Notes of a Dirty Old Man

by Charles Bukowski

  “you’d better tend to business, Mr. Business man,

  while you can …”

  and Jesus, he was soft. all the hard poems; he’d played hard-man all his life but he was soft. everybody was soft, really. — the hard was only there to protect the soft. what a ridiculous asshole trap.

  he felt the need to get out of bed. it cost him. he heaved along the whole hallway. the retches brought up a pulpy green-yellow and some blood. first heat, then chills; then chills, then heat. and legs like rubbery elephant legs. flump. flump. flump. — and look (he winked at somebody somewhere): the moaning and terrified Eye of Confucius upon his last drink.

  blow the blues.

  he got into the front room thinking —

  I am lucky to have a rented front room, even now —

  “hey, Mr. Business man …”

  and tried to sit on a chair, missed, hit the monkey tailbone hard on the floor, laughed, then looked at the telephone.

  this is the way a Loner ends up: dead alone. dying alone.

  a Loner should get ready early.

  all my poems ain’t gonna help. all the women I ever screwed ain’t gonna help. and all the women I didn’t screw surely ain’t gonna help. I need somebody to blow me the blues. I need somebody to say, I understand, kid, now take it on in and die.

  he looked at the phone. he thought and he thought and he thought, he thought about who he might phone who could blow him the blues, just say the easy word, and he went through the few that he knew out of the billions — he went through them one by one, the few that he knew, and he also knew that it was too early in the morning, hardly a convenient time to die, it wasn’t right, and that they’d only think that he was clowning or drunk or faking or maudlin or insane, and he couldn’t hate them or blame them for it — everybody was locked-off, jacked-off, chopped-off, everybody was in their own little cell. hey, Mr. Business man …

  Motherfuck!

  who’d ever invented the game had worked up a neat little masterwork. call him God, He had a shot over the eye coming. but He never showed so you could get Him in the sights. the Age of the Assassins had missed the Biggest One of all. earlier they’d almost got the Son, but He’d slipped on out and we still had to go on staggering over slippery bathroom floors. the Holy Ghost never showed; He just layed back and whipped his dick. the cleverest One of all.

  if I could only phone my little daughter I could die happy, he thought.

  his soul walked out of the bedroom holding to an empty can of beer. “ah, you soft, you soft soft fuck! your little daughter is in a hippy camp while her mother rubs the balls of idiots. take it, Loner, you chickenshit!”

  “… you need love, you need love, love will get you in the end, my friend!”

  get me in the End?

  Big Ramrod Death, yeah.

  he began laughing. then he stopped. heaved again. more blood this time. almost all blood.

  he forgot about the phone and made it back to the couch.

  “… you need love, you need love …”

  well, thank god, he thought, they’ve switched records anyhow.

  the dying didn’t come as easy as he thought it would. there was blood everywhere and the shades were down. people were getting ready to go to work. once, rolling over, he seemed to see the bookcase, all his books of poems and he knew then that he’d failed, it didn’t even go back to Eliot, not even to yesterday morning, he’d blew it, he was just another monkey in a tree dropping into the tiger’s mouth, and it was sad for a moment but only for a moment.

  it was all right and it didn’t matter about blowing the blues. Satchmo, go home. Shostakovitch, in your Fifth, forget it. Peter III. Chike, because you’d married a nutty soprano with wrinkles showing under her eyes, and a lesbian when you were not even a man, forget it. we’ve all been tempted with the fire and we’ve all failed as cocksuckers, artists, painters, doctors, pimps, green berets, dishwashers, dentists, trapeze artists and pear-pickers.

  each man nailed to his own special cross.

  blow the blues.

  “you need love, you need love …”

  then he got up and pulled up all the shades. god damned shades were rotten. they snapped at the touch, fell apart, zipped a bitch-spurt of sound, fell to the floor.

  god damned sun was rotten. bringing forth the same old flowers, the same old young girls of everywhere.

  he watched the people going to work. he knew no more than he ever knew.

  the unsecurity of knowledge was the same as the security of noknowledge.

  neither was superior; neither was anything.

  he put himself flat along the landlord’s couch. his couch, for a moment.

  after all that trouble there was nothing to it.

  he died.

  ________

  the little tailor was quite happy. he just sat there sewing. it was when the woman came to the door, rang the bell, that he became disturbed. “sour cream, I have sour cream for sale,” she told him. “get away, you stink,” he told her, “I don’t want your god damned sour cream!” “eewwww!” she said, “your place stinks! why don’t you throw out the garbage?” she ran off.

  it was then that the tailor remembered the three dead bodies. one was in the kitchen, stretched along in front of the stove. another one was upright, hung by its collar in the closet, stiffened, standing there. and the third was in the bathtub, sitting upright, well, not exactly upright, for the head could just be seen above the rim of the tub. the flies were beginning to come around and that was bad. the flies seemed very happy with the bodies, they were drunk on the bodies, and when he swatted at them they became very angry. he’d never heard flies buzz in such anger. they even attacked and bit him, so he let them be.

  he sat down to sew again and the bell rang again. looks like I’ll never get any sewing done, he thought.

  it was his pal, Harry.

  “hello, Harry.”

  “hello, Jack.”

  Harry came in. “what’s the stink?”

  “dead bodies.”

  “dead bodies? you kiddin’?”

  “no, look around.”

  Harry found them with his nose. he found the one in the kitchen, then the one in the closet, then the one in the bathtub. “why’d you kill ’em? you gone crazy? what are you going to do? why don’t you hide the bodies, get rid of them? are you crazy? why’d you kill them? why don’t you call the police? are you out of your mind? god, it STINKS! listen, man, don’t get NEAR me! what are you going to do? what’s going on? ARRRG! THE STINK! I’M GETTING SICK!”

  Jack just kept on sewing. he just sewed and sewed and sewed. it was like he was trying to hide.

  “Jack, I’m going to call the police.”

  Harry went toward the phone but then he got sick. he went to the bathroom and vomited in the crapper while the head of the dead body in the tub stuck out just over the rim.

  he came out and made the phone. he found that by taking out the mouthpiece he could slip his penis into the phone. he slid it back and forth and it felt good. very good. soon he completed his act, hung up the phone, zipped up and sat down across from Jack.

  “Jack, are you insane?”

  “Becky says she thinks that I’m crazy. she threatens to have me committed.”

  Becky was Jack’s daughter.

  “does she know about all these dead bodies?”

  “not yet. she’s on a trip to New York. she’s a buyer for one of the large department stores. got herself a good job. I’m proud of that girl.”

  “does Maria know?”

  Maria was Jack’s wife.

  “Maria don’t know. she don’t come around no more. since she got that job at the bakery she thinks she’s something. she’s living with another woman. sometimes I think she’s turned into a dyke.”

  “well, man, I can’t call the police on you. you’re my friend. you’ll have to settle it yourself. but do you mind telling me why you killed these people?”

  “I disliked them.”

/>   “but you don’t go around killing people you dislike.”

  “I disliked them very much.”

  “Jack?”

  “eh?”

  “you want to use the phone?”

  “if you don’t mind.”

  “it’s your phone, Jack.”

  Jack got up and unzipped. he slipped his penis into the phone. he slid it back and forth and it felt good. he completed the act, zipped up, sat down and began sewing again. then the phone rang. he went back to the phone.

  “oh, Hello, Becky! nice of you to call! I feel all right. oh yeah, we took the mouthpiece out of the phone, that’s why. Harry and I. Harry’s here now. Harry’s what? you really think so? I think he’s all right. nothing. I’m just sewing. Harry’s sitting here. a kind of a dark afternoon. really gloomy when you think about it. no sun. people walking by the window with ugly faces. yes, I’m all right. I feel all right. no, not yet. but I have a frozen lobster in the refrigerator. I just love lobster. no, I haven’t seen her. she thinks she’s hot shit now. yes, I’ll tell her. don’t worry. Goodbye, Becky.”

  Jack hung up and sat down again, began sewing again.

  “you know,” said Harry, “that reminds me. when I was a young man — god damn these flies! I’m not DEAD! — when I was a young man I used to have this job, me and this other kid. the job was washing down these dead bodies. we got some good-looking women in there sometimes. I came in one time and Mickey, that was the other kid, had mounted one of these women. ‘Mickey!’ I said, ‘what are you DOING? SHAME!’ he just looked at me sideways and kept going. when he got down he said, ‘Harry, I’ve screwed at least a dozen of them. it’s good! try her. you’ll see!’ ‘oh, no!’ I said. one time when I was washing down a real good one, I fingered her. but I never could do more than that.”

  Jack kept sewing.

  “you think you would have tried one, Jack?”

  “hell, I don’t know! I have no way of knowing.”

  he kept sewing. then he said, “listen, Harry, I’ve had a hard week. I want to eat something and get some sleep. I’ve got some lobster. but I’m funny. I like to eat alone. I don’t enjoy eating with people. so?”

  “so? you want me to leave? you’re a bit upset. so, o.k., I’ll leave.”

  Harry stood up.

  “don’t go away mad, Harry. we’re still friends. let’s keep it that way. we’ve been friends a long time.”

  “sure, since ’33. those were the days! FDR. the NRA. the WPA. but we made it. these kids today just don’t know.”

  “they sure don’t.”

  “well, goodbye, Jack.”

  “goodbye, Harry.”

  Jack walked Harry to the door, opened the door, watched him walk away. still the same old baggy pants. the guy always did dress like a schmuck.

  then Jack walked into the kitchen, got the lobster out of the freezer and read the instructions. they always had fucked-up instructions. then he noticed the body in front of the stove. he’d have to get rid of the body. the blood had long ago dried underneath it. the blood had long ago hardened on the floor. the sun finally came out from behind a cloud and it was very late afternoon, almost evening and the sky became pink and some of the pink came through the kitchen window. you could almost see it come through, slowly, like the giant feeler of a snail. the body was face downward, face turned toward the stove, and under the body the right arm was twisted with the open upturned hand sticking just outside of the left side of the body. the pink feeler of the snail lit on the hand, it made the hand pink. Jack noticed the hand. so pink, it looked so innocent. just a hand, a pink hand by itself. it was like a flower. for a moment Jack thought it had moved. no, it hadn’t moved. a pink hand. just a hand. an innocent hand. Jack stood there looking at the hand. then he sat down with the lobster and looked at the hand. then he began to cry. he put the lobster down and put his head in his arms there at the table and began to cry. he cried for a very long time. he cried like a woman. he cried like a child. he cried like anything. then he walked into the other room and picked up the phone.

  “operator, I want the police department. yes, I know that it sounds funny; the mouthpiece is missing, but I want the police department.”

  Jack waited.

  “yes? well, listen, I’ve killed a man! three men! I’m serious, yes, I’m serious! I want you to come get me. and bring a wagon to take the bodies. I’m insane. I’ve lost my mind. I don’t know how it happened. what?”

  Jack gave them the address.

  “what? that’s because the mouthpiece is missing. I did. I screwed the phone.”

  the man kept on talking but Jack hung up. he walked back to the kitchen and sat down at the table and put his head back in his arms. he didn’t cry anymore. he just sat there with the sun now no longer pink; the sun was gone and it was getting dark, and then he thought about Becky and then he thought about killing himself and then he didn’t think about anything. the packaged South African lobster sat by his left elbow. he never got to eat that lobster.

  ________

  I had gotten a bit drunk one night when this guy who had published a couple of my books said to me, “Bukowski, you want to go see L?”

  L — was a famous writer. had been a famous writer for some time. works translated into everything, dog turds even. grants, mistresses, wives, prizes, novels, poems, short stories, paintings … stays in Europe. acquainted with the great. all that.

  “no, shit, no,” I said to Jensen, “his stuff bores me.”

  “but you say that about everybody.”

  “well, it’s true.”

  Jensen sat and looked at me. Jensen liked to sit and look at me. he couldn’t understand why I was so stupid. I was stupid. but so was the moon.

  “he wants to meet you. he’s heard of you.”

  “he has? and I’ve heard of him.”

  “you’d be surprised how many people have heard of you. I was over at N.A.’s the other night and she said she wanted you to come to dinner. you know, she knew L. in Europe.”

  “she did?”

  “and they both knew Artaud.”

  “yeah, and she wouldn’t give Artaud a piece of ass.”

  “that’s right.”

  “I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t either.”

  “do me a favor. let’s go see him.”

  “Artaud?”

  “no, L.”

  I finished my drink.

  “let’s go.”

  it was a long drive from skid row to L’s place. and L. had a place. Jensen ran the car up the driveway and the driveway was as long as an ordinary freeway off-ramp.

  “is this the guy who is always hollering POVERTY?” I asked.

  “it’s said he owes the government 85 grand in back taxes.”

  “poor devil.”

  we got out of the car. it was a three-story house. there was a swing on the front porch and a $250 guitar laying in the swing. a big ass German shepherd ran up, snarling, foaming and I held him off with the guitar and I don’t mean by playing it, I mean by swinging it while Jensen rang the bell.

  this yellow wrinkled face opened a peephole and said,

  “who’s there?”

  “Bukowski and Jensen.”

  “who?”

  “Bukowski and Jensen.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  the German shepherd leaped, his teeth just clicking past my jugular as he flew by. I banged him good when he landed but he just shook himself and coiled to leap again, hair raising, showing me those dirty yellow teeth.

  “Bukowski. he wrote, ALL THE DAMN TIME, SCREAMING IN THE RAIN. I’m Hilliard Jensen, NEW MOUNTAIN PRESS.”

  the shepherd gave a last pissed-off snarl before readying to leap when L. said, “oh, Poopoo, stop that!”

  Poopoo uncoiled a bit.

  “nice Poopoo,” I said, “nice Poopoo!”

  Poopoo looked at me knowing that I was lying. finally old man L. opened the door. “well, come in,” he said.

  I threw the broken
guitar into the swing and we walked in. the front room was like an underground parking lot.

  “sit down,” said L. I had a choice of three or four chairs, took the closest one.

  “I give the establishment one more year,” said L. “the people have awakened. we are going to burn the whole fucking thing down.”

  L. snapped his finger — “it will be gone” (snap) “like that! a new and better life for all of us!”

  “got anything to drink?” I asked.

  L. rang a little bell by his chair. “MARLOWE!” he screamed.

  then he looked at me: “I read your last book, Mr. Meade.”

  “no, I’m Bukowski,” I said.

  he turned to Jensen, “then you’re Taylor Meade! forgive me!”

  “no, no, I’m Jensen. Hilliard Jensen. NEW MOUNTAIN.”

  just then a Japanese, black shiny pants, white jacket, trotted into the room, bowed just a bit, smiling, like some day he would kill us all.

  “Marlowe, you stupid fuck, these gentlemen want some drinks; take their orders, posthaste, and return quickly or I’ll have your ass!”

  curiously, L’s face looked as if all pain had been removed. although there were wrinkles, the wrinkles seemed more or less rivulets, sewed on or painted on, or thrown on. an odd face. yellow. bald. tiny eyes. a hopeless and insignificant face, at first glance. but then, how could he have written all that? “Oh, Mack had a big dick! Oh, Mack had the biggest dick! what a dick Mack had! Mack had the biggest dick in town. biggest West of the Mississippi. everybody talked about Mack’s dick. oh, Mack had a big dick …” etc. when it came to style, L. had them all beat, even tho’ I did find it dull.

  Marlowe came back with the drinks and I’ll say something for Marlowe: he poured them tall and he poured them strong. he left them and trotted off. I watched his haunches bobbing in his tight pants as he ran back into the kitchen where he belonged.

  L. had already looked drunk. he drained half his glass. a scotch and water man. “I’ll always remember that hotel in Paris. we were all there. kaja, Hal Norse, Burroughs … the greatest literary minds of our generation.”

  “do you think it helped your writing, Mr. L.?” I asked.

  it was a stupid question. he looked at me sternly, then allowed me to watch him smile, “everything helps my writing.”