The Pleasures of the Damned

Home > Fiction > The Pleasures of the Damned > Page 3
The Pleasures of the Damned Page 3

by Charles Bukowski


  as long as you do not get in her

  way, and it must be that she doesn’t shit or

  have blood

  she must be a cloud, friend, the way she floats past us.

  I am too sick to lay down

  the sidewalks frighten me

  the whole damned city frightens me,

  what I will become

  what I have become

  frightens me.

  ah, the bravado is gone

  the big run through center is gone

  on a windy afternoon in Hollywood

  my radio cracks and spits its dirty music

  through a floor full of empty beerbottles.

  now I hear a siren

  it comes closer

  the music stops

  the man on the radio says,

  “we will send you a free 25-page booklet:

  FACE THE FACTS ABOUT COLLEGE COSTS.”

  the siren fades into the cardboard mountains

  and I look out the window again as the clasped fist of

  boiling cloud comes down—

  the wind shakes the plants outside

  I wait for evening I wait for night I wait sitting in a chair

  by the window—

  the cook drops in the live

  red-pink salty

  rough-tit crab and

  the game works

  on

  come get me.

  they, all of them, know

  ask the sidewalk painters of Paris

  ask the sunlight on a sleeping dog

  ask the 3 pigs

  ask the paperboy

  ask the music of Donizetti

  ask the barber

  ask the murderer

  ask the man leaning against a wall

  ask the preacher

  ask the maker of cabinets

  ask the pickpocket or the

  pawnbroker or the glass blower

  or the seller of manure or

  the dentist

  ask the revolutionist

  ask the man who sticks his head in

  the mouth of a lion

  ask the man who will release the next

  atom bomb

  ask the man who thinks he’s Christ

  ask the bluebird who comes home

  at night

  ask the peeping Tom

  ask the man dying of cancer

  ask the man who needs a bath

  ask the man with one leg

  ask the blind

  ask the man with the lisp

  ask the opium eater

  ask the trembling surgeon

  ask the leaves you walk upon

  ask a rapist or a

  streetcar conductor or an old man

  pulling weeds in his garden

  ask a bloodsucker

  ask a trainer of fleas

  ask a man who eats fire

  ask the most miserable man you can

  find in his most

  miserable moment

  ask a teacher of judo

  ask a rider of elephants

  ask a leper, a lifer, a lunger

  ask a professor of history

  ask the man who never cleans his

  fingernails

  ask a clown or ask the first face you see

  in the light of day

  ask your father

  ask your son and

  his son to be

  ask me

  ask a burned-out bulb in a paper sack

  ask the tempted, the damned, the foolish

  the wise, the slavering

  ask the builders of temples

  ask the men who have never worn shoes

  ask Jesus

  ask the moon

  ask the shadows in the closet

  ask the moth, the monk, the madman

  ask the man who draws cartoons for

  The New Yorker

  ask a goldfish

  ask a fern shaking to a tapdance

  ask the map of India

  ask a kind face

  ask the man hiding under your bed

  ask the man you hate the most in this

  world

  ask the man who drank with Dylan Thomas

  ask the man who laced Jack Sharkey’s gloves

  ask the sad-faced man drinking coffee

  ask the plumber

  ask the man who dreams of ostriches every

  night

  ask the ticket taker at a freak show

  ask the counterfeiter

  ask the man sleeping in an alley under

  a sheet of paper

  ask the conquerors of nations and planets

  ask the man who has just cut off his finger

  ask a bookmark in the bible

  ask the water dripping from a faucet while

  the phone rings

  ask perjury

  ask the deep blue paint

  ask the parachute jumper

  ask the man with the bellyache

  ask the divine eye so sleek and swimming

  ask the boy wearing tight pants in

  the expensive academy

  ask the man who slipped in the bathtub

  ask the man chewed by the shark

  ask the one who sold me the unmatched

  gloves

  ask these and all those I have left out

  ask the fire the fire the fire—

  ask even the liars

  ask anybody you please at any time

  you please on any day you please

  whether it’s raining or whether

  the snow is there or whether

  you are stepping out onto a porch

  yellow with warm heat

  ask this ask that

  ask the man with birdshit in his hair

  ask the torturer of animals

  ask the man who has seen many bullfights

  in Spain

  ask the owners of new Cadillacs

  ask the famous

  ask the timid

  ask the albino

  and the statesman

  ask the landlords and the poolplayers

  ask the phonies

  ask the hired killers

  ask the bald men and the fat men

  and the tall men and the

  short men

  ask the one-eyed men, the

  oversexed and undersexed men

  ask the men who read all the newspaper

  editorials

  ask the men who breed roses

  ask the men who feel almost no pain

  ask the dying

  ask the mowers of lawns and the attenders

  of football games

  ask any of these or all of these

  ask ask ask and

  they’ll all tell you:

  a snarling wife on the balustrade is more

  than a man can bear.

  a future congressman

  in the men’s room at the

  track

  this boy of about

  7 or 8 years old

  came out of a stall

  and the man

  waiting for him

  (probably his father)

  asked,

  “what did you do with the

  racing program?

  I gave it to you

  to keep.”

  “no,” said the boy,

  “I ain’t seen it! I don’t

  have it!”

  they walked off and

  I went into the stall

  because it was the only one

  available

  and there

  in the toilet

  was the

  program.

  I tried to flush

  the program

  away

  but it just swam

  sluggishly about

  and

  remained.

  I got out of

  there and found

  another

  empty stall.

  that boy was ready
/>
  for his life to come,

  he would undoubtedly

  be highly successful,

  the lying little

  prick.

  eulogy

  with old cars, especially when you buy them secondhand

  and drive them for many years

  a love affair is inevitable:

  you even learn to

  accept their little

  eccentricities:

  the leaking water pump

  the failing plugs

  the rusted throttle arm

  the reluctant carburetor

  the oily engine

  the dead clock

  the frozen speedometer and

  other sundry

  defects.

  you also learn all the tricks to

  keep the love affair alive:

  how to slam the glove compartment so that

  it will stay closed,

  how to slap the headlight with an open palm

  in order to have

  light,

  how many times to pump the gas pedal

  and how long to wait before

  touching the starter,

  and you overlook each burn hole in the

  upholstery

  and each spring

  poking through the fabric.

  your car has been in and out of

  police impounds,

  has been ticketed for various

  malfunctions:

  broken wipers,

  no turn signals, missing

  brake light, broken tail lights, bad

  brakes, excessive

  exhaust and so forth

  but in spite of everything

  you knew you were in good hands,

  there was never an accident, the

  old car moved you from one place to

  another,

  faithfully

  —the poor man’s miracle.

  so when that last breakdown did occur,

  when the valves quit,

  when the tired pistons

  cracked, or the

  crankshaft failed and

  you sold it for

  junk

  —you then had to watch it carted

  away

  hanging there

  from the back of the tow truck

  wheeled off

  as if it had no

  soul,

  the bald rear tires

  the cracked back window and

  the twisted license plate

  were the last things you

  saw, and it

  hurt

  as if some woman you loved very

  much

  and lived with

  year after year

  had died

  and now you

  would never

  again know

  her music

  her magic

  her unbelievable

  fidelity.

  the drowning

  for five years I have been looking

  across the way

  at the side of a red apartment house.

  there must be people in there

  even love in there

  whatever that means.

  here blows a horn, there sounds a

  piano, and yesterday’s newspapers are as

  yellow as the grass.

  five years.

  a man can drown in five years,

  while the red bricks

  stand forever.

  I hear sounds now like dancing in the

  air

  great bladders of blood are being loosed in

  Mariposa Ave.

  sweat drenches my temple like beads on a

  cold beer can

  as armies fight in my head.

  I see a woman come out of the redbrick

  apartment house.

  she is fat and comfortable

  the slow horse of her body moves

  under a dress of pink carnations

  playing tricks with my better sense

  and now she is gone and

  the bricks look back at me

  the bricks with their

  windows and the windows look at me

  and a bird on a telephone wire looks

  and I feel naked as I

  try to forget all the good dead.

  a band plays wildly

  LOOKAWAY, LOOKAWAY,

  DIXIELAND!

  as they empty bladders of poison

  and bags of oranges over Mariposa Ave.

  and the cars run through them like poor snow

  and my pink woman comes back and I

  try to tell her

  wait! wait!

  don’t go back in there!

  but she goes inside as

  my bird flies away

  and it is just

  another hot evening in

  Los Angeles:

  some bricks, a mongoose or two, Chimera and

  disbelief.

  (uncollected)

  fooling Marie (the poem)

  he met her at the racetrack, a strawberry

  blonde with round hips, well-bosomed, long legs,

  turned-up nose, flower mouth, in a pink dress,

  wearing white high-heeled shoes.

  she began asking him questions about various

  horses while looking up at him with her pale blue

  eyes.

  he suggested the bar and they had a drink, then

  watched the next race together.

  he hit fifty-win on a sixty-to-one shot and she

  jumped up and down.

  then she whispered in his ear,

  “you’re the magic man! I want to fuck you!”

  he grinned and said, “I’d like to, but

  Marie…my wife…”

  she laughed, “we’ll go to a motel!”

  so they cashed the ticket, went to the parking lot,

  got into her car. “I’ll drive you back when

  we’re finished,” she smiled.

  they found a motel about a mile

  west. she parked, they got out, checked in, went to

  room 302.

  they had stopped for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s

  on the way. he stood and took the glasses out of the

  cellophane. as she undressed he poured two.

  she had a marvelous young body. she sat on the edge of

  the bed sipping at the Jack Daniel’s as he

  undressed. he felt awkward, fat and old

  but knew he was lucky: it promised to be his best day

  ever.

  then he too sat on the edge of the bed with her and

  his Jack Daniel’s. she reached over

  and grabbed him between the legs, bent over

  and went down on him.

  he pulled her under the covers and they played some more.

  finally, he mounted her and it was great, it was a

  miracle, but soon it ended, and when she

  went to the bathroom he poured two more drinks

  thinking, I’ll shower real good, Marie will never

  know.

  she came out and they sat in bed

  making small talk.

  “I’m going to shower now,” he told her,

  “I’ll be out soon.”

  “o.k., cutie,” she said.

  he soaped good in the shower, washing away all the

  perfume, the woman-smell.

  “hurry up, daddy!” he heard her say.

  “I won’t be long, baby!” he yelled from the

  shower.

  he got out, toweled off, then opened the bathroom

  door and stepped out.

  the motel room was empty.

  she was gone.

  on some impulse he ran to the closet, pulled the door

  open: nothing there but coat hangers.

  then he noticed that his clothes were gone, his underwear, his shirt, his pants with the car keys and his wallet,
r />   all the money, his shoes, his stockings, everything.

  on another impulse he looked under the bed.

  nothing.

  then he saw the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, half full,

  standing on the dresser.

  he walked over and poured a drink.

  as he did he saw the word scrawled on the dresser

  mirror in pink lipstick: SUCKER.

  he drank the whiskey, put the glass down and watched himself

  in the mirror, very fat, very tired, very old.

  he had no idea what to do next.

  he carried the whiskey, back to the bed, sat down,

  lifted the bottle and sucked at it as the light from the

  boulevard came in through the dusty blinds. then he just sat

  and looked out and watched the cars, passing back and

  forth.

  the young man on the bus stop bench

  he sits all day at the bus stop

  at Sunset and Western

  his sleeping bag beside him.

  he’s dirty.

  nobody bothers him.

  people leave him alone.

  the police leave him alone.

  he could be the 2nd coming of Christ

  but I doubt it.

  the soles of his shoes are completely

  gone.

  he just laces the tops on

  and sits and watches traffic.

  I remember my own youthful days

  (although I traveled lighter)

  they were similar:

  park benches

  street corners

  tarpaper shacks in Georgia for

  $1.25 a week

  not wanting the skid row church

  hand-outs

  too crazy to apply for relief

  daytimes spent laying in public parks

  bugs in the grass biting

 

‹ Prev