South of No North

by Charles Bukowski

  We went into the only bar in town and sat down and Pops ordered a wine and I ordered a beer. The old guy started in on his ex-wife again and I moved down to the other end of the bar. A Mexican girl came down the stairway and sat down next to me. Why were they always coming down stairways like that, like in the movies? I even felt like I was in a movie. I bought her a beer. She said, “My name is Sherri,” and I said, “That isn’t Mexican,” and she said, “It doesn’t have to be,” and I said, “You’re right.”

  And it was five dollars upstairs and she washed me off first, and then later. She washed me off out of a little white bowl that had painted baby chickens chasing each other around the bowl. She made the same money in ten minutes that I had made in a day with some hours thrown in. Monetarily speaking, it seemed sure as shit you were better off having a pussy than a cock.

  When I came down the stairway the old guy already had his head down on the bar; it had gotten to him. We hadn’t eaten that day and he had no resistance. There was a dollar and some change by his head. For a moment I thought of taking him with me but I couldn’t take care of myself. I walked outside. It was cool and I walked north.

  I felt bad about leaving Pops there for the small town vultures. Then I wondered if the old guy’s wife ever thought about him. I decided that she didn’t, or if she did, it was hardly in the same way he thought about her. The whole earth crawled with sad hurt people like him. I needed a place to sleep. The bed I had been in with the Mexican girl had been the first I had been in for three weeks.

  Some nights earlier I had found that when it got cold the slivers in my hand began to throb. I could feel where each one was. It began to get cold. I can’t say that I hated the world of men and women, but I felt a certain disgust that separated me from the craftsmen and tradesmen and liars and lovers, and now decades later I feel that same disgust. Of course, this is only one man’s story or one man’s view of reality. If you’ll keep reading maybe the next story will be happier. I hope so.

  MAJA THURUP

  It had gotten extensive press coverage and T.V. coverage and the lady was to write a book about it. The lady’s name was Hester Adams, twice divorced, two children. She was 35 and one guessed that it was her last fling. The wrinkles were appearing, the breasts had been sagging for some time, the ankles and calves were thickening, there were signs of a belly. America had been taught that beauty only resided in youth, especially in the female. But Hester Adams had the dark beauty of frustration and upcoming loss; it crawled all over her, the upcoming loss, and it gave her a sexual something, like a desperate and fading woman sitting in a bar full of men. Hester had looked around, seen few signs of help from the American male, and had gotten onto a plane for South America. She had entered the jungle with her camera, her portable typewriter, her thickening ankles and her white skin and had gotten herself a cannibal, a black cannibal: Maja Thurup. Maja Thurup had a good look to his face. His face appeared to be written over with one thousand hangovers and one thousand tragedies. And it was true—he had had one thousand hangovers, but the tragedies all came from the same root: Maja Thurup was overhung, vastly overhung. No girl in the village would accept him. He had torn two girls to death with his instrument. One had been entered from the front, the other from the rear. No matter.

  Maja was a lonely man and he drank and brooded over his loneliness until Hester Adams had come with guide and white skin and camera. After formal introductions and a few drinks by the fire, Hester had entered Maja’s hut and taken all Maja Thurup could muster and had asked for more. It was a miracle for both of them and they were married in a three-day tribal ceremony, during which captured enemy tribesmen were roasted and consumed amid dancing, incantation, and drunkenness. It was after the ceremony, after the hangovers had cleared away that trouble began. The medicine man, having noted that Hester did not partake of the flesh of the roasted enemy tribesmen (garnished with pineapple, olives, and nuts) announced to one and all that this was not a white goddess, but one of the daughters of the evil god Ritikan. (Centuries ago Ritikan had been expelled from the tribal heaven for his refusal to eat anything but vegetables, fruits, and nuts.) This announcement caused dissension in the tribe and two friends of Maja Thurup were promptly murdered for suggesting that Hester’s handling of Maja’s overhang was a miracle in itself and the fact that she didn’t ingest other forms of human meat could be forgiven—temporarily, at least.

  Hester and Maja fled to America, to North Hollywood to be precise, where Hester began procedings to have Maja Thurup become an American citizen. A former schoolteacher, Hester began instructing Maja in the use of clothing, the English language, California beer and wines, television, and foods purchased at the nearby Safeway market. Maja not only looked at television, he appeared on it along with Hester and they declared their love publicly. Then they went back to their North Hollywood apartment and made love. Afterwards Maja sat in the middle of the rug with his English grammar books, drinking beer and wine, and singing native chants and playing the bongo. Hester worked on her book about Maja and Hester. A major publisher was waiting. All Hester had to do was get it down.

  One morning I was in bed about 8:00 a.m. The day before I had lost $40 at Santa Anita, my savings account at California Federal was getting dangerously low, and I hadn’t written a decent story in a month. The phone rang. I woke up, gagged, coughed, picked it up.

  “Chinaski?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Dan Hudson.”

  Dan ran the magazine Flare out of Chicago. He paid well. He was the editor and publisher.

  “Hello, Dan, mother.”

  “Look, I’ve got just the thing for you.”

  “Sure, Dan. What is it?”

  “I want you to interview this bitch who married the cannibal. Make the sex BIG. Mix love with horror, you know?”

  “I know. I’ve been doing it all my life.”

  “There’s $500 in it for you if you beat the March 27 deadline.”

  “Dan, for $500, I can make Burt Reynolds into a lesbian.”

  Dan gave me the address and phone number. I got up, threw water on my face, had two Alka-Seltzers, opened a bottle of beer and phoned Hester Adams. I told her that I wanted to publicize her relationship with Maja Thurup as one of the great love stories of the 20th century. For the readers of Flare magazine. I assured her that it would help Maja obtain his American citizenship. She agreed to an interview at 1:00 p.m.

  It was a walk-up apartment on the third floor. She opened the door. Maja was sitting on the floor with his bongo drinking a fifth of medium priced port from the bottle. He was barefooted, dressed in tight jeans, and in a white t-shirt with black zebra-stripes. Hester was dressed in an identical outfit. She brought me a bottle of beer, I picked up a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table and began the interview.

  “You first met Maja when?”

  Hester gave me a date. She also gave me the exact time and place.

  “When did you first begin to have love feelings for Maja? What exactly were the circumstances which tripped them off?”

  “Well,” said Hester, “it was…”

  “She love me when I give her the thing,” said Maja from the rug.

  “He has learned English quite quickly, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s brilliant.”

  Maja picked up his bottle and drained off a good slug.

  “I put this thing in her, she say, ‘Oh my god oh my god oh my god!’ Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

  “Maja is marvelously built,” she said.

  “She eat too,” said Maja, “she eat good. Deep throat, ha, ha, ha!”

  “I loved Maja from the beginning,” said Hester, “it was his eyes, his face…so tragic. And the way he walked. He walks, well, he walks something like a tiger.”

  “Fuck,” said Maja, “we fuck we fucky fuck fuck fuck. I am getting tired.”

  Maja took another drink. He looked at me.

  “You fuck her. I am tired. She big hungry tunnel.”

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nbsp; “Maja has a genuine sense of humor,” said Hester, “that’s another thing that has endeared him to me.”

  “Only thing dear you to me,” said Maja, “is my telephone pole piss-shooter.”

  “Maja has been drinking since this morning,” said Hester, “you’ll have to excuse him.”

  “Perhaps I’d better come back when he’s feeling better.”

  “I think you should.”

  Hester gave me an appointment at 2:00 p.m. in the afternoon the next day.

  It was just as well. I needed photographs. I knew a down-and-out photographer, one Sam Jacoby who was good and would do the work cheap. I took him back there with me. It was a sunny afternoon with only a thin layer of smog. We walked up and I rang. There was no answer. I rang again. Maja answered the door.

  “Hester not in,” he said, “she gone to grocery store.”

  “We had an appointment for 2:00 o’clock. I’d like to come in and wait.”

  We walked in and sat down.

  “I play drums for you,” said Maja.

  He played the drums and sang some jungle chants. He was quite good. He was working on another bottle of port wine. He was still in his zebra-striped t-shirt and jeans.

  “Fuck fuck fuck,” he said, “that’s all she want. She make me mad.”

  “You miss the jungle, Maja?”

  “You just ain’t just shittin’ upstream, daddy.”

  “But she loves you, Maja.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  Maja played us another drum solo. Even drunk he was good.

  When Maja finished Sam said to me, “You think she might have a beer in the refrigerator?”

  “She might.”

  “My nerves are bad. I need a beer.”

  “Go ahead. Get two. I’ll buy her some more. I should have brought some.”

  Sam got up and walked into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open.

  “I’m writing an article about you and Hester,” I said to Maja.

  “Big-hole woman. Never fill. Like volcano.”

  I heard Sam vomiting in the kitchen. He was a heavy drinker. I knew he was hungover. But he was still one of the best photographers around. Then it was quiet. Sam came walking out. He sat down. He didn’t have a beer with him.

  “I play drums again,” said Maja. He played the drums again. He was still good. Though not as good as the preceding time. The wine was getting to him.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Sam said to me.

  “I have to wait for Hester,” I said.

  “Man, let’s go,” said Sam.

  “You guys want some wine?” asked Maja.

  I got up and walked into the kitchen for a beer. Sam followed me. I moved toward the refrigerator.

  “Please don’t open that door!” he said.

  Sam walked over to the sink and vomited again. I looked at the refrigerator door. I didn’t open it. When Sam finished, I said, “O.k., let’s go.”

  We walked into the front room where Maja still sat by his bongo.

  “I play drum once more,” he said.

  “No, thanks, Maja.”

  We walked out and down the stairway and out to the street. We got into my car. I drove off. I didn’t know what to say. Sam didn’t say anything. We were in the business district. I drove into a gas station and told the attendant to fill it up with regular. Sam got out of the car and walked to the telephone booth to call the police. I saw Sam come out of the phone booth. I paid for the gas. I hadn’t gotten my interview. I was out $500. I waited as Sam walked toward the car.

  THE KILLERS

  Harry had just gotten off the freight and was walking down Alameda toward Pedro’s for a nickel cup of coffee. It was early morning but he remembered they used to open at 5 a.m. You could sit in Pedro’s for a couple of hours for a nickel. You could do some thinking. You could remember where you’d gone wrong, or where you’d gone right.

  They were open. The Mexican girl who gave him his coffee looked at him as if he were a human being. The poor knew life. A good girl. Well, a good enough girl. They all meant trouble. Everything meant trouble. He remembered a statement he’d heard somewhere: the Definition of Life is Trouble.

  Harry sat down at one of the old tables. The coffee was good. Thirty-eight years old and he was finished. He sipped at the coffee and remembered where he had gone wrong—or right. He’d simply gotten tired—of the insurance game, of the small offices and high glass partitions, the clients; he’d simply gotten tired of cheating on his wife, of squeezing secretaries in the elevator and in the halls; he’d gotten tired of Christmas parties and New Year’s parties and birthdays, and payments on new cars and furniture payments—light, gas, water—the whole bleeding complex of necessities.

  He’d gotten tired and quit, that’s all. The divorce came soon enough and the drinking came soon enough, and suddenly he was out of it. He had nothing, and he found out that having nothing was difficult too. It was another type of burden. If only there were some gentler road in between. It seemed a man only had two choices—get in on the hustle or be a bum.

  As Harry looked up a man sat down across from him, also with a nickel cup of coffee. He appeared to be in his early forties. And was dressed as poorly as Harry. The man rolled a cigarette, then looked at Harry as he lit it.

  “How’s it going?”

  “That’s some question,” said Harry.

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  They sat drinking their coffee.

  “A man wonders how he gets down here.”

  “Yeah,” said Harry.

  “By the way, if it matters, my name’s William.”

  “I’m called Harry.”

  “You can call me Bill.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You got the look on your face like you’ve reached the end of something.”

  “I’m just tired of the bum, bone-tired.”

  “You want to get back into society, Harry?”

  “No, not that. But I’d like to get out of this.”

  “There’s suicide.”

  “I know.”

  “Listen,” said Bill, “what we need is a little cash the easy way so we can get a breather.”

  “Sure, but how?”

  “Well, there’s some risk involved.”

  “Like what?”

  “I used to do some house burglaring. It’s not bad. I could use a good partner.”

  “O.k., I’m just about ready to try anything. I’m sick of watery beans, week-old doughnuts, the mission, the God-lectures, the snoring…”

  “Our problem is how to get where we can operate,” said Bill.

  “I got a couple of bucks.”

  “All right, meet me about midnight. Got a pencil?”

  “No.”

  “Wait. I’ll borrow one.”

  Bill came back with a stub of pencil. He took a napkin and wrote on it.

  “You take the Beverly Hills bus and ask the driver to let you off here. Then walk two blocks north. I’ll be there waiting. You gonna make it?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You got a wife, kids?” asked Bill.

  “Used to have,” Harry answered.

  It was cold that night. Harry got off the bus and walked the two blocks north. It was dark, very dark. Bill was standing smoking a rolled cigarette. He wasn’t standing in the open but was back against a large bush.

  “Hello, Bill.”

  “Hello, Harry. You ready to start your new lucrative career?”

  “I am.”

  “All right. I’ve been casing these places. I think I’ve got us a good one. Isolated. It stinks of money. You scared?”

  “No. I’m not scared.”

  “Fine. Be cool and follow me.”

  Harry followed Bill along the sidewalk for a block and a half, then Bill cut between two shrubs and onto a large lawn. They walked to the back of the house, a large two storey affair. Bill stopped at the rear window. He sliced the screen with a knife, then stood still and lis
tened. It was like a graveyard. Bill unhooked the screen and lifted it off. He stood there working at the window. Bill worked at it for some time and Harry began to think: Jesus. I’m with an amateur. I’m with some kind of nut. Then the window opened and Bill climbed in. Harry could see his ass wiggling in. This is ridiculous, he thought. Do men do this?

  “Come on,” Bill said softly from inside.

  Harry climbed in. It did stink of money and furniture polish.

  “Jesus. Bill. I’m scared now. This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Don’t talk so loud. You want to get away from those watery beans, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then be a man.”

  Harry stood while Bill slowly opened drawers and put things in his pockets. They appeared to be in a dining room. Bill was stuffing spoons and knives and forks into his pockets.

  How can we get anything for that? thought Harry.

  Bill kept putting the silverware into his coat pockets. Then he dropped a knife. The floor was hard, without a rug, and the sound was definite and loud.

  “Who’s there?”

  Bill and Harry didn’t answer.

  “I said, who’s there?”

  “What is it, Seymour?” said a girl’s voice.

  “I thought I heard something. Something woke me up.”

  “Oh go to sleep.”

  “No. I heard something.”

  Harry heard the sound of a bed and then the sound of a man walking. The man came through the door and was in the dining room with them. He was in his pajamas, a young man of about 26 or 27 with a goatee and long hair.

  “All right, you pricks, what are you doing in my house?”

  Bill turned toward Harry. “Get into that bedroom. There might be a phone there. See that she doesn’t use it. I’ll take care of this one.”

  Harry walked toward the bedroom, found the entrance, walked in, saw a young blonde about 23, long hair, in a fancy nightgown, her breasts loose. There was a telephone by the night stand and she wasn’t using it. She flung the back of her hand to her mouth. She was sitting up in bed.