Hot Water Music

by Charles Bukowski

  Harry walked down to his apartment, put the key in and opened the door. His wife, Rochelle, was in the kitchen cooking dinner.

  “How’d it go?” she asked.

  “Same old shit,” he said.

  “Dinner in ten minutes,” she said.

  Harry walked to the bathroom, got out of his things and took a shower. The job was getting to him. Six years and he didn’t have a dime in the bank. That’s how they hooked you—they gave you just enough to keep alive but they never gave you enough so you could finally escape.

  He soaped up good, washed off and stood there, letting the very hot water run down the back of his neck. It took away the fatigue. He toweled off and put on his robe, walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Rochelle was dishing it out. Meatballs and gravy. She made good meatballs and gravy.

  “Listen,” he said, “give me some good news.”

  “Good news?”

  “You know what.”

  “The period?”

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t had it.”

  “Christ.”

  “The coffee’s not ready.”

  “You always forget.”

  “I know. I don’t know what makes me do that.”

  Rochelle sat down and they began eating without the coffee. The meatballs were good.

  “Harry,” she said, “we can get an abortion.”

  “All right,” he said. “If it comes to that, we’ll do it.”

  The next evening he got on the elevator and rode alone. He rode to the third floor and got out. Then he turned around, got back in and pushed the button again. He rode down to the driveway, got out, walked over to his car and sat and waited. He saw her coming up the driveway, this time without any groceries. He opened his car door.

  This time she had on a red dress, shorter and tighter-fitting than the yellow one. Her hair was down and it was long. It almost reached her behind. She had on the same goofy earrings and her lips were more heavily smeared with lipstick than before. As she stepped into the elevator he followed her. They rose up and once again he pushed the EMERGENCY button. Then he was upon her, his lips on that red obscene mouth. Again she didn’t have on pantyhose, just red knee stockings. Harry worked the panties off and put it in. They banged against all four walls. It lasted longer this time. Then Harry zipped up, turned his back on her and pushed the “3” button.

  When he opened the door Rochelle was singing. She had a terrible voice so Harry got into the shower in a hurry. He came out in his robe, sat at the table.

  “Christ,” he said, “they laid off four guys today, even Jim Bronson.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Rochelle.

  There were steaks and french fries, salad and hot garlic bread. Not bad.

  “You know how long Jim’s been there?”

  “No.”

  “Five years.”

  Rochelle didn’t answer. “Five years,” said Harry. “They just don’t care, those bastards have no mercy.”

  “I didn’t forget the coffee this time, Harry.”

  She leaned over and kissed him as she poured his cup. “I’m improving, you see?”

  “Yeah.”

  She went and sat down. “My period started today.”

  “What? Is it true?”

  “Yes, Harry.”

  “That’s great, great…”

  “I don’t want a kid until you want one, Harry.”

  “Rochelle, we ought to celebrate! A bottle of good wine! I’ll go get one after dinner.”

  “I’ve already got it, Harry.”

  Harry got up and walked around the table. He stood almost behind Rochelle and tilted her head backwards with one hand under her chin and kissed her. “I love you, baby.”

  They ate dinner. It was a good dinner. And a good bottle of wine…

  Harry got out of his car as she walked up the driveway. She waited for him and they got on the elevator together. She had on a blue and white dress, a flower print, white shoes, white ankle socks. Her hair was piled up on her head again and she smoked a Benson and Hedges cigarette.

  Harry pushed the EMERGENCY button.

  “Wait a minute, mister!”

  It was the second time Harry had heard her voice. The voice was a bit hoarse but it wasn’t a bad voice at all.

  “Yes,” asked Harry, “what is it?”

  “Let’s go to my apartment.”

  “All right.”

  She pushed the “4” button, they went up, the door opened and they walked down the hall to 404. She unlocked the door.

  “Nice place,” said Harry.

  “I like it. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Sure.”

  She walked into the kitchen. “I’m Nana,” she said.

  “I’m Harry.”

  “I know you are but what’s your name?”

  “You’re funny,” said Harry.

  She came out with two drinks and they sat on the couch and drank them. “I work at Zody’s discount,” said Nana. “I’m a counter girl at Zody’s.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “What the hell’s nice about it?”

  “I mean, it’s nice that we’re here together.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s go into the bedroom.”

  Harry followed her. Nana finished her drink and set the empty glass on the dresser. She walked into the closet. It was a large closet. She began to sing and to remove her clothing. Nana sang better than Rochelle. Harry sat on the edge of the bed and finished his drink. Nana came out of the closet and stretched out on the bed. She was naked. The hair on her cunt was much darker than the hair on her head.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Oh,” said Harry. He took off his shoes, he took off his stockings, he took off his shirt, his pants, his undershirt, his shorts. Then he got on the bed beside her. She turned her head and he kissed her. “Listen,” he said, “do we have to have all these lights on?”

  “Of course not.” Nana got up and switched off the overhead light and the bedside lamp. Harry felt her mouth on his. Her tongue entered, flicked in and out. Harry climbed on top of her. She was very soft, something like a waterbed. He kissed and licked her breasts, kissed her mouth and her neck. He continued to kiss her for some time.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “It’s not working, is it?”

  “No.”

  Harry got off and began dressing in the dark. Nana switched on the bed lamp.

  “What are you? An elevator freak?”

  “No, no…”

  “You can only do it in elevators, is that it?”

  “No, no, you were the first one, really. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “But I’m here now,” Nana said.

  “I know it,” he said, pulling his pants on. Then he sat down and started putting on his shoes and stockings.

  “Listen, you son of a bitch—”

  “Yes?”

  “When you are ready and you want me, come to my apartment, understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  Harry was fully dressed and standing again.

  “No more on the elevator, understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “If you ever rape me on the elevator again I’ll call the law, that’s a promise.”

  “O.K., O.K.”

  Harry walked out of the bedroom, through the living room and out the apartment door. He walked down to the elevator and pushed the button. The door opened and he stepped in. The elevator began to descend. There was a petite Oriental woman standing next to him. She had black hair. Black skirt, white blouse, pantyhose, tiny feet, high-heeled shoes. She was dark complexioned, with just a trace of lipstick. That very small body had an amazing, sexy behind. The eyes were brown and very deep and looked tired. Harry reached and pushed the EMERGENCY button. As he moved toward her she screamed. He slapped her hard across
the face, got out his handkerchief and forced it into her mouth. He locked one of his arms about her waist and as she clawed him across the face with her free hand he reached down and pulled up her skirt. He liked what he saw.

  HEAD JOB

  Margie usually began playing Chopin nocturnes when the sun went down. She lived in a large house set back from the street and by sundown she was high on brandy or scotch. At 43 her figure was still slim, her face delicate. Her husband had died young five years before and she lived in apparent solitude. The husband had been a doctor and lucky in the stock market and the money was invested to give her a fixed income of $2,000 a month. A good portion of the $2,000 went for brandy or scotch.

  She’d had two lovers since the death of her husband but both affairs had been desultory and short-lived. Men seemed to lack magic, most of them were bad lovers, sexually and spiritually. Their interests seemed to center on new cars, sports and television. At least Harry, her late husband, had taken her to an occasional symphony. God knows, Mehta was a very bad conductor but he beat watching Laverne and Shirley. Margie had simply resigned herself to an existence without the male animal. She lived a quiet life with her piano and her brandy and her scotch. And when the sun went down she needed her piano very much, and her Chopin, and her scotch and/or brandy. She would begin to light one cigarette after another as the evening arrived.

  Margie had one amusement. A new couple had moved into the house next door. Only they were hardly a couple. He was 20 years older than the woman, was bearded, powerful, violent and appeared half-mad. He was an ugly man who always looked either intoxicated or hung over. The woman he lived with was odd, too—sullen, indifferent. Almost in a dream-state. The two appeared to have an affinity for each other, yet it was as if two enemies had been thrown together. They fought continually. Margie usually would first hear the woman’s voice, then suddenly and loudly she would hear the man’s, and the man always screamed some vile indecency. Sometimes the voices would be followed by the sound of breaking glass. More often, though, the man would be seen driving away in his old car and the neighborhood would be quiet for two or three days until his return. Twice the police had taken the man away, but he always returned.

  One day Margie saw his photo in the newspaper—the man was the poet Marx Renoffski. She had heard of his work. She went to the bookstore the next day and bought all his available books. That afternoon she mixed his poetry with her brandy and as it got dark that night she forgot to play her Chopin nocturnes. She gathered from some of the love poems that he was living with the sculptress, Karen Reeves. For some reason, Margie didn’t feel as lonely as she once had.

  The house belonged to Karen and there were many parties. Always during the parties, when the music and the laughter were the loudest, she would see the large, bearded figure of Marx Renoffski emerge from the rear of the house. He would sit in the backyard alone with his beer bottle in the moonlight. It was then that Margie would remember his love poems and wish she could meet him.

  Friday night, several weeks after she had bought his books, she heard them arguing loudly. Marx had been drinking and Karen’s voice became more and more shrill. “Listen,” she heard Marx’s voice, “any time I want a goddamned drink I’m gonna take a goddamned drink!” “You’re the ugliest thing that has ever happened in my life!” she heard Karen say. Then there were sounds of a scuffle. Margie turned out the lights and pressed close to the window. “God damn you,” she heard Marx say, “you keep attacking me and I’ll let you have one!”

  She saw Marx come out on the front porch carrying his typewriter. It wasn’t a portable, but a standard model, and Marx staggered down the steps carrying it, almost falling several times. “I’m getting rid of your head,” Karen screamed. “I’m throwing your head out!” “Go ahead,” Marx said, “dump it.” She saw Marx load the typewriter into his car and then she saw a large heavy object, evidently the head, come flying off the end of the porch and into her yard. It bounced and settled just under a large rose bush. Marx drove off in his car. All the lights went out in Karen Reeves’ house and it was quiet.

  When Margie awakened the next morning it was 8:45. She made her toilet, put two eggs on to boil, and had a coffee with a jigger of brandy. She walked to the front window. The large clay object was still under the rose bush. She went back, took out the eggs, cooled them under cold water and peeled them. She sat down to eat the eggs and opened a copy of Marx Renoffski’s latest book of poems, One, Two, Three, I Love Me. She opened it near the middle:

  oh, I’ve got squadrons

  of pain

  battalions, armies of

  pain

  continents of pain

  ha, ha, ha,

  and

  I’ve got you.

  Margie finished the eggs, put two jiggers of brandy in her second coffee, drank it, put on her green striped pants, her yellow sweater, and looking a little bit like Katharine Hepburn looked at 43, she slipped into her red sandals and walked out into her front yard. Marx’s car wasn’t there on the street and Karen’s house looked very quiet. She walked toward the rose bush. The sculpted head was face-down under the bush. Margie could feel her heart beat. She took her foot and rolled the head over and the face looked up at her out of the dirt. It certainly was Marx Renoffski. She picked Marx up, and holding him carefully against her pale yellow sweater she carried him into the house. She put him on top of her piano, then had a brandy and water and sat down and looked at him while she drank it. Marx was craggy and ugly but very real. Karen Reeves was a good sculptress. Margie was thankful to Karen Reeves. She continued to study Marx’s head, she could see everything there: kindness, hatred, fear, madness, love, humor, but she saw mostly the love and the humor. When KSUK came on the air with the classical music program at noon, she turned the radio on loudly and began to drink with real enjoyment.

  Around 4 p.m., still drinking brandy, she began talking to him. “Marx, I understand you. I could bring you real happiness.”

  Marx didn’t answer, he just sat there on top of the piano. “Marx, I’ve read your books. You’re a sensitive and gifted man, Marx, and so funny. I understand you darling, I’m not like that…that other woman.”

  Marx just kept grinning, looking at her through his little slitted eyes.

  “Marx, I could play you Chopin…the nocturnes, the études.”

  Margie sat down at the piano and began playing. He was right there. One just knew that Marx never watched football on tv. He probably watched Shakespeare and Ibsen and Chekov on Channel 28. And like in his poems, he was a great lover. She poured more brandy and played on. Marx Renoffski listened.

  When Margie was finished with her concert, she looked at Marx. He had enjoyed it. She was sure of it. She stood up. Marx’s head was just level with hers. She bent over and gave him a little kiss. She drew back. He was grinning, he was grinning his delightful grin. She put her mouth on his again and gave him a slow, passionate kiss.

  The next morning Marx was still there on the piano. Marx Renoffski, poet, modern poet, alive, dangerous, lovely and sensitive. She looked out the front window. Marx’s car was not there yet. He was staying away. He was staying away from that…bitch.

  Margie turned and spoke to him. “Marx, you need a good woman.” She walked to the kitchen, put two eggs on to boil, put a jigger of scotch into her coffee. She hummed to herself. The day was identical to the preceding one. Only better. It felt better. She read some more of Marx’s work. She even wrote a poem of her own:

  this most divine accident

  has brought us

  together

  even though you are clay

  and I am flesh

  we have touched

  we have somehow touched

  At 4 p.m. the doorbell rang. She walked to the door and opened it. It was Marx Renoffski. He was intoxicated.

  “Baby,” he said, “we know you got the head. What are you going to do with my head?”

  Margie couldn’t answer. Marx pushed his way in.
<
br />   “All right, where is the goddamned thing? Karen wants it back.”

  The head was in the music room. Marx walked around. “Nice place you got here. You live alone, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the matter, you afraid of men?”

  “No.”

  “Listen, next time Karen runs me out I think I’ll come over here. O.K.?”

  Margie didn’t answer.

  “You didn’t answer. That means O.K. Well, fine. But I still have to get that head. Listen. I hear you playing Chopin when the sun goes down. You got class. I like class broads. I’ll bet you drink brandy, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pour me a brandy. Three jiggers in a half glass of water.”

  Margie went into the kitchen. When she came out with the drink he was in the music room. He’d found the head. He was leaning against it, his elbow resting on top of the skull. She handed him his drink.

  “Thanks. Yeah, class, you’re class. You paint, write, compose? You do anything besides play Chopin?”

  “No.”

  “Ah,” he said, raising his drink and downing half of it. “I bet you do.”

  “Do what?”

  “Fuck. I bet you’re a great fuck.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I know. And you shouldn’t waste it. I don’t want to see you waste it.”

  Marx Renoffski finished his drink and placed it on top of the piano next to the head. He walked over to her and grabbed her. He smelled of vomit, cheap wine and bacon. Needle-like hairs from his beard poked into her face as he kissed her. Then he pulled his face away and looked at her with his tiny eyes. “You don’t wanna miss out on life, baby!” She felt his penis rise against her. “I eat pussy too. I never ate pussy until I was 50. Karen taught me. Now I’m the best in the world.”