South of No North

by Charles Bukowski

  “You don’t want to get drunk,” said Curt.

  “Is he reliable?” asked Bill.

  “He’s got the best references,” said Curt.

  “Look,” said Bill, “I don’t want comedy. It’s my money.”

  “How do I know you’re not a pig?” asked Ronnie.

  “How do I know you won’t cut with the $2500?”

  “Three grand.”

  “Curt said two and one half.”

  “I just upped it. I don’t like you.”

  “I don’t care too much for your ass either. I’ve got a good mind to call it off.”

  “You won’t. You guys never do.”

  “Do you do this regular?”

  “Yes. Do you?”

  “All right, gentlemen,” said Curt, “I don’t care what you settle for. I get my grand for the contract.”

  “You’re the lucky one, Curt,” said Bill.

  “Yeah,” said Ronnie.

  “Each man is an expert in his own line,” said Curt, lighting a cigarette.

  “Curt, how do I know this guy won’t cut with the three grand?”

  “He won’t or he’s out of business. It’s the only kind of work he can do.”

  “That’s horrible,” said Bill.

  “What’s horrible about it? You need him don’t you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Other people need him too. They say each man is good at something. He’s good at that.”

  Somebody put some money in the juke and they sat listening to the music and drinking the beer.

  “I’d really like to give it to that blonde,” said Ronnie. “I’d like to give her about six hours of turkeyneck.”

  “I would too,” said Curt, “if I had it.”

  “Let’s get another pitcher,” said Bill. “I’m nervous.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” said Curt. He waved for another pitcher of beer. “That $500 I dropped on the Rams, I’ll get it back at Anita. They open December 26th. I’ll be there.”

  “Is the Shoe going to ride in the meet?” asked Bill.

  “I haven’t read the papers. I’d imagine he will. He can’t quit. It’s in his blood.”

  “Longden quit,” said Ronnie.

  “Well, he had to; they had to strap the old man in the saddle.”

  “He won his last race.”

  “Campus pulled the other horse.”

  “I don’t think you can beat the horses,” said Bill.

  “A smart man can beat anything he puts his mind to,” said Curt. “I’ve never worked in my life.”

  “Yeah,” said Ronnie, “but I gotta work tonight.”

  “Be sure you do a good job, baby,” said Curt.

  “I always do a good job.”

  They were quiet and sat drinking their beer. Then Ronnie said, “All right, where’s the god damned money?”

  “You’ll get it, you’ll get it,” said Bill. “It’s lucky I brought an extra $500.”

  “I want it now. All of it.”

  “Give him the money, Bill. And while you’re at it, give me mine.”

  It was all in hundreds. Bill counted it under the table. Ronnie got his first, then Curt got his. They checked it. O.k.

  “Where’s it at?” asked Ronnie.

  “Here,” said Bill, handing him an envelope. “The address and key are inside.”

  “How far away is it?”

  “Thirty minutes. You take the Ventura freeway.”

  “Can I ask you one thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Do you care?”

  “No.”

  “Then why ask?”

  “Too much beer, I guess.”

  “Maybe you better get going,” said Curt.

  “Just one more pitcher of beer,” said Ronnie.

  “No,” said Curt, “get going.”

  “Well, shit, all right.”

  Ronnie moved around the table, got out, walked to the exit. Curt and Bill sat there looking at him. He walked outside. Night. Stars. Moon. Traffic. His car. He unlocked it, got in, drove off.

  Ronnie checked the street carefully and the address more carefully. He parked a block and a half away and walked back. The key fit the door. He opened it and walked in. There was a T.V. set going in the front room. He walked across the rug.

  “Bill?” somebody asked. He listened for the voice. She was in the bathroom. “Bill?” she said again. He pushed the door open and there she sat in the tub, very blond, very white, young. She screamed.

  He got his hands around her throat and pushed her under the water. His sleeves were soaked. She kicked and struggled violently. It got so bad that he had to get in the tub with her, clothes and all. He had to hold her down. Finally she was still and he let her go.

  Bill’s clothes didn’t quite fit him but at least they were dry. The wallet was wet but he kept the wallet. Then he got out of there, walked the block and one half to his car and drove off.

  THIS IS WHAT KILLED DYLAN THOMAS

  This is what killed Dylan Thomas.

  I board the plane with my girlfriend, the sound man, the camera man and the producer. The camera is working. The sound man has attached little microphones to my girlfriend and myself. I am on my way to San Francisco to give a poetry reading. I am Henry Chinaski, poet. I am profound, I am magnificent. Balls. Well, yes, I do have magnificent balls.

  Channel 15 is thinking of doing a documentary on me. I have on a clean new shirt, and my girlfriend is vibrant, magnificent, in her early thirties. She sculpts, writes, and makes marvelous love. The camera pokes into my face. I pretend it isn’t there. The passengers watch, the stewardesses beam, the land is stolen from the Indians, Tom Mix is dead, and I’ve had a fine breakfast.

  But I can’t help thinking of the years in lonely rooms when the only people who knocked were the landladies asking for the back rent, or the F.B.I. I lived with rats and mice and wine and my blood crawled the walls in a world I couldn’t understand and still can’t. Rather than live their life, I starved; I ran inside my own mind and hid. I pulled down all the shades and stared at the ceiling. When I went out it was to a bar where I begged drinks, ran errands, was beaten in alleys by well-fed and secure men, by dull and comfortable men. Well, I won a few fights but only because I was crazy. I went for years without women, I lived on peanut butter and stale bread and boiled potatoes. I was the fool, the dolt, the idiot. I wanted to write but the typer was always in hock. I gave it up and drank….

  The plane rose and the camera went on. The girlfriend and I talked. The drinks arrived. I had poetry, and a fine woman. Life was picking up. But the traps, Chinaski, watch the traps. You fought a long fight to put the word down the way you wanted. Don’t let a little adulation and a movie camera pull you out of position. Remember what Jeffers said—even the strongest men can be trapped, like God when he once walked on earth.

  Well, you ain’t God, Chinaski, relax and have another drink. Maybe you ought to say something profound for the sound man? No, let him sweat. Let them all sweat. It’s their film burning. Check the clouds for size. You’re riding with executives from I.B.M., from Texaco, from…

  You’re riding with the enemy.

  On the escalator out of the airport a man asks me, “What’s all the cameras? What’s going on?”

  “I’m a poet,” I tell him.

  “A poet?” he asks, “what’s your name?”

  “Garcia Lorca,” I say….

  Well, North Beach is different. They’re young and they wear jeans and they wait around. I’m old. Where’s the young ones of 20 years ago? Where’s Joltin’ Joe? All that. Well, I was in S.F. 30 years ago and I avoided North Beach. Now I’m walking through it. I see my face on posters all about. Be careful, old man, the suck is on. They want your blood.

  My girlfriend and I walk along with Marionetti. Well, here we are walking along with Marionetti. It’s nice being with Marionetti, he ha
s very gentle eyes and the young girls stop him on the street and talk to him. Now, I think, I could stay in San Francisco…but I know better; it’s back to L.A. for me with that machinegun mounted in the front court window. They might have caught God, but Chinaski gets advice from the devil.

  Marionetti leaves and there’s a beatnick coffeeshop. I have never been in a beatnick coffeeshop. I am in a beatnick coffeeshop. My girl and I get the best—60 cents a cup. Big time. It isn’t worth it. The kids sit about sipping at their coffees and waiting for it to happen. It isn’t going to happen.

  We walk across the street to an Italian cafe. Marionetti is back with the guy from the S. F. Chronicle who wrote in his column that I was the best short story writer to come along since Hemingway. I tell him he is wrong; I don’t know who is the best since Hemingway but it isn’t H.C. I’m too careless. I don’t put out enough effort. I’m tired.

  The wine comes on. Bad wine. The lady brings in soup, salad, a bowl of raviolis. Another bottle of bad wine. We are too full to eat the main course. The talk is loose. We don’t strain to be brilliant. Maybe we can’t be. We get out.

  I walk behind them up the hill. I walk with my beautiful girlfriend. I begin to vomit. Bad red wine. Salad. Soup. Raviolis. I always vomit before a reading. It’s a good sign. The edge is on. The knife is in my gut while I walk up the hill.

  They put us in a room, leave us a few bottles of beer. I glance over my poems. I am terrified. I heave in the sink, I heave in the toilet, I heave on the floor. I am ready.

  The biggest crowd since Yevtushenko…I walk on stage. Hot shit. Hot shit Chinaski. There is a refrigerator full of beer behind me. I reach in and take one. I sit down and begin to read. They’ve paid $2 a head. Fine people, those. Some are quite hostile from the outset. 1/3 of them hate me, 1/3 of them love me, the other 3rd don’t know what the hell. I have some poems that I know will increase the hate. It’s good to have hostility, it keeps the head loose.

  “Will Laura Day please stand up? Will my love please stand up?”

  She does, waving her arms.

  I begin to get more interested in the beer than the poetry. I talk between the poems, dry and banal stuff, drab. I am H. Bogart. I am Hemingway. I am hot shit.

  “Read the poems, Chinaski!” they scream.

  They are right, you know. I try to stay with the poems. But I’m at the refrigerator door much of the time too. It makes the work easier, and they’ve already paid. I’m told once John Cage came out on stage, ate an apple, walked off, got one thousand dollars. I figured I had a few beers coming.

  Well, it was over. They came around. Autographs. They’d come from Oregon, L.A., Washington. Nice pretty little girls too. This is what killed Dylan Thomas.

  Back upstairs at the place, drinking beer and talking to Laura and Joe Krysiak. They are beating on the door downstairs. “Chinaski! Chinaski!” Joe goes down to hold them off. I’m a rock star. Finally I go down and let some of them in. I know some of them. Starving poets. Editors of little magazines. Some get through that I don’t know. All right, all right—lock the door!

  We drink. We drink. We drink. Al Masantic falls down in the bathroom and crashes the top of his head open. A very fine poet, that Al.

  Well, everybody is talking. It’s just another sloppy beerdrunk. Then the editor of a little magazine starts beating on a fag. I don’t like it. I try to separate them. A window is broken. I push them down the steps. I push everybody down the steps, except Laura. The party is over. Well, not quite. Laura and I are into it. My love and I are into it. She’s got a temper, I’ve got one to match. It’s over nothing, as usual. I tell her to get the hell out. She does.

  I wake up hours later and she’s standing in the center of the room. I leap out of bed and cuss her. She’s on me.

  “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!”

  I’m drunk. She’s on top of me on the kitchen floor. My face is bleeding. She bites a hole in my arm. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die! Passion be damned! I run into the kitchen and pour half a bottle of iodine over my arm. She’s throwing my shorts and shirts out of her suitcase, taking her airplane ticket. She’s on her way again. We’re finished forever again. I go back to bed and listen to her heels going down the hill.

  On the plane back the camera is going. Those guys from Channel 15 are going to find out about life. The camera zooms in on the hole in my arm. There is a double shot in my hand.

  “Gentlemen,” I say, “there is no way to make it with the female. There is absolutely no way.”

  They all nod in agreement. The sound man nods, the camera man nods, the producer nods. Some of the passengers nod. I drink heavily all the way in, savoring my sorrow, as they say. What can a poet do without pain? He needs it as much as his typewriter.

  Of course, I make the airport bar. I would have made it anyhow. The camera follows me into the bar. The guys in the bar look around, lift their drinks and talk about how impossible it is to make it with the female.

  My take for the reading is $400.

  “What’s the camera for?” asks the guy next to me.

  “I’m a poet,” I tell him.

  “A poet?” he asks. “What’s your name?”

  “Dylan Thomas,” I say.

  I lift my drink, empty it with one gulp, stare straight ahead. I’m on my way.

  NO NECK AND BAD AS HELL

  I had a jumpy stomach and she took pictures of me sweating and dying in the waiting area as I watched a plump girl in a short purple dress and high heels shoot down a row of plastic ducks with a gun. I told Vicki I’d be back and I asked the girl at the counter for a paper cup and some water and I dropped my Alka Seltzers in. I sat back down and sweated.

  Vicki was happy. We were getting out of town. I liked Vicki to be happy. She deserved her happiness. I got up and went to the men’s room and had a good crap. When I got out they were calling the passengers. It wasn’t a very large seaplane. Two propellers. We were on last. It only held six or seven.

  Vicki sat in the co-pilot’s seat and they made me a seat out of the thing that folded over the door. There we went! FREEDOM. My seatbelt didn’t work.

  There was a Japanese guy looking at me. “My seatbelt doesn’t work,” I told him. He grinned back at me, happily. “Suck shit, baby,” I told him. Vicki kept looking back and smiling. She was happy, a kid with candy—a 35 year old seaplane.

  It took twelve minutes and we hit the water. I hadn’t heaved. I got out. Vicki told me all about it. “The plane was built in 1940. It had holes in the floor. He worked the rudder with a handle from the roof. ‘I’m scared,’ I told him, and he said, ‘I’m scared too.’”

  I depended on Vicki for all my information. I wasn’t much good at talking to people. Well, then we packed onto a bus, sweating and giggling and looking at each other. From the end of the bus line to the hotel was about two blocks and Vicki kept me informed: “There’s a place to eat, and there’s another liquor store for you, there’s a bar, and there’s a place to eat, and there’s another liquor store…”

  The room was all right, in front, right over the water. The T.V. worked in a vague and hesitant way and I flopped on the bed and watched while Vicki unpacked. “Oh, I just love this place!” she said, “don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  I got up and went downstairs and across the street and got beer and ice. I packed the ice in the sink and sunk the beer in. I drank 12 bottles of beer, had a minor argument of some sort with Vicki after the tenth beer, drank the other two and went to sleep.

  When I woke up, Vicki had bought an ice chest and was drawing on the cover. Vicki was a child, a Romantic, but I loved her for it. I had so many gloomy devils in me that I welcomed it.

  “July 1972. Avalon Catalena” she printed on the chest. She didn’t know how to spell. Well, none of us did.

  Then she drew me, and underneath: “No neck and bad as hell.”

  Then she drew a lady, and underneath: “Henry knows a good ass when he sees one.”

&nb
sp; And in a circle: “Only God knows what he does with his nose.”

  And: “Chinaski has gorgeous legs.”

  She also drew a variety of birds and suns and stars and palm trees and the ocean.

  “Are you able to eat breakfast?” she asked. I’d never been spoiled by any of my past women. I liked being spoiled; I felt that I deserved to be spoiled. We went and found a fairly reasonable place where you could eat at a table outside. Over breakfast she asked me, “Did you really win the Pulitzer Prize?”

  “What Pulitzer Prize?”

  “You told me last night you’d won the Pulitzer Prize. $500,000. You said you got a purple telegram about it.”

  “A purple telegram?”

  “Yes, you said you’d beat out Norman Mailer, Kenneth Koch, Diane Wakoski, and Robert Creeley.”

  We finished breakfast and walked around. The whole place didn’t add up to more than five or six blocks. Everybody was seventeen years old. They sat listlessly waiting. Not everybody. There were a few tourists, old, determined to have a good time. They peered angrily into shop windows and walked, stamping the pavements, giving off their rays: I have money, we have money, we have more money than you have, we are better than you are, nothing worries us; everything is shit but we are not shit and we know everything, look at us.

  With their pink shirts and green shirts and blue shirts, and square white rotting bodies, and striped shorts, eyeless eyes and mouthless mouths, they walked along, very colorful, as if color might wake up death and turn it into life. They were a carnival of American decay on parade and they had no idea of the atrocity that they had inflicted upon themselves.

  I left Vicki, went upstairs, crouched over the typewriter, and looked out the window. It was hopeless. All my life I had wanted to be a writer and now I had my chance and it wouldn’t come. There were no bullrings and boxing matches or young señoritas. There weren’t even any insights. I was fucked. I couldn’t get the word down and they’d backed me into a corner. Well, all you had to do was die. But I’d always imagined it differently. I mean, the writing. Maybe it was the Leslie Howard movie. Or reading about the life of Hemingway or D. H. Lawrence. Or Jeffers. You could get started writing in all sorts of different ways. And then you wrote a while. And met some of the writers. The good ones and the bad ones. And they all had tinkertoy souls. You knew it when you got into a room with them. There was only one great writer every 500 years, and you weren’t the one, and they most certainly weren’t the ones. We were fucked.