Notes of a Dirty Old Man

by Charles Bukowski

  we all just sat there then, drinking and looking at each other. L. rang the bell again and Marlowe trotted in for the refueling process.

  “Marlowe,” said L., “is translating Edna St. Vincent Millay into the Japanese.”

  “wonderful,” said Jensen of NEW MOUNTAIN.

  I don’t see a damn thing wonderful about translating Edna St. Vincent Millay into the Japanese, I thought.

  “I don’t see a damn thing wonderful about translating Edna St. Vincent Millay into the Japanese,” said L.

  “well, Millay is dated, but what’s wrong with modern poetry?” asked the NEW MOUNTAIN.

  too young, too quick and they quit too soon, I thought.

  “no lasting qualities,” said the old man.

  I don’t know. everybody stopped talking. we really didn’t like each other. Marlowe trotted in and out with the drinks. I got the feeling that I was in a terrible underground cave or a movie without meaning. just unattached scenes. toward the end, L. got up once and slapped Marlowe, hard. I didn’t know what it meant. sex? boredom? play? Marlowe grinned and ran back to Millay’s cunt.

  “let no man enter my home who cannot bear all shadow and bear all light,” said L.

  “look, man,” I said, “I think you’re full of shit. I never did like your stuff.”

  “and I never liked your stuff either, Meade,” said the old man, “all that stuff about sucking-off movie stars. anybody can suck-off a movie star. that’s no big thing.”

  “it can be,” I said, “and I’m not Meade!”

  the old man got up and wobbled toward my chair, translated into eighteen languages.

  “you want to fight or fuck?” he asked.

  “I want to fuck,” I said.

  “MARLOWE!” screamed L.

  Marlowe trotted in and L. screamed, “DRINKS!”

  I had REALLY expected him to ask M. to drop his pants so I could have my wish, but it didn’t happen. I simply watched M.’s haunches wobble as he ran back into the kitchen.

  we began on the new rounds. “like that” (snap!) said L., “the establishment is finished! we burn them down!”

  then the old man’s head fell forward and he dozed, he was finished.

  “let’s go,” said Jensen.

  “wait a minute,” I said. I walked over to the old man and ran my arm down the back of his rocker, down toward his ass.

  “what are you doing?” asked Jensen.

  “everything helps my writing,” I said, “and this bastard is loaded.”

  I got down and got the wallet and said, “let’s go!”

  “you shouldn’t,” said Jensen and we walked toward the front door.

  something had my right arm and then it was hammer-locked behind my back.

  “we leave ALL MONIES HERE BEFORE LEAVING IN HONOR OF MR. L!” said the translator of E. V. Millay.

  “you’re breaking my god damned arm, you slant-eyed chicken-shit!”

  “WE LEAVE ALL MONIES HERE! HONOR MR. L!” he screamed it.

  “CLUB HIM, JENSEN! CLUB HIM ONE! GET THIS FUCKER OFF ME!”

  “your friend touch me, your arm is BROKEN!”

  “all right, take the wallet. to hell with it! I’ve got a check coming from GROVE PRESS.”

  he took L.’s wallet, dropped it to the floor. then he took mine, dropped it to the floor.

  “hey, wait a MINUTE! what are you? some kinda god damned crook?”

  “WE LEAVE ALL MONIES HERE! HONOR MR. L!”

  “I don’t believe it. this is worse than a whorehouse.”

  “now, tell your friend to drop his wallet on floor or I break your arm!”

  Marlowe added a little pressure to show me that it could be done.

  “Jensen! your wallet! DROP IT!”

  Jensen dropped his wallet. Marlowe let go of my arm. I turned on him. I only had the left one to work with.

  “Jensen?” I asked.

  he looked at Marlowe.

  “no,” he said.

  I looked at the old man as he dozed. there seemed to be a little tender smile upon his lips.

  we opened the door, went outside.

  “nice Poopoo,” I said.

  “nice Poopoo,” said Jensen.

  we got into the car.

  “any more people you want me to visit tonight?” I asked.

  “well, I was thinking of Anaïs Nin.”

  “stop thinking. I don’t think I could handle her.”

  Jensen backed it out the drive. it was just another warm Southern California night. soon we found Pico Blvd. and Jensen headed East. the Revolution couldn’t come too fucking fast for me.

  ________

  “ ‘Red,’ ” I told the kid, “to the female I no longer exist. much of it is my fault. I don’t go to dances, church bazaars, poetry readings, love-ins, all that shit, and this is where the whores hustle. I used to make it in the bars or on the train back from Del Mar, anywhere drinking was going on. now I can’t stand the bars anymore. those guys just sitting there, lonely, passing the hours, hoping some syphed-up hole will drop in. the whole scene is disgraceful to the human race.”

  ‘Red’ flipped a beerbottle through the air, caught it, broke off the cap on the end of my coffee table.

  “it’s all in the mind, Bukowski. you don’t need it.”

  “it’s all in the end of my pecker, ‘Red.’ I need it.”

  “once we got hold of this old wino gal. we tied her to a bed with rope. charged 50 cents a piece. every cripple, madman and freak on the row must have got a piece of ass. in three days and three nights we must have passed through 500 patrons.”

  “jesus christ, ‘Red,’ you’re making me sick!”

  “I thought you were the Dirty Old Man.”

  “it’s just that I don’t change my stockings every day. did you let her up to urinate or defecate?”

  “what’s ‘defecate’?”

  “oh shit. did you feed her?”

  “winos don’t eat. we gave her wine.”

  “I’m sick.”

  “why?”

  “it was beastly cruel, beastly inhuman. come to think of it, the beasts wouldn’t do it.”

  “we made $250.”

  “what’d you give her?”

  “nothing. we left her in there, two more days on the rent.”

  “did you untie her?”

  “sure, we didn’t want a murder rap.”

  “very nice of you.”

  “you talk like a preacher.”

  “have another beer.”

  “I can get you some pussy.”

  “how much? 50 cents?”

  “no, a little more than that.”

  “no, thanks.”

  “see, you don’t really want it.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  we each went for another beer. he put it down pretty good. then he stood up. “see, I always carry a little razor, right here, under my belt. most bums have problems shaving. not me. I’m ready.

  and when I’m on the road I wear two pair of pants — see — and I take off the outside pair when I hit town, shave, got a wash and wear white shirt on under my navy blue, I rinse it out in the sink, got a strip necktie, I buff my shoes, pick up a matching coat to the pants at a 2nd hand store and two days later I got me a white collar job among the shits. they don’t know I just got off a boxcar. but I can’t stand them jobs. next thing I know I’m back on the road.”

  I didn’t know what to say about that, so I maintained a silence and kept drinking.

  “and I always carry this little ice pick just up my sleeve in this elastic strap halfway up my arm, see?”

  “yeah, I see. a friend of mine says a beer can opener is a great weapon.”

  “your friend’s right. now when the cops stop me I always flip the ice pick out, I throw up my arms, holler, DON’T SHOOT! — ”

  (‘Red’ went through the act on the rug)

  “ — and I flip the ice pick out. they never find it on me. I don’t know how many ice picks I
’ve flipped off. countless.”

  “have you ever used the ice pick, ‘Red’?”

  he gave me a very strange look.

  “o.k.,” I said, “forget the question.”

  so we sat there again sucking at the beer.

  “I came across your column once in this rooming house. I think you’re a great writer.”

  “thanks,” I said.

  “I’ve tried to be a writer but it doesn’t come out. I sit down and it doesn’t come out.”

  “how old are you?”

  “twenty-one.”

  “give it time.”

  he sat there thinking about being a writer. then he reached into his back pocket.

  “they gave me this to keep me quiet.”

  it was a leather wallet woven into fine strips.

  “who?”

  “I saw these two guys kill a guy and they gave me this to keep me quiet.”

  “why’d they kill him?”

  “he had this wallet with seven dollars in it.”

  “how’d they kill him?”

  “with a rock. he was drinking wine and when he got drunk they cracked his head with a rock. and took the wallet. I was watching.”

  “what’d they do with the body?”

  “early in the morning the train made a water stop. they carried his body out and dumped it just below one of those cattle runways, down in the grass. then they got back in the car and the train moved on.”

  “ummmm,” I said.

  “the cops find a body like that later, look at the clothes, the wino-face, no ‘ident.’ they just erase the case from the books. just another bum. it don’t matter.”

  we sat there a few more hours drinking and I told a few, not nearly as good. then we both got silent. kept thinking. then ‘Red’ stood up.

  “well, listen, man, I gotta get rolling. but it’s been a good night.”

  I stood up.

  “it sure has, ‘Red.’ ”

  “well, shit, see you around.”

  “shit, yes, ‘Red.’ ”

  there was some kind of hesitancy in leaving. in a sense, it had been a good night.

  “see you, kid.”

  “o.k., Bukowski.”

  I watched him go around the bush to the left, out toward Normandie, out toward Vermont where he had a room with three or four days rent left, and then he was gone and what was left of the moon shone in, she did, and I closed the door, drained a last tired beer, lights out, I made it to the bed, got the clothes off, dropped in as down in the railroad yards they moved across the tracks picking cars, places, hoped destinations — better towns, better times, better love, better luck, better something. they’d never find it, they’d never stop looking.

  I slept.

  ________

  his name was Henry Beckett and it was a Monday morning, he had just gotten up, looked out the window at a woman in a very short mini-skirt, thinking, I am almost getting used to it, that’s too bad. yet a woman has to have something on or there’s nothing to take off. raw meat is only raw meat.

  he was already in his shorts and moved to the bathroom to shave. when he looked into the mirror he saw that his face was gold-colored with green polka dots. he looked again, still holding the shaving brush in his hand. then the brush dropped to the floor. the face stayed in the mirror: goldcolored with green polka dots. the walls began to move. Henry held to the wash basin. then, somehow, he moved back to the bedroom, threw himself belly down on the bed. he stayed there five minutes, his mind flupping, throbbing, probing, puking. then he got up and walked to the bathroom and looked into the mirror again: gold-face with green polka dots. bright gold face with bright green polka dots.

  he went to the phone. “yes, hello. this is Henry Beckett. I won’t be able to get in today. I’m sick. what? oh, a terribly upset stomach. terribly upset.”

  he hung up.

  walked to the bathroom again. it was useless. the face was still there. he filled the bathtub with water, then went to the phone. the nurse wanted to give him an appointment for next Wednesday.

  “listen, this is an emergency! I’ve got to see the doctor today! it’s life and death! I can’t tell you, no, I can’t tell you, but please, squeeze me in today! you’ve got to!”

  she gave him a 3:30 appointment.

  he took off his shorts and got into the tub. he noticed that his body was also gold with green polka dots. everywhere. it covered his belly, his back, his testicles, his penis. it wouldn’t rub off with soap. he got out, toweled himself, put his shorts back on.

  the phone rang. it was Gloria. his girl friend. she worked down there.

  “Gloria, I can’t tell you what’s wrong. it’s awful. no, I don’t have the syph. it’s worse than that. I can’t tell you. you wouldn’t believe it.”

  she said she was coming over on her lunch hour.

  “please don’t, baby, I’ll kill myself.”

  “I’m coming over right now!” she said.

  “please, PLEASE don’t…”

  she had hung up. he looked at the phone, put it down, walked into the bathroom again. no change. he went back to the bedroom, stretched out, looked at the cracks in the ceiling. it was the first time he had noticed the cracks in the ceiling. they looked very warm, charming, friendly. he could hear the traffic, an occasional bird-chirp, voices in the street — a woman telling a child, “well, walk faster, please,” and every now and then the sound of a motor-driven airplane.

  the doorbell rang. he went into the front room and peeked through the curtains. it was Gloria in a white blouse with light blue summer skirt. she looked better than he had ever seen her. a strawberry blonde booming with life; nose a little too ugly, a little too fat, but after you got used to the nose you loved that too. he could feel his heart ticking like a bomb in an empty closet. it was as if his guts had been scooped out and just the heart was in there, whaling hollow. wailing hollow.

  “I can’t let you in, Gloria!”

  “open this goddamned door, you silly ass!”

  he could see her trying to look at him through the curtains.

  “Gloria, you don’t understand …”

  “I said, ‘OPEN THIS DOOR!’ ”

  “all right,” he said, “goddamn it, all right!”

  he could feel the sweat circling his head, dripping behind his ears, running down his neck.

  he threw the door open.

  “JESUS!” she half-screamed, putting her hand to her mouth.

  “I TOLD you, I tried to TELL you, I TOLD you!”

  he backed up. she closed the door and moved toward him.

  “what is it?”

  “I dunno. christ, I dunno. don’t touch me, don’t touch. it might be contagious.”

  “poor Henry, oh, my poor boy …”

  she kept coming toward him. he tripped over a wastebasket.

  “god damn it, I told you to stay away!”

  “why, you’re almost pretty!”

  “ALMOST!” he screamed, “BUT I CAN’T SELL INSURANCE THIS WAY, CAN I?”

  they both began laughing then. then he was on the couch and he was crying. he had his gold and green face in his hands and he was crying.

  “god, why can’t it be cancer, heart attack, something nice and clean? God has shitted on me, that’s all, God has shitted on me!”

  she was kissing him along the neck and through his hands that covered his face. he pushed her away, “stop it, stop it!”

  “I love you, Henry, I don’t care about all this.”

  “you goddamned women are crazy.”

  “sure. now, when do you see the doctor?”

  “3:30.”

  “I’ve got to get back to the office. phone me when you find something out. I’ll be by tonight.”

  “o.k., o.k.,” then she was gone.

  at 3:10 he had a hat pulled low over his eyes and a scarf around his throat. he had dark shades on. he drove to the doctor’s looking straight ahead, trying to appear invisible. nobody seemed to notice him.


  in the doctor’s office they were all reading LIFE, LOOK, NEWSWEEK and so forth. there were hardly enough chairs and sofas and it was hot in there. the pages turned. he looked down at his magazine, trying not to be seen. it went all right for fifteen or twenty minutes and then a little girl who had been running around bouncing a balloon, bounced it near him, it bounced off his shoe and when it bounced off his shoe she caught it and looked at him. then she went back to a very ugly-looking woman with ears like small pancakes and eyes like the insides of spiders’ souls and she said, “Mommy, what’s wrong with that man’s FACE?”

  and Mommy said, “ssssssshhhh!”

  “BUT IT’S ALL YELLOW WITH BIG PURPLE SPOTS ALL OVER IT!”

  “Mary Ann, I TOLD you to be QUIET! now you just SIT here by me for a while and stop that runnin’ around! NOW, I said SIT DOWN HERE!”

  “ah, Mommy!”

  the little girl sat down, sniffling, looking at his face, sniffling and looking at his face.

  the little girl and Mommy were called in. others were called in, others entered, left. finally the doctor called him.

  “Mr. Beckett.”

  he followed the Dr. in. “how are you, Mr. Beckett?”

  “look at me and you’ll see.”

  the doctor turned around. “Good God!” he said.

  “yeah,” said Mr. Beckett.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it! please disrobe and sit on the table. when did this first occur?”

  “this morning when I woke up.”

  “how do you feel?”

  “like I’m smeared with shit that won’t come off.”

  “I mean, physically.”

  “I felt fine until I saw the mirror.”

  the doctor wrapped the tube around his arm.

  “blood pressure, normal.”

  “let’s cut the horseshit, Dr. you’ll be asking me to step on the scales next. you don’t know what it is, do you?”

  “no, never have I seen anything like it.”

  “your grammar is bad, Dr. where are you from?”

  “Austria.”

  “Austria. what are you going to do with me?”

  “I do not know. maybe a skin specialist, hospitalization, tests.”

  “I’m sure they’d find me very interesting. but it won’t go away.”

  “what won’t go away?”

  “what I’ve got. I can feel it inside. it won’t go away, ever.”