Run With the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader
Page 44
He felt her teeth dig into his lower lip, the pain was terrible. Ted pulled away, tasting the blood and feeling the wound on his lip. He half rose and slapped Victoria hard across the side of her face, then backhanded her across the other side of the face. He found her down there, slid it in, rammed it in her while putting his mouth back on hers. Ted worked away in wild vengeance, now and then pulling his head back, looking at her. He tried to save it, to hold back, and then he saw that cloud of strawberry hair fanned across the pillow in the moonlight.
Ted was sweating and moaning like a high school boy. This was it. Nirvana. The place to be. Victoria was silent. Ted’s moans lessened and then after a moment he rolled off.
He stared into the darkness.
I forgot to suck her tits, he thought.
Then he heard her voice. “You know what?” she asked.
“What?”
“You remind me of one of those quarterhorses.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s all over in 18 seconds.”
“We’ll race again, baby,” he said …
She went to the bathroom. Ted wiped off on the sheet, the old pro. Victoria was rather a nasty number, in a way. But she could be handled. He had something going. How many men owned their own home and had 150 grand in the bank at his age? He was a class act and she damn well knew it.
Victoria came walking out of the bathroom still looking cool, untouched, almost virginal. Ted switched on the bedlamp. He sat up and poured two more. She sat on the edge of the bed with her drink and he climbed out and sat on the edge of the bed next to her.
“Victoria,” he said, “I can make things good for you.”
“I guess you’ve got your ways, Buddha.”
“And I’ll be a better lover.”
“Sure.”
“Listen, you should have known me when I was young. I was tough, but I was good. I had it. I still have it.”
She smiled at him, “Come on, Buddha, it’s not all that bad. You’ve got a wife, you’ve got lots of things going for you.”
“Except one thing,” he said, draining his drink and looking at her. “Except the one thing I really want…”
“Look at your lip! You’re bleeding!”
Ted looked down into his glass. There were drops of blood in his drink and he felt blood on his chin. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand.
“I’m going to shower and clean up, baby, be right back.”
He walked into the bathroom, slid the shower door open and began to run the water, testing it with his hand. It seemed about right and he stepped in, the water running off him. He could see the blood in the water running into the drain. Some wildcat. All she needed was a steadying hand.
Marie was all right, she was kind, kind of dull actually. She had lost the intensity of youth. It wasn’t her fault. Maybe he could find a way to stay with Marie and have Victoria on the side. Victoria renewed his youth. He needed some fucking renewal. And he needed some more good fucking like that. Of course, women were all crazy, they demanded more than there was. They didn’t realize that making it was not a glorious experience, but only a necessary one.
“Hurry up, Buddha!” he heard her call. “Don’t leave me all alone out here!”
“I won’t be long, baby!” he yelled from under the shower.
He soaped up good, washing it all away.
Then Ted got out, toweled off, then opened the bathroom door and stepped into the bedroom.
The motel room was empty. She was gone.
There was a distance between ordinary objects and between events that was remarkable. All at once, he saw the walls, the rug, the bed, two chairs, the coffee table, the dresser, and the ashtray with their cigarettes. The distance between these things was immense. Then and now were light years apart.
On an impulse, he ran to the closet and pulled the door open. Nothing but coat hangers.
Then Ted realized that his clothes were gone. His underwear, his shirt, his pants, his car keys and wallet, his cash, his shoes, his stockings, everything.
On another impulse he looked under the bed. Nothing.
Then Ted noticed the bottle of Cutty Sark, half full, standing on the dresser and he walked over, picked it up and poured himself a drink. And as he did he saw two words scrawled on the dresser mirror in pink lipstick: “GOODBYE BUDDHA!”
Ted drank the drink, put the glass down and saw himself in the mirror—very fat, very old. He had no idea what to do next.
He carried the Cutty Sark back to the bed, sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress where he and Victoria had sat together. He lifted the bottle and sucked at it as the bright neon lights from the boulevard came through the dusty blinds.
He sat, looking out, not moving, watching the cars passing back and forth.
—HOT WATER MUSIC
cornered
well, they said it would come to
this: old. talent gone, fumbling for
the word
hearing the dark
footsteps, I turn
look behind me …
not yet, old dog …
soon enough.
now
they sit talking about
me: “yes, it’s happened, he’s
finished … it’s
sad …”
“he never had a great deal, did
he?”
“well, no, but now …”
now
they are celebrating my demise
in taverns I no longer
frequent.
now
I drink alone
at this malfunctioning
machine
as the shadows assume
shapes
I fight the slow
retreat
now
my once-promise
dwindling
dwindling
now
lighting new cigarettes
pouring more
drinks
it has been a beautiful
fight
still
is.
Trollius and trellises
of course, I may die in the next ten minutes
and I’m ready for that
but what I’m really worried about is
that my editor-publisher might retire
even though he is ten years younger than
I.
it was just 25 years ago (I was at that ripe
old age of 45)
when we began our unholy alliance to
test the literary waters,
neither of us being much
known.
I think we had some luck and still have some
of same
yet
the odds are pretty fair
that he will opt for warm and pleasant
afternoons
in the garden
long before I.
writing is its own intoxication
while publishing and editing,
attempting to collect bills
carries its own
attrition
which also includes dealing with the
petty bitchings and demands
of many
so-called genius darlings who are
not.
I won’t blame him for getting
out
and hope he sends me photos of his
Rose Lane, his
Gardenia Avenue.
will I have to seek other
promulgators?
that fellow in the Russian
fur hat?
or that beast in the East
with all that hair
in his ears, with those wet and
greasy lips?
or will my editor-publisher
upon exiting for that world of Trollius and
trellis
hand over the
machinery
of his former trade to a
cousin, a
daughter or
some Poundian from Big
Sur?
or will he just pass the legacy on
to the
Shipping Clerk
who will rise like
Lazarus,
fingering new-found
importance?
one can imagine terrible
things:
“Mr. Chinaski, all your work
must now be submitted in
Rondo form
and
typed
triple-spaced on rice
paper.”
power corrupts,
life aborts
and all you
have left
is a
bunch of
warts.
“no, no, Mr. Chinaski:
Rondo form!”
“hey, man,” I’ll ask,
“haven’t you heard of
the thirties?”
“the thirties? what’s
that?”
my present editor-publisher
and I
at times
did discuss the thirties,
the Depression
and
some of the little tricks it
taught us—
like how to endure on almost
nothing
and move forward
anyhow.
well, John, if it happens enjoy your
divertissement to
plant husbandry,
cultivate and aerate
between
bushes, water only in the
early morning, spread
shredding to discourage
weed growth
and
as I do in my writing:
use plenty of
manure.
and thank you
for locating me there at
5124 DeLongpre Avenue
somewhere between
alcoholism and
madness.
together we
laid down the gauntlet
and there are takers
even at this late date
still to be
found
as the fire sings
through the
trees.
my first computer poem
have I gone the way of the deathly death?
will this machine finish me
where booze and women and poverty
have not?
is Whitman laughing at me from his grave?
does Creeley care?
is this properly spaced?
am I?
will Ginsberg howl?
soothe me!
get me lucky!
get me good!
get me going!
I am a virgin again.
a 70-year-old virgin.
don’t fuck me, machine
do.
who cares?
talk to me, machine!
we can drink together.
we can have fun.
think of all the people who will hate me at this
computer.
we’ll add them to the others
and continue right
on.
so this is the beginning
not the
end.
Dinosauria, we
born like this
into this
as the chalk faces smile
as Mrs. Death laughs
as the elevators break
as political landscapes dissolve
as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
as the oily fish spit out their oily prey
as the sun is masked
we are
born like this
into this
into these carefully mad wars
into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
into bars where people no longer speak to each other
into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
born into this
into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
born into this
walking and living through this
dying because of this
muted because of this
castrated
debauched
disinherited
because of this
fooled by this
used by this
pissed on by this
made crazy and sick by this
made violent
made inhuman
by this
the heart is blackened
the fingers reach for the throat
the gun
the knife
the bomb
the fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
the fingers reach for the bottle
the pill
the powder
we are born into this sorrowful deadliness
we are born into a government 60 years in debt
that soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
and the banks will burn
money will be useless
there will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
it will be guns and roving mobs
land will be useless
food will become a diminishing return
nuclear power will be taken over by the many
explosions will continually shake the earth
radiated robot men will stalk each other
the rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground
the sun will not be seen and it will always be night
trees will die
all vegetation will die
radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
the sea will be poisoned
the lakes and rivers will vanish
rain will be the new gold
the rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
the last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
and the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
the petering out of supplies
the natural effect of general decay
and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
born out of that.
the sun still hidden there
awaiting the next chapter.
Luck
once
we were young
at this
machine …
drinking
smoking
typing
it was a most
splendid
miraculous
time
still
is
only now
instead of
moving toward
time
it
moves toward
us
makes each word
drill
into the
paper
clear
fast
hard
feeding a
closing
space.
the bluebird
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
>
he’s
in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?
Acknowledgments
The material in this reader is reprinted from the following books published by Black Sparrow: The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses over the Hills (1969), Post Office (1971), Mockingbird Wish Me Luck (1972), South of No North (1973), Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame (1974), Factotum (1975), Love Is a Dog from Hell (1977), Women (1978), Play the Piano Drunk (1979), Ham on Rye (1982), Hot Water Music (1983), You Get So Alone at Times It Just Makes Sense (1986), The Roominghouse Madrigals (1988), Hollywood (1989), Septuagenarian Stew (1990), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
Other Works
ALSO BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI
AVAILABLE FROM ECCO
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills (1969)
Post Office (1971)
Mockingbird Wish Me Luck (1972)
South of No North (1973)
Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame: Selected Poems 1955–1973 (1974)
Factotum (1975)
Love Is a Dog from Hell: Poems 1974–1977 (1977)
Women (1978)
Play the Piano Drunk / Like a Percussion Instrument / Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit (1979)