Factotum

by Charles Bukowski

  “And we’re taking up a collection to buy flowers for Mr. Adams’ funeral.”

  “I don’t think that flowers are meant for the dead who don’t need them,” I said rather lamely.

  She hesitated. “We thought it would be a nice thing to do and I wondered if you would like to contribute?”

  “I’d like to but I just arrived in Miami last night and I’m broke.”

  “Broke?”

  “Looking for a job. I’m up against it, as they say. I’ve spent my last dime on a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. The bread was green, greener than your dress. I left it on the floor there and even the rats didn’t touch it.”

  “Rats?”

  “I don’t know about your room.”

  “But when I talked to Mrs. Adams last evening I asked her about the new roomer—we’re all kind of like a family here—and she said that you were a writer, that you wrote for magazines like Esquire and Atlantic Monthly.”

  “Hell, I can’t write. That’s just conversation. It makes the landlady feel better. What I need is a job, any kind of job.”

  “Can’t you contribute twenty-five cents? Twenty-five cents wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Honey, I need the twenty-five cents more than Mr. Adams does.”

  “Honor the dead, young man.”

  “Why not honor the living? I’m lonely and desperate and you look very lovely in your green dress.”

  She turned, walked out, walked down the hall, opened the door to her room, went in, closed the door, and I never saw her again.

  55

  The Florida State Department of Employment was a pleasant place. It wasn’t as crowded as the Los Angeles office which was always full. It was my turn for a little good luck, not much, but a little. It was true that I didn’t have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?

  My name was called. The clerk had my card in front of him, the one I had filled out when entering. I had elaborated on my work experience in a creative way. Pros do that: you leave out the previous low-grade jobs and describe the better ones fully, also leaving out any mention of those blank stretches when you were alcoholic for six months and shacked with some woman just released from a madhouse or a bad marriage. Of course, since all my previous jobs were low-grade I left out the lower low-grade.

  The clerk ran his fingers through his little card file. He pulled one out. “Ah, here’s a job for you.”

  “Yes?”

  He looked up. “Sanitation Worker.”

  “What?”

  “Garbage man.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  I shuddered at the thought of all that garbage, the morning hangovers, blacks laughing at me, the impossible weight of the cans, and me pukeing my guts into the orange rinds, coffee grounds, wet cigarette ashes, banana peels and the used tampax.

  “What’s the matter? Not good enough for you? It’s 40 hours. And security. A lifetime of security.”

  “You take that job and I’ll take yours.”

  Silence.

  “I’m trained for this job.”

  “Are you? I spent two years in college. Is that a prerequisite to pick up garbage?”

  “Well, what kind of job do you want?”

  “Just keep flipping through your cards.”

  He flipped through his cards. Then he looked up. “We have nothing for you.” He stamped the little book they’d given me and handed it back. “Contact us in seven days for further employment possibilities.”

  56

  I found a job through the newspaper. I was hired by a clothing store but it wasn’t in Miami it was in Miami Beach, and I had to take my hangover across the water each morning. The bus ran along a very narrow strip of cement that stood up out of the water with no guard-rail, no nothing; that’s all there was to it. The bus driver leaned back and we roared along over this narrow cement strip surrounded by water and all the people in the bus, the twenty-five or forty or fifty-two people trusted him, but I never did. Sometimes it was a new driver, and I thought, how do they select these sons of bitches? There’s deep water on both sides of us and with one error of judgement he’ll kill us all. It was ridiculous. Suppose he had an argument with his wife that morning? Or cancer? Or visions of God? Bad teeth? Anything. He could do it. Dump us all. I knew that if I was driving that I would consider the possibility or desirability of drowning everybody. And sometimes, after just such considerations, possibility turns into reality. For each Joan of Arc there is a Hitler perched at the other end of the teeter-totter. The old story of good and evil. But none of the bus drivers ever dumped us. They were thinking instead of car payments, baseball scores, haircuts, vacations, enemas, family visits. There wasn’t a real man in the whole shitload. I always got to work sick but safe. Which demonstrates why Schumann was more relative than Shostakovich…

  I was hired as what they called the extra ball-bearing. The extra ball-bearing is the man who is simply turned loose without specific duties. He is supposed to know what to do after consulting some deep well of ancient instinct. Instinctively one is supposed to know what will best keep things running smoothly, best maintain the company, the Mother, and meet all her little needs which are irrational, continual and petty.

  A good extra ball-bearing man is faceless, sexless, sacrificial; he is always waiting at the door when the first man with the key arrives. Soon he is hosing off the sidewalk, and he greets each person by name as they arrive, always with a bright smile and in a reassuring manner. Obeisant. That makes everybody feel a little better before the bloody grind begins. He sees that toilet paper is plentiful, especially in the ladies’ crapper. That wastebaskets never overflow. That no grime coats the windows. That small repairs are promptly made on desks and office chairs. That doors open easily. That clocks are set. That carpeting remains tacked down. That overfed powerful women do not have to carry small packages.

  I wasn’t very good. My idea was to wander about doing nothing, always avoiding the boss, and avoiding the stoolies who might report to the boss. I wasn’t all that clever. It was more instinct than anything else. I always started a job with the feeling that I’d soon quit or be fired, and this gave me a relaxed manner that was mistaken for intelligence or some secret power.

  It was a completely self-sufficient, self-contained clothing store, factory and retail business combined. The showroom, the finished product and the salesman were all downstairs, and the factory was up above. The factory was a maze of catwalks and runways that even the rats couldn’t crawl, long narrow lofts with men and women sitting and working under thirty watt bulbs, squinting, treading pedals, threading needles, never looking up or speaking, bent and quiet, doing it.

  At one time one of my jobs in New York City had been to take bolts of fabric up to lofts like this. I would roll my hand truck in the busy street, pushing it through traffic, then into an alley behind some grimy building. There would be a dark elevator and I’d have to pull on ropes with stained round wooden spools attached. One rope meant up, another rope signalled down. There was no light and as the elevator climbed slowly I’d watch in the dark for white numbers written on the bare walls—3, 7, 9, scrawled in chalk by some forgotten hand. I’d reach my floor, tug on another rope with my fingers and using all my strength slowly slide open the heavy old metal door, revealing row upon row of old Jewish ladies at their machines, laboring over piecework; the number one seamstress at the #1 machine, bent on maintaining her place; the number two girl at the #2 machine, ready to replace her should she falter. They never looked up or in any way acknowledged my presence as I entered.

  In this clothing factory and store in Miami Beach, no deliveries were nece
ssary. Everything was on hand. My first day I walked around the maze of lofts looking at people. Unlike New York, most of the workers were black. I walked up to a black man, quite small—almost tiny, who had a more pleasant face than most. He was doing some close work with a needle. I had a half pint in my pocket. “You got a rotten job there. Care for a drink?”

  “Sure,” he said. He took a good hit. Then handed the bottle back. He offered me a cigarette. “You new in town?” “Yeah.” “Where you from?” “Los Angeles.” “Movie star?” “Yes, on vacation.” “You shouldn’t be talking to the help.” “I know.” He fell silent. He looked like a little monkey, an old graceful monkey. For the boys downstairs, he was a monkey. I took a hit. I was feeling good. I watched them all working quietly under their thirty watt bulbs, their hands moving delicately and swiftly. “My name’s Henry,” I said. “Brad,” he answered. “Listen, Brad, I get the deep deep blues watching you people work. Suppose I sing you guys and gals a little song?” “Don’t.” “You’ve got a rotten job there. Why do you do it?” “Shit, ain’t no other way.” “The Lord said there was.” “You believe in the Lord?” “No.” “What do you believe in?” “Nothing.” “We’re even.”

  I talked to some of the others. The men were uncommunicative, some of the women laughed at me. “I’m a spy,” I laughed back. “I’m a company spy. I’m watching everybody.”

  I took another hit. Then I sang them my favorite song, “My Heart is a Hobo.” They kept working. Nobody looked up. When I finished they were still working. It was quiet for some time. Then I heard a voice: “Look, white boy, don’t come down on us.”

  I decided to go hose off the front sidewalk.

  57

  I don’t know how many weeks I worked there. I think six. At one point I was transferred to the receiving section, checking incoming shipments of trousers against the packing lists. These were orders being returned for credit from branch stores, usually out of the state. The packing lists were never wrong probably because the guy at the other end was too frightened for his job to be careless. Usually he is on the seventh of thirty-six payments for his new car, his wife is taking a ceramics class on Monday night, the interest on his mortgage is eating him alive, and each one of his five kids drinks a quart of milk a day.

  You know, I’m not a clothes man. Clothes bore me. They are terrible things, cons, like vitamins, astrology, pizzas, skating rinks, pop music, heavyweight championship fights, etc. I was sitting there pretending to count the incoming pants when suddenly I came across something special. There was electricity in the fabric, it clung to my fingers and would not let go. Somebody had finally done something interesting. I examined the fabric. It looked as magical as it felt.

  I got up, took the pants with me to the crapper. I went inside, locked the door. I had never stolen anything.

  I took my own pants off, flushed the toilet. Then I put the magic pants on. I rolled the magic pantlegs up to just below my knees. Then I put my own pants back over them.

  I flushed the toilet again.

  Then I walked out. In my nervousness it seemed as if everyone was staring at me. I walked to the front of the store. It was about one and one half hours before quitting time. The boss was standing at a counter near the door. He stared at me. “I have something to take care of, Mr. Silverstein. Just dock my pay…”

  58

  I got to my room and took my old pants off. I rolled down the legs of my magic pants, put on a clean shirt, shined my shoes, and walked back out on the street in my new pants. They were a rich brown color, with fancy piping running vertically in the cloth.

  The fabric glowed. I stood on the corner and lit a cigarette. A cab pulled up. The driver stuck his head out the window: “Taxi, sir?” “No thanks,” I said, tossing the match into the gutter and crossing the street.

  I walked around for fifteen or twenty minutes. Three or four cabbies asked me if I wanted a ride. Then I bought a bottle of port and went back to my place. I took my clothes off, hung them up, went to bed, drank the wine and wrote a short story about a poor clerk who worked in a clothing factory in Miami. This poor clerk met a rich society girl on the beach one day durig his lunch hour. He deserved her money and she did everything in her power to show that she deserved him…

  When I arrived for work in the morning, Mr. Silverstein was standing in front of the counter near the door. He had a check in his hand. He moved the hand toward me. I stepped forward and took the check. Then I walked back out on the street.

  59

  It took four days and five nights for the bus to reach Los Angeles. As usual I neither slept nor defecated during the trip. There was some minor excitement when a big blonde got on somewhere in Louisiana. That night she started selling it for $2, and every man and one woman on the bus took advantage of her generosity except me and the bus driver. Business was transacted at night in the back of the bus. Her name was Vera. She wore purple lipstick and laughed a lot. She approached me during a brief stop in a coffee and sandwich shop. She stood behind me and asked, “Whatsa matter, you too good for me?” I didn’t reply. “A fag,” I heard her mutter disgustedly as she sat down next to one of the regular guys…

  In Los Angeles I toured the bars in our old neighborhood looking for Jan. I didn’t get anywhere until I found Whitey Jackson working behind the bar in the Pink Mule. He told me that Jan was working as a chambermaid in the Durham Hotel at Beverly and Vermont. I walked on over. I was looking for the manager’s office when she stepped out of a room. She looked good, like getting away from me for a while had helped her. Then she saw me. She just stood there, her eyes got very blue and round and she stood there. Then she said it, “Hank!” She rushed over and we were in each other’s arms. She kissed me wildly, I tried to kiss back. “Jesus,” she said, “I thought I’d never see you again!” “I’m back.” “Are you back for good?” “L.A.’s my town.” “Step back,” she said, “let me look at you.” I stepped back, grinning. “You’re thin. You’ve lost weight,” Jan said. “You’re looking good,” I said, “are you alone?” “Yes.” “There’s nobody?” “Nobody. You know I can’t stand people.” “I’m glad you’re working.” “Come to my room,” she said.

  I followed her. The room was very small but there was a good feel to it. You could look out the window and see the traffic, watch the signals working, see the paperboy on the corner. I liked the place. Jan threw herself on the bed. “Come on, lay down,” she said. “I’m embarrassed.” “I love you, you idiot,” she said, “we’ve fucked 800 times, so relax.” I took my shoes off and stretched out. She lifted a leg. “Still like my legs?” “Hell yes. Jan, have you finished your work?” “All but Mr. Clark’s room. And Mr. Clark doesn’t care. He leaves me tips.” “Oh?” “I’m not doing anything. He just leaves tips.” “Jan…” “Yes?” “The bus fare took all my money. I need a place to stay until I find a job.” “I can hide you here.” “Can you?” “Sure.” “I love you, baby,” I said. “Bastard,” she said. We began to go at it. It felt good. It felt very very good.

  Afterwards Jan got up and opened a bottle of wine. I opened my last pack of cigarettes and we sat in bed drinking and smoking. “You’re all there,” she said. “What do you mean?” “I mean, I never met a man like you.” “Oh yeah?” “The others are only ten per cent there or twenty per cent, you’re all there, all of you is very there, it’s so different.” “I don’t know anything about it.” “You’re a hooker, you can hook women.” That made me feel good. After we finished our cigarettes we made love again. Then Jan sent me out for another bottle. I came back. I had to.

  60

  I got hired immediately at a fluorescent light fixture company. It was up on Alameda Street, to the north, in a cluster of warehouses. I was the shipping clerk. It was quite easy, I took the orders out of a wire basket, filled them, packed the fixtures in cartons, and stacked the cartons on skids out on the loading dock, each carton labeled and numbered. I weighed the cartons, made out a bill of lading, and phoned the trucking compani
es to come pick the stuff up.

  The first day I was there, in the afternoon, I heard a loud crash behind me near the assembly line. The old wooden racks that housed the finished parts were pulling away from the wall and crashing to the floor—metal and glass were hitting the cement floor, smashing, making a terrible racket. The assembly line workers ran to the other side of the building. Then it was silent. The boss, Mannie Feldman, stepped out of the office.

  “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Nobody answered.

  “All right, shut down the assembly line! Everybody get a hammer and nails and get those fucking racks back up there!”

  Mr. Feldman walked back into his office. There was nothing for me to do but to get in and help them. None of us were carpenters. It took us all afternoon and half the next morning to nail the racks back up. As we finished Mr. Feldman walked out of his office.

  “So, you did it? All right, now listen to me—I want the 939’s stacked on top, the 820’s next on down, and the louvers and glass on the bottom shelves, get it? Now, does everybody get it?”

  There wasn’t any answer. The 939’s were the heaviest fixtures—they were really heavy mothers—and he wanted them on top. He was the boss. We went about it. We stacked them up there, all that weight, and we stacked the light stuff on the bottom racks. Then we went back to work. Those racks held up the rest of the day and through the night. In the morning we began to hear creaking sounds. The racks were starting to go. The assembly line workers began to edge away, they were grinning. About ten minutes before the morning coffee break everything came down again. Mr. Feldman came running out of his office: