Hot Water Music

by Charles Bukowski

  They walked up the ramp toward him. Neither one of them weighed over 130 pounds. Together they only outweighed him 30 pounds.

  Then the guy who had given the finger said, “O.K., you old shit!” He rushed at Frank, making a high, squealing sound, his hands held flat in some kind of karate gesture. The punk whirled, tried a backward kick, missed, then came around and cracked Frank on the ear with the side of his hand. It was no more than a slap. Frank put all of his 230 pounds behind a hard right to the punk’s belly and the kid slumped to the pavement holding his gut.

  The other punk pulled out a switchblade, flicked it open.

  “I’ll cut your fuckin’ balls off!” he said to Frank.

  Frank waited as the punk moved in, nervously changing the knife from hand to hand. Frank backed up toward the crates. The punk moved in making hissing sounds. Frank waited, his back against the boxes. Then as the punk moved in Frank reached up, grabbed a crate and threw it at him. It slammed into the punk’s face and as it did Frank moved in and grabbed his knife arm. The blade fell to the ground and Frank twisted the arm behind the punk’s back. He pushed the arm up as far as he could.

  “Please don’t break my arm!” the punk squealed.

  Frank let the punk go and as he did he kicked him in the ass, hard. The kid fell forward, grabbing at his butt. Frank picked up the knife, flicked in the blade, pocketed it and walked slowly back to his car. As he got in and started the Volks he could see the two punks standing close to each other by the old sedan watching him. They were no longer talking and laughing.

  Suddenly he gunned his car and ran it at them. They scattered and at the last moment he veered off. He slowed down and drove out of the parking lot.

  He noticed that his hands were trembling. It had been one hell of a day. He drove along the boulevard. The Volks ran badly, sputtering, as if to object to its mistreatment on the freeway.

  Then Frank saw the bar. The Lucky Knight. There was parking in front. He stopped, got out and went in.

  Frank sat down and ordered a Bud. “Where’s your phone?”

  The barkeep told him. It was back near the crapper. He put the coin in and dialed the number.

  “Yes?” Fran answered.

  “Listen, Fran, I’m going to be a little late. I got held up. See you soon.”

  “Held up? You mean you got robbed?”

  “No, I got in a fight.”

  “A fight? Don’t tell me that! You couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag!”

  “Fran, I wish you wouldn’t use those old, stale expressions.”

  “Well, it’s true! You couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag!”

  Frank hung up and walked back to the bar stool. He picked up his bottle of Bud and took a hit.

  “I like a man who drinks right out of the bottle!”

  There was somebody sitting next to him. A woman. She was about 38, dirt under her fingernails, her dyed blonde hair piled loosely on top of her head. Two silver loops dangled from her ears and her mouth was heavy with lipstick. She licked her lips, slowly, then she stuck a Virginia Slim into that mouth and lit it.

  “I’m Diana.”

  “Frank. What do you drink?”

  “He knows…” She nodded to the barkeep and the barkeep picked up a bottle of her favorite brand of whiskey and moved toward them. Frank pulled out a ten and placed it on the bar.

  “You got a fascinating face,” said Diana. “What do you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Just the kind of man I like.”

  She lifted her drink and pressed her leg against his as she drank. Frank took his fingernail and slowly peeled the wet beer label off his bottle. Diana finished her drink. Frank motioned to the barkeep.

  “Two more.”

  “Yeah, what’ll you have?”

  “I’ll take hers.”

  “You’ll take hers?” asked the barkeep. “Wow!”

  They all laughed. Frank lit a smoke and the barkeep brought the bottle down. Suddenly it looked like a pretty good night after all.

  HOME RUN

  I guess I was about 28 at that time. I wasn’t working but I had a little money because I had lucked it at the track—finally. It was around 9 p.m. I had been drinking in my rented room for a couple of hours. I was bored and I came out and started walking down the street. I came to a bar across the street from my usual bar and for some reason I went in. It was a lot cleaner and fancier in there than in my usual bar and I thought, well, maybe I’ll luck into a class piece of ass.

  I sat down near the entrance, took a stool a couple of seats away from this girl. She was alone and there were four or five people, men and women, at the other end of the bar. The barkeep was down there talking to them and laughing. I must have sat three or four minutes. The barkeep just kept talking and laughing. I hated those pricks, they drank all they wanted, got tips, got ass, got admiration, got everything they wanted.

  I pulled out a pack of smokes. Tapped one out. No matches. None on the bar. I looked at the lady.

  “Pardon me, got a light?”

  Irritated, she dug into her purse. She came up with a book of matches, Then without looking at me, she tossed them down.

  “Keep ’em,” she said.

  She had long hair and a good body. She had on a fake fur coat and a little fur hat. I watched her tilt her head back after sucking at her smoke. She exhaled like she really knew some god damned thing. Those are the kind you like to belt-whip.

  The barkeep kept ignoring me.

  I picked up an ashtray, held it about two feet above the bar and dropped it. That got him. He came on down, treading the boards. He was a big one, maybe six-feet-four, 265 pounds. Some fat around the gut, but big shoulders, big head, big hands. He was handsome in a dumb kind of way, a strand of drunken hair hanging over one eye.

  “Double Cutty Sark on the rocks,” I told him.

  “Good thing you didn’t break that ashtray,” he said.

  “Good thing you heard it,” I answered.

  The boards creaked and groaned as he walked back to mix the drink.

  “I hope he doesn’t mix me a Mickey,” I said to the girl in the fake mink.

  “Jimmy’s nice,” she said. “Jimmy doesn’t do things like that.”

  “I’ve never met a nice guy named ‘Jimmy,’” I told her.

  Jimmy came back with my drink. I reached into my wallet and dropped a $50 bill on the bar. Jimmy picked it up, held it up to the light and said, “Shit!”

  “What’s the matter, boy?” I asked. “Never seen a $50 bill before?”

  He walked off down the boards. I took a hit of my drink. It was a double all right.

  “Guy acts like he never saw $50 before,” I said to the girl in the fur hat. “I carry nothing but 50s.”

  “You’re full of shit,” she said.

  “No, I’m not,” I told her. “I took a dump about 20 minutes ago.”

  “Big deal…”

  “I can buy anything you’ve got.”

  “It’s not for sale,” she said.

  “What’s the matter? You got a lock on it? If you have, don’t worry, nobody’s going to ask for the key.”

  I took another hit.

  “Wanna drink?” I asked.

  “I only drink with people I like,” she said.

  “Now you’re full of shit,” I told her.

  Where’s the barkeep with my change? I thought. He’s taking a long time…

  I was just about the drop the ashtray again when he came back, cracking wood with his dumb feet.

  He put the change down. I looked at it as he started to walk off.

  “HEY!” I yelled.

  He came back down. “What is it?”

  “This is change for a ten. I gave you $50.”

  “You gave me a ten…”

  I turned to the girl. “Listen, you saw it, didn’t you? I gave him $50!”

  “You gave Jimmy a ten,” she said.

  “What the fuck is this?” I asked.
/>   Jimmy began walking off.

  “You can’t get away with this!” I hollered.

  He just kept on walking. He walked back to the gang at the end of the bar and they all started talking and laughing.

  I sat there thinking about it. The girl next to me blew a plume of smoke out of her nose, her head tilted back.

  I thought about smashing the mirror behind the bar. I’d done that once at another place. Yet, I hesitated.

  Was I losing it?

  That son of a bitch had pissed all over me with everybody watching.

  His cool worried me more than his size. He had something else going for him. A gun under the bar? He wanted me to play into his hand. The witnesses would be his…

  I didn’t know what to do. There was a phone booth near the exit. I got up, went over, got in, dropped in a coin, dialed a number at random. I would pretend that I was calling my buddies, that they would come right over and bust up the bar. I listened to the number ringing at the other end. It stopped. A woman answered.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “It’s me,” I answered.

  “That you, Sam?”

  “Yeah, yeah, now listen…”

  “Sam, a terrible thing happened today! Wooly got run over!”

  “Wooly?”

  “Our dog, Sam! Wooly’s dead!”

  “Now, listen! I’m at the Red Eye! You know where it’s at? Good! I want you to bring Lefty and Larry and Tony and Big Angelo down here, fast! Got it? And bring Wooly too!”

  I hung up and sat there. I thought about calling the police. I knew what would happen then. They’d back up the barkeep. And I’d end up in the drunk tank.

  I got out of the phone booth and walked back to my bar stool. I finished my drink. Then I picked up the ashtray and dropped it, hard. The barkeep looked at me. I stood up, raised my arm and pointed a finger at him. Then I turned and walked out the exit, his laughter and the laughter of his crowd following me…

  I stopped at the liquor store, picked up two bottles of wine, and went to the Hotel Helen which was across the street from the bar I had been in. I had a girlfriend there, an alky like me. She was ten years older than I was, and she worked as a maid there. I walked up two flights, knocked on her door, hoping she’d be alone.

  “Baby,” I called, “I’m in trouble. I’ve been fucked-over…”

  The door opened. Betty was alone and drunker than I was.

  I walked in and closed the door behind me.

  “Where are your drinking glasses?”

  She pointed and I peeled a bottle and poured two. She sat on the edge of the bed and I sat in a chair. I passed her the bottle. She lit a cigarette.

  “I hate this place, Benny. How come we don’t live together anymore?”

  “You started running the streets, baby, you drove me crazy.”

  “Well, you know how I am.”

  “Yeah…”

  Betty took her cigarette and absentmindedly pushed it down into the bedsheet. I saw the smoke start to come up. I walked over and lifted her hand. There was a plate on the dresser. I got it and brought it over. It had dried food on it, looked like a tamale. I put the plate next to her on the bed.

  “Here’s an ashtray…”

  “You know I miss you,” she said.

  I drained my wine, poured another. “Look, I got short-changed out of $50 across the street.”

  “Where’d you get $50?”

  “Never mind, I got it. That son of a bitch short-changed me…”

  “Why didn’t you bust him up? You scared? That’s Jimmy. The women love him! Every night after the bar closes he goes out back in the parking lot and sings. They stand around and listen and then one of them gets to go home with him.”

  “He’s a hunk of shit…”

  “He played football for Notre Dame.”

  “What kind of crap is that? You go for this guy?”

  “I can’t stand him.”

  “Good. Because I’m going to bust his sack.”

  “I think you’re scared…”

  “Ever seen me duck a fight?”

  “I’ve seen you lose a few.”

  I didn’t answer that remark. We kept drinking and the conversation wandered around to other things. I don’t remember much about the conversation. When she wasn’t running the streets Betty was a pretty good soul. She had sense, but she was confused, you know. A total alky. I could quit for a day or two. She never could stop. It was sad. We talked. We had an understanding which made it easy to be around one another. Then it got to be 2 a.m. Betty said, “Come here, watch…”

  We went to the window and there was Jimmy the barkeep out in the parking lot. Sure enough, he was singing. There were three girls watching him. There was plenty of laughter.

  Much of it about my $50 bill, I thought.

  Then one of the girls got into his car with him. The other two walked off. The car sat a moment. The lights came on, the engine kicked over, then he drove off.

  What a flash-ass, I thought. I never turn on my lights until after the engine kicks over.

  I looked at Betty. “That son of a bitch really thinks he’s a hot number. I’m gonna bust his sack.”

  “You don’t have the guts,” she answered.

  “Listen,” I asked, “you still have that baseball bat under your bed?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t part with it…”

  “Sure you can,” I said, handing her a ten.

  “O.K.” She slid it out from under the bed. “Hope you hit a homer…”

  The next night at 2 a.m. I was waiting in the parking lot, up against the side of the bar, crouched behind a couple of large garbage cans. I had Betty’s baseball bat, an old Jimmy Foxx special.

  I didn’t have to wait long. The barkeep came out with his girls.

  “Sing for us, Jimmy!”

  “Sing us one of your own songs!”

  “Well…all right,” he said.

  He took off his necktie, stuck it in his pocket, unbuttoned his shirt at the neck, lifted his head to the moon.

  “I am the man you’re waiting for…

  I am the man you must adore…

  I am the man who will fuck you on the floor…

  I am the man who will make you ask for more…

  …and more…

  …and more…”

  The three girls applauded and laughed and crowded around him.

  “Oh, Jimmy!”

  “Oh, JIMMY!”

  Jimmy stepped back and looked the girls over. They waited. Finally he said, “O.K., tonight it’s…Caroline…”

  With that, the other two girls looked crestfallen, obediently ducked their heads and walked slowly out of the parking lot together, turning to smile and wave at Jimmy and Caroline as they reached the boulevard.

  Caroline stood there, slightly drunk, swaying on her high heels. She had a nice body, long hair. She seemed familiar, somehow.

  “You’re a real man, Jimmy,” she told him. “I love you.”

  “Bullshit, bitch, you just want to suck my cock.”

  “Yes, that too, Jimmy!” Caroline laughed.

  “You’re gonna suck my cock, right now,” Jimmy said. Suddenly he sounded mean.

  “No, wait…Jimmy, that’s too fast.”

  “You say you love me, then suck me.”

  “No, wait…”

  Jimmy was pretty drunk. He had to be to act like that. There wasn’t much light in that parking lot but it wasn’t that dark either. But some guys were freaks. They liked to do it in public situations.

  “You’ll suck me, bitch, now…”

  Jimmy unzipped, grabbed her by that long hair and forced her head down. I thought she was going to do it. She seemed to relent.

  Then Jimmy screamed. Screamed.

  She had bitten him. He pulled her up by the hair and hit her, fist closed, across the face. Then he dug a knee up between her legs and she fell, motionless.

  She’s out cold, I thought. Maybe I’ll drag her back by those c
ans and fuck her after he drives off.

  Damned if he didn’t frighten me. I decided not to come out from behind those garbage cans. I clutched the Jimmy Foxx slugger and waited for him to leave.

  I watched as he zipped up and walked gingerly to his car. He got the door open, climbed in and sat there a while. Then the lights flashed on and the engine kicked over.

  He just sat there revving his motor.

  Then I saw him climb out. The engine was still running. The lights were on.

  He walked around to the front of the car.

  “Hey!” he said loudly, “what’s zat? I see…you…”

  He started moving toward me.

  “…I see…you…who the fuck…is…hiding behind those cans? I see…you…come on outa there!”

  He came toward me. The moon behind his back made him look like some god-forsaken creature out of a low budget horror film.

  “You fucking roach!” he yelled, “I’ll stamp the piss out of you!”

  He came at me. I was caught behind the garbage cans. I raised the Jimmy Foxx slugger, came down with it and caught him squarely on top of the head.

  He didn’t drop. He just stood there staring at me. I hit him again. It was like an old time comedy movie in black and white. He just stood there and made a horrible face at me.

  I slipped out from behind the garbage cans and started to walk away. He followed me.

  I turned around.

  “Leave me alone,” I told him. “Let’s forget it.”

  “I’m going to kill you, punk!” he said.

  Those two big hands reached for my throat. I ducked away and swung the bat at one of his kneecaps. There was a shot like a gun going off and he dropped.

  “Let’s forget it,” I told him. “Let’s leave it like this.”

  He was on his hands and knees, crawling after me.

  “I’m gonna kill ya, punk!”

  I put the wood to the back of his neck as hard as I could then. He was stretched out next to his unconscious friend. I looked at the girl, Caroline. It was the one with the fake fur. I decided I didn’t want it after all.

  I ran over to the barkeep’s car, switched the lights off, killed the engine, pulled the keys and threw them onto the roof of the building. Then I ran back to the bodies and got Jimmy’s wallet.