,
I’m going where the summer flies have gone,
try to catch me.
So, there I was over 65 years old, looking for my first house. I remembered how my father had virtually mortgaged his whole life to buy a house. He had told me, “Look, I’ll pay for one house in my lifetime and when I die you’ll get that house and then in your lifetime you’ll pay for a house and when you the you’ll leave those houses to your son. That’ll make two houses. Then your son will …”
The whole process seemed terribly slow to me: house by house, death by death. Ten generations, ten houses. Then it would take just one person to gamble all those houses away, or burn them down with a match and then run down the street with his balls in a fruit-picker’s pail.
Now I was looking for a house I really didn’t want and I was going to write a screenplay I really didn’t want to write. I was beginning to lose control and I realized it but I seemed unable to reverse the process.
Run With the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader Page 36
