Hot Water Music

by Charles Bukowski

“Try to be a nice guy, you get a scab on your nose,” I told her.

  “There’s no way you will ever be a nice guy,” she said.

  I slammed the door, got in my car and drove off.

  It was Lucy on the phone. “Larry?”

  “Yeh. What is it?”

  “Listen—I want to meet your friend, Don.”

  “Why?”

  “You said he was your only friend. I’d like to meet your only friend.”

  “Well, hell, all right.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m going over to his place after I visit my daughter on Wednesday. I’ll be there about 5:00. Why don’t you come by about 5:30 and I’ll introduce you?”

  I gave her the address and instructions. Don Dorn was a painter. He was 20 years younger than I was and lived in a small house on the beach. I turned over and went back to sleep. I always slept until noon. It was the secret of my successful existence.

  Don and I had two or three beers before Lucy arrived. She appeared excited and had brought along a bottle of wine. I made the introductions and Don uncorked the wine. Lucy sat between us and drained her glass of wine. Don and I stuck with our beer.

  “Oh,” said Lucy, looking at Don, “he’s just gorgeous!”

  Don didn’t say anything. She tugged at his shirt. “You’re just gorgeous!” She emptied her glass and poured another. “Did you just get out of the shower?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Oh, you have ringlets in your hair! You’re gorgeous!”

  “How’s the painting coming, Don?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m getting tired of my style. I think I’ve got to break into another area.”

  “Oh, are these your paintings on the wall?” Lucy asked.

  “Yeh.”

  “They’re marvelous! Do you sell them?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I just love your fish! Where did you get all the fish tanks?”

  “I bought them.”

  “Look at that orange fish! I just love that orange one!”

  “Yeh. He’s nice.”

  “Do they eat each other?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You’re gorgeous!”

  Lucy drank glass after glass of wine.

  “You’re drinking too fast,” I said.

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “You still with Lilly?” asked Don.

  “Solid gold,” I said.

  Lucy drained her glass. The bottle was empty. “Excuse me,” she said. She ran to the bathroom. Then we heard her vomiting.

  “How are the horses running?” Don asked.

  “Pretty good right now. How’s your life going? Had any good fucks lately?”

  “I’ve run into a streak of bad luck.”

  “Keep the faith. Your luck might change.”

  “I sure as hell hope so.”

  “Lilly keeps getting better and better. I don’t see how she does it.”

  Lucy came out of the bathroom. “My god, I’m sick, I’m dizzy!” She threw herself on Don’s bed and stretched out. “I’m dizzy.”

  “Just close your eyes,” I said.

  Lucy lay on the bed looking at me and moaning. Don and I drank some more beer. Then I told him I had to leave.

  “Stay healthy,” I said.

  “God bless,” he said.

  I left him standing in the doorway, rather drunk, and drove off.

  I rolled over in bed and picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  It was Lucy.

  “I’m sorry about last night. I drank that wine too fast. But I cleaned up the bathroom like a good little girl. Don’s a nice fellow. I really like him. I might buy one of his paintings.”

  “Good. He needs the scratch.”

  “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  “What for?”

  She laughed. “I mean, getting sick and all that.”

  “Everyone in America gets sick now and then.”

  “I’m not a drunk.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll be home all weekend if you decide you want to see me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You’re not mad, Larry?”

  “No.”

  “All right then. Toodleoooo.”

  “Toodleoooo.”

  I put the phone back in its cradle and closed my eyes. If I kept winning at the track I was going to buy a new car. I was going to move to Beverly Hills. The phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  It was Don.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m all right. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m going to move to Beverly Hills.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “I want to live closer to my daughter.”

  “How’s your daughter doing?”

  “She’s beautiful. She has everything, inside and out.”

  “You heard from Lucy?”

  “She just phoned.”

  “She sucked me off.”

  “How was it?”

  “I couldn’t come.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Well, you’re all right then, Larry?”

  “I think so.”

  “O.K., keep in touch.”

  “Sure. Goodbye, Don.”

  I put the phone back in its cradle and closed my eyes. It was only 10:45 a.m. and I always slept until noon. Life’s as kind as you let it be.

  PRAYING MANTIS

  Angel’s View Hotel. Marty paid the clerk, took the key and was walking up the stairway. It was less than a pleasant night. Room 222. What did that mean? He walked inside and flipped on the light. A dozen roaches crawled away into the wallpaper and chewed and moved and chewed. There was a telephone, a pay phone. He put the dime in and dialed the number. She answered. “Toni?” he asked.

  “Yeh, this is Toni…” she said.

  “Toni, I’m going crazy.”

  “I told you I’d come see you. Where you at?”

  “The Angel View, Sixth and Coronado, Room 222.”

  “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  “Can’t you come now?”

  “Listen, I’ve got to take the kids over to Carl’s, then I want to stop off and see Jeff and Helen, I haven’t seen them in years…”

  “Toni, I love you for Christ’s sake, I want to see you now!”

  “Maybe if you got rid of your wife, Marty…”

  “These things take time.”

  “See you in a couple of hours, Marty.”

  “Listen, Toni…”

  She hung up. Marty walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. This would be his last involvement. It took too much out of him. Women were stronger than men. They knew all the moves. He didn’t know any of the moves.

  There was a knock on the door. He walked over and opened it. It was a blonde in her mid-thirties in a torn blue smock. The mascara was very purple and the lipstick was on heavy. There was a slight smell of gin.

  “Listen, you don’t mind if I play my tv, do you?”

  “It’s all right, go ahead.”

  “Last guy had your room was some kind of nut. I’d turn on my tv and he’d start banging on the walls.”

  “It’s all right. You can play your tv.” Marty closed the door. He dug the next to last cigarette out of his pack and lit it. That Toni was in his blood, he had to get her out of his blood. There was another knock on the door. It was the blonde again. The mascara was purple and her eyes almost matched; of course it was impossible, but it looked as if she had added another layer of lipstick.

  “Yes?” asked Marty.

  “Listen,” she said, “do you know what the female praying mantis does while they are doing the thing?”

  “What thing?”

  “Fucking.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She eats his head off. While they
are doing the thing she eats his head off. Well, I guess there are worse ways to die, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah,” said Marty, “like cancer.”

  The blonde walked into the room and closed the door behind her. She walked over and sat in the only chair. Marty sat on the bed. “Did it get you excited when I said ‘fucking’?” she asked.

  “Yeah, a little.”

  The blonde got up from the chair and walked over to the bed and put her head real close to Marty’s, she looked into his eyes and put her lips very close to his. Then she said, “Fucking, fucking, fucking!” She got a little closer, then said it once more: “FUCKING!” Then she walked over and sat back down in the chair.

  “What’s your name?” asked Marty.

  “Lilly. Lilly LaVell. I used to strip at the Burbank.”

  “I’m Marty Evans. Glad to know you, Lilly.”

  “Fucking,” said Lilly very slowly, spreading her lips and showing her tongue.

  “You can play your tv anytime,” said Marty.

  “You heard about the black widow spider?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. After they do the thing—fucking—she eats him alive.”

  “Oh,” said Marty.

  “But there are worse ways of dying, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, like leprosy, maybe.”

  The blonde got up and walked up and down, up and down. “I got drunk the other night, I was out on the freeway, I was listening to a horn concerto, Mozart, that horn ran right through me, I’m doing 85 miles an hour and I’m driving with my elbows listening to this horn concerto, can you believe that?”

  “Sure, I believe it.”

  Lilly stopped walking and looked at Marty. “Do you believe I can get you in my mouth and do things to you that have never been done to a man?”

  “Well, I don’t know what to believe.”

  “Well, I can, I can…”

  “You’re nice, Lilly, but I’ve got to meet my girlfriend here in about an hour.”

  “Well, I’ll get you ready for her.”

  Lilly walked over beside him, unzipped him and pulled his penis out of his jockey shorts.

  “Oh, he’s cute!”

  Lilly wet her middle finger, right hand, and began to rub the head and just below and back of the head.

  “But he’s so purple!”

  “Just like your mascara…”

  “Oh, he’s getting so BIG!”

  Marty laughed. A roach crawled out on the wallpaper to catch the action. Then another came out. They wiggled their feelers. Suddenly Lilly’s mouth was on his penis. She gripped him right below the head and sucked. Her tongue was almost like sandpaper; it seemed to know all the right places. Marty looked down at the top of her head and became very excited. He began to pet her hair and sounds dropped out of his mouth. Then suddenly she bit into his cock, hard. She almost bit him in half. Then still biting she yanked her head up. A piece of the head came off. Marty screamed and rolled over and over on the bed. The blonde stood up and spit. Pieces of flesh and blood spattered on the rug. Then she walked over, opened the door, closed it and was gone.

  Marty took the pillowcase off and held it against his penis. He was afraid to look. He felt his heartbeat throbbing throughout his whole body, especially down there. The blood began to spread through the pillowcase. Then the phone rang. He managed to get up, walk over and answer it. “Yeh?” “Marty?” “Yeh?” “This is Toni.” “Yeh, Toni…” “You sound funny…” “Yeh, Toni…” “Is that all you can say? I’m over at Jeff and Helen’s. I’ll see you in about an, hour.” “Sure.” “Listen, what’s wrong with you? I thought you loved me?” “I don’t know any more, Toni…” “All right, then,” she said angrily and hung up.

  Marty managed to find a dime and get it in the phone. “Operator, I want a private ambulance service. Get me anybody but do it fast. I may be dying…”

  “Have you checked with your doctor, sir?”

  “Operator, please get me a private ambulance service!”

  Next door to the left, the blonde sat in front of her tv set. She reached over and switched it on. She was just in time for the Dick Cavett Show.

  BROKEN MERCHANDISE

  Frank pulled onto the freeway into the traffic.

  He was a shipping clerk for the American Clock Company. Six years now. Never held a job for six years before and now the son of a bitch was really killing him. But at the age of 42 with a high school education and ten percent unemployment he didn’t have much choice. It was his 15th or 16th job and all the jobs had been terrible.

  Frank was tired and he wanted to get home and have a beer. He maneuvered his Volks into the fast lane. When he got out there he was no longer so sure that he was in a hurry to get home. Fran would be waiting. Four years now.

  He knew what was coming. Fran couldn’t wait for the first verbal shot. He always waited for her first shot. Jesus, she couldn’t wait to put the knock on him. Then, knock, knock, knock…

  Frank knew he was a loser. He didn’t need Fran to remind him of the fact, to illuminate it. You’d think that two people living together would help each other. But no, they fell into the habit of criticism. He criticized her, she criticized him. They were both losers. Now all they had left was to see who could be the most sarcastic about it all.

  And that son of a bitch, Meyers. Meyers had walked back to the shipping department ten minutes before quitting time and stood there.

  “Frank.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you putting FRAGILE labels on all the shipments?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you packing carefully?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re getting more and more complaints from our customers about receiving broken merchandise.”

  “I suppose that accidents occur in transit.”

  “Are you sure you’re packing the shipments properly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe we had better try some different trucking lines?”

  “They’re all the same.”

  “Well, I want to see an improvement. I want less breakage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Meyers had once controlled the American Clock Company but drinking and a bad marriage had ruined him. He had had to sell most of his stock and was now only an assistant manager. He had gone on the wagon and as a result was always irritable. Meyers was continually trying to draw Frank out and make him angry. Then he would have an excuse to fire him.

  There was nothing worse than a reformed drunk and a Born Again Christian and Meyers was both…

  Frank drew up behind an old car in the fast lane. It was a battered gas-eater, a sedan, and it gave off a dirty trail of smoke from the exhaust. The fenders were smashed and vibrated as the sedan drove along. The paint job had almost vanished from the car, it was almost colorless, a smog grey.

  All that didn’t bother Frank. What bothered him was that the car was going too slow, going the same speed as the car opposite it in the next lane. He checked his speedometer. They were all doing 52. Why?

  Maybe it didn’t matter. Fran was waiting. It was Fran at one end and Meyers at the other. The only time he had alone, the only time somebody wasn’t ripping at him was when he was driving back and forth to work. Or when he was asleep.

  But still he didn’t like being boxed in on the freeway. It was senseless. He looked at the two guys in the front seat of the sedan. They were both talking at once and laughing. They were two young punks about 23 or 24. Frank was glad he didn’t have to listen to the conversation. Those punks were beginning to irritate him.

  Then Frank saw his chance. The car on the right of the old sedan was going just a little bit faster, it was pulling ahead. Frank swung around behind the other car.

  He began to taste the freedom of busting out of there. It would be a small victory after a horrible day with a horrible evening to come. He was going to make it.

  Then just as he was getting read
y to cut out in front of the old sedan the punk at the wheel stepped on the gas, pulled up, cut him off and drove alongside the other car again.

  Frank swung back behind the punks’ car. They were still talking and laughing. He saw their bumper sticker. JESUS LOVES YOU.

  Then he noticed a decal on the rear window. THE WHO.

  Well, they had Jesus and they had The Who. Why in the hell couldn’t they let him by?

  Frank pulled up behind them, rode their rear bumper. They went on talking and laughing. They kept driving at exactly the same speed as the car to their right. 50 mph.

  Frank checked his rear view mirror. There was an unbroken stream of traffic as far back as he could see.

  Frank worked his Volks from the fast lane into the next lane, then worked over into the slow lane. Traffic was moving faster there. He slipped around a car by darting left and then broke loose into the open. As he did he saw the old sedan speed up. The punks pulled up alongside of him. Frank checked his speedometer. 62 mph. Frank ran it up to 65. The punks were still there. He pushed it to 70. The punks stayed with him.

  Now they were in a hurry. Why?

  Frank pushed the accelerator all the way down. The Volks would only do 75. He was going to burn up the engine or throw a rod. The punks were keeping up with him even though they were grinding their car to death too.

  He looked over at them. Two young blond guys with wisps of goatees. Their faces looked at him. Bland faces like turkey butts with little holes for mouths.

  The punk next to the driver gave him the finger.

  Frank pointed first at the finger guy, then at the driver. Then he pointed to the freeway exit. They both nodded.

  Frank led them to the freeway exit. He stopped at a signal. They waited behind him. Then Frank took a right and drove along with the punks behind him. He drove until he saw a supermarket. He drove into the parking lot. He noted the loading dock. It was dark back there. The market was closed. The dock was deserted, the steel doors pulled down. There was nothing back there but space and stacks of empty wooden crates. Frank pulled up to the loading dock. He got out of his car, locked it and walked up the ramp and along the dock. The punks pulled in their old sedan alongside his car and got out.