we got inside and I sat her down and got out a half-jug of mountain red some hippy had left. we drank quietly. she seemed more sensible than most. she didn’t bring out the photos of her family from her purse — the children, I mean. of course, the husband always comes out.
“Frank makes me sick. Frank doesn’t want me to have any fun.”
“yeh?”
“he keeps me locked up. I’m sick of being locked up. he hid all my skirts, all my dresses. he always does that when I’m drinking. when we’re drinkin’.”
“yeh?”
“he wants to keep me like some kind of slave. do you think a woman ought to be a slave to a man?”
“oh, hell no!”
“so I had stockings and heels and panties and blouse but no skirt and when Frank passed out, I escaped!”
“Frank’s probably a good guy, tho,” I said, “don’t knock Frank too much, you know what I mean?”
this is the old pro’s line. always pretend to be understanding, even when you are not. women never want sensibility, all they want is a kind of emotional vindictiveness toward somebody else they care for too much. women are basically stupid animals but they concentrate so much and entirely upon the male that they often defeat him while he is thinking of other things.
“I think Frank’s a bastard. but aren’t you glad I’m here?”
it sure beat ironing boards. I finished my drink and reached around and grabbed that old face and, keeping the body in mind, I kissed it, tongued it down good, her tongue finally grabbing my round tongue and sucking at it, sucking at it, as I played with those young girl’s nylon legs and mother-miracle breasts. Frank was a good guy, especially when he snored.
we took a breather and had another drink. “what do you do?” she asked.
“I’m an interior decorator,” I said.
“don’t get filthy,” she said.
“hey, you’re pretty sharp.”
“I been to college.”
I didn’t ask her where. the old pro knows how it works.
“you been to college?”
“not too much.”
“you’ve got beautiful hands. you’ve got hands like a woman.”
“I’ve heard that too much. you say that once more and I’m gonna knock your teeth out.”
“what are you, some kind of artist or painter or something. you seem kind of mixed up. and I notice you don’t like to look a person in the EYES. I don’t like people who CAN’T LOOK ME IN THE EYE. are you a coward?”
“yes. but the eyes are different. I don’t like people’s eyes.”
“I like you.”
she reached around and grabbed me in front. I wasn’t expecting it; I was ready to walk her back to her car. or worse, just let her walk away alone.
it was good. I mean, her holding me. forgetting the words.
we drank down a couple of tall fast ones and then I worked her toward the bedroom, or she worked me toward there. it didn’t matter. there is no time like the first time. I don’t care what anybody says. I make her leave on her stockings and high heels. I am a freak. I cannot bear the human being in present state, I must be fooled. the psychiatrists must have a word for it, and I have a word for the psychiatrists.
it is just like riding a bicycle: once you get back into the seat the balance and wonderment is there again.
it was good. after getting through with the bathroom we went out front again and killed the jug. I don’t remember going back to bed but I awakened with this 55-year-old face leering at me, really a dementia kind of look. the eyes were insane. I had to laugh. she had worked up my string while I was asleep. the same thing had happened to me once with a plump young negress on Irolo Street.
“go, baby, go!” I told her.
I reached up and in and spread her cheeks wide apart. that 55-year-old face came down and kissed me. it was horrible but the 18-year-old body was tit tight, tilting, rippling; snake of a thing as mad as wallpaper come alive. we made it.
then I really slept. I was awakened by something. I looked up and pink panties had pink panties on again and was working her way into one of my ragged old pair of pants. it was sad — seeing her ass not properly fitted into my wallowing pants. it was sad and ridiculous and ornery and a tear-hurling jerker, but the old pro narrowed his eyes, pretended to be asleep.
Frankie, here comes your LOVE!
when she can.
I watched her look through an empty cigarette pack, I watched her look down at me — it may seem terrible ego but I sensed that she admired me. fuck that, I had my own troubles, still, I did feel bad as I saw what had given something to me walking out of my bedroom door with a torn ripped lousy pair of my workman’s pants on. but the pros can tell a pre-supposed mechanical future based upon chance vs. the real thing which never shows up — except in the shape of an ironing board. she walked out of the bedroom. I let them go; they let me go. everything is horrible really, and I add to it. they will never let us sleep until we are dead and then they will think up another trick. balls, yes, I almost cried, but then orientated by centuries, Christ’s fuck-up, every sad and ripping thing, stupid, I leaped up and checked my only unripped pants not yet ripped from falling down at the knees while drunk. I checked for wallet, I checked for $$$$$ and finding $7, I figured I had not been robbed. and giving a little ashamed smile in the mirror, I fell back upon the x-love bed and … slept.
________
“the squirs came to my house.”
“they did?”
“yes.”
“squirrels?”
“squirs!”
“were there many of them?”
“many of them.”
“what happened?”
“they talked to me.”
“they did?”
“yes, they talked to me.”
“what did they say?”
“they asked me if I wanted …”
“what did they say?”
“they asked me if I wanted a fix.”
“what? what did you say?”
“I said — ‘they asked me if I wanted a fix.’ ”
“and what did you say?”
“I said, ‘no.’ ”
“and what did the squirs say?”
“they said, ‘WELL, ALL RIGHT!’ ”
* * *
“mama saw Bill, mama saw Gene, mama saw Danny.”
“she did?”
“yaeah.”
* * *
“can I touch your thing?”
“no.”
“I got tits. you got tits.”
“that’s right.”
“look! I can make your bellybutton disappear. does it hurt when I make your bellybutton disappear?”
“no, that’s just fat.”
“what’s fat?”
“too much of me where I shouldn’t be.”
“oh.”
* * *
“what time is it?”
“it’s 5:25.”
“what time is it now?”
“it’s still 5:25.”
“now what time is it?”
“listen, time doesn’t change very fast. it’s still 5:25.”
“what time is it NOW?”
“I told you — ‘it’s 5:25.’ ”
“now what time is it?”
“5:25 and 20 seconds.”
“I’m gonna throw you my ball.”
“good.”
* * *
“what are you doing?”
“I’m climbing!”
“don’t fall! if you fall from there you’re finished!”
“I won’t fall!”
“don’t.”
“I won’t! I won’t! look at me now!”
“o, jesus!”
“I’m coming down! I’m coming down now!”
“o.k., now you stay down there!”
“oh, FARK!”
“what did you say?”
“I said, ‘FARK!’ ”
“that’s what I thought y
ou said.”
“mama saw Nick, mama saw Andy, mama saw Rueben.”
“she did?”
“yaeah!”
“you goin’ to work?”
“yes.”
“but I don’t like for you to go to work!”
“I don’t like to go either.”
“then don’t go.”
“it’s the only way I can get money.”
“oh.”
“that’s right.”
“you got your pen?”
“yes.”
“you got your keys?”
“yes.”
“you got your badge?”
“yes.”
“go to work, go to work, go to work, go to work, go to work …”
* * *
“we went to workshop last night.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
“what’d the people do?”
“they talked. all the people talked and talked. and talked.”
“and what’d you do?”
“I went to sleep.”
* * *
“where did you get those big, beautiful blue eyes?”
“I made them myself!”
“you made them yourself?”
“yaeah!”
“I see.”
“your eyes are blue.”
“no, they’re green.”
“no, they’re blue!”
“well, maybe it’s the light. the light is bad in here.”
“did you make your eyes yourself?”
“I think I had a little help.”
“I made my own eyes, and my hands and my nose and my feet and my elbows. all that.”
“sometimes I think you’re right.”
“and your eyes are blue!”
“o.k., my eyes are blue.”
* * *
“I farted! ha, ha, ha! I farted!”
“you did?”
“yaeah!”
“you wanna crap?”
“NO!”
“you ain’t pee-pee’d in hours. is something wrong with you?”
“no. is something wrong with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“why?”
“I don’t know why.”
“what time is it?”
“it’s 6:35.”
“now what time is it?”
“it’s still 6:35.”
“what time is it now?”
“6:35.”
“oh, FARK!”
“what?”
“I said, ‘oh, FARK! FARK! FARK! FARK!’ ”
“listen — go get me a beer.”
“o.k”
“mama saw Danny, mama saw Bill, mama saw Gene.”
“o.k., let me drink my beer.”
she runs over and starts stuffing blocks, paper clips, rubber bands, extension cords, blue chip stamps, envelopes, advertisements and a small statue of Boris Karloff into her purse. I drink my beer.
________
in Philly, I had the end seat and ran errands for sandwiches, so forth. Jim, the early bartender, would let me in at 5:30 a.m. while he was mopping and I’d have free drinks until the crowd came in at 7:00 a.m. I’d close the bar at 2:00 a.m., which didn’t give me much time for sleep. but I wasn’t doing much those days — sleeping, eating or anything else. the bar was so run down, old, smelled of urine and death, that when a whore came in to make a catch we felt particularly honored. how I paid the rent for my room or what I was thinking about I am not sure. about this time a short story of mine appeared in PORTFOLIO III, along with Henry Miller, Lorca, Sartre, many others. the Portfolio sold for $10. a huge thing of separate pages, each printed in different type on colored expensive paper, and drawings mad with exploration. Caresse Crosby the editoress wrote me: “a most unusual and wonderful story. who ARE you?” and I wrote back, “Dear Mrs. Crosby: I don’t know who I am. sincerely yours, Charles Bukowski.” it was right after that that I quit writing for ten years. but first a night in the rain with PORTFOLIO, a very strong wind, the pages flying down the street, people running after them, myself standing drunk watching; a big window washer who always ate six eggs for breakfast put a big foot in the center of one of the pages: “here! hey! I got one!” “fuck it, let it go, let all the pages go!” I told them, and we went back inside. I had won some sort of bet. that was enough.
about 11 a.m. every morning Jim would tell me I had enough, I was 86’d, to go take a walk. I would go around to the back of the bar and lay down in the alley there. I liked to do this because trucks ran up and down the alley and I felt that anytime might be mine. but my luck ran bad. and every day little negro children would poke sticks in my back, and then I’d hear the mother’s voice, “all right now, all right, leave that man alone!” after a while I would get up, go back in and continue drinking. the lime in the alley was the problem. somebody always brushed the lime off of me and made too much of it.
I was sitting there one day when I asked somebody, “how come nobody here ever goes into the bar down the street?” and I was told, “that’s a gangster bar. you go in there, you get killed.” I finished my drink, got up and walked on down.
it was much cleaner in that bar. a lot of big young guys sitting around, kind of sullen. it got very quiet. “I’ll take a scotch and water,” I told the barkeep.
he pretended not to hear me.
I touched up the volume: “bartender, I said I wanted a scotch and water!”
he waited a long time, then turned, came over with the bottle and set me up. I drained it down.
“now I’ll have another one.”
I noticed a young lady sitting alone. she looked lonely. she looked good, she looked good and lonely. I had some money. I don’t remember where I got the money. I took my drink and went down and sat next to her.
“whatya wanna hear on the juke?” I asked.
“anything. anything you like.”
I loaded the thing. I didn’t know who I was but I could load a juke box. she looked good. how could she look so good and sit alone?
“bartender! bartender! 2 more drinks! one for the lady and one for myself!”
I could smell death in the air. and now that I smelled it I wasn’t so sure whether it smelled any good or not.
“whatch havin’, honey? tell the man!”
we’d been drinking about a half an hour when one of the two big guys sitting down at the end of the bar got up, slowly walked down to me. he stood behind, leaned over. she’d gone to the crapper. “listen, buddy, I wanna TELL you something.”
“go ahead. my pleasure.”
“that’s the boss’s girl. keep messing and you’re going to get yourself killed.”
that’s what he said: “killed.” it was just like a movie. he went back and sat down. she came out of the crapper, sat down next to me.
“bartender,” I said, “two more drinks.”
I kept loading the juke and talking. then I had to go to the crapper. I went to where it said MEN and I noticed there was a long stairway down. they had the men’s crapper down below. how odd. I took the first steps down and then I noticed that I was being followed down by the two big boys who had been at the end of the bar. it was not so much the fear of the thing as it was the strangeness. there was nothing I could do but keep walking on down the steps. I walked up to the urinal, unzipped my fly and started to piss. vaguely drunk, I saw the blackjack coming down. I moved my head just a little and instead of taking it over the ear I caught it straight on the back of my head. the lights went in circles and flashes but it was not too bad. I finished pissing, put it back in and zipped my fly. I turned around. they were standing there waiting for me to drop. “pardon me,” I said and then I walked between them and walked up the steps and sat down. I had neglected to wash my hands.
“bartender,” I said, “two more drinks.”
the blood was coming. I took out my hanky and held it to the back of my head. then the two big boys came up out of the crapper and sat down.
“bartender,” I nodded toward them, “two drinks for those gentlemen there.”
more juke, more talk. the girl didn’t move away from me. I didn’t make out most of what she was saying. then I had to piss again. I got up and made for the MEN’S room again. one of the big boys said to the other as I passed, “you can’t kill that son of a bitch. he’s crazy.”
they didn’t come down again, but when I came back up I didn’t sit by the girl again. I had proved some kind of point and was no longer interested. I drank there the rest of the night and when the bar closed we all went outside and talked and laughed and sang. I had done some drinking with a black-haired kid for the last couple of hours. he came up to me: “listen, we want you in the gang. you’ve got guts. we need a guy like you.”
“thanks, pal. appreciate it but I can’t do it. thanks anyhow.”
then I walked off. always the old sense of drama.
I hailed a cop car a few blocks down, told them I had been blackjacked and robbed by a couple of sailors. they took me to emergency and I sat under a bright electric light with a doc and a nurse. “now this is gonna hurt,” he told me. the needle started working. I couldn’t feel a thing. I felt like I had myself and everything under pretty good control. they were putting some kind of bandage on me when I reached out and grabbed the nurse’s leg. I squeezed her knee. it felt good to me.
“hey! what the hell’s the matter with you?”
“nothing. just joking,” I told the doc.
“you want us to run this guy in?” one of the cops asked.
“no, take him home. he’s had a rough night.”
the cops rode me on in. it was good service. if I had been in L.A. I would have made the tank. when I got to my room I drank a bottle of wine and went to sleep.
I didn’t make the 5:30 a.m. opening at the old bar. I sometimes did that. I sometimes stayed in bed all day. about 2 p.m. I heard a couple of women talking outside the window. “I don’t know about that new roomer. sometimes he just stays in his room all day with the shades down just listening to his radio. that’s all he does.”
“I’ve seen him,” said the other, “drunk most of the time, a horrible man.”
“I think I’ll have to ask him to move,” said the first one.
ah, shit, I thought. ah, shit, shit shit shit shit.
I turned Stravinsky off, put on my clothes and walked on down to the bar. I went on in.
“hey, there he is!!!”
Notes of a Dirty Old Man Page 11
