I picked out the finest looking woman in the house and decided to make her hate me. I found her in the breakfastnook sitting at a table alone.
“Baby,” I said, “that damned Hemingway is a sick man.”
“I know it,” she said.
“I know he wants to be nice but he can’t let go of Literature. Christ, what a disgusting subject! You know, I never met a writer I liked? They’re all little figs, the worst of human crap ...”
“I know,” she said, “I know ...”
I pulled her head around and kissed her. She didn’t resist. Hemingway saw us and walked into the other room. Hey! The old boy had some kool! Remarkable!
Belford got back with the stuff and I piled a bunch of beer in front of us and I talked, and kissed and fondled with her for hours. It wasn’t until the next day that I found out she was Hemingway’s wife ...
I awakened in bed, alone, on a second floor somewhere. I was probably still in Hemingway’s house. I was more seriously hungover than usual. I turned my face away from the sunlight and closed my eyes.
Somebody shook me.
“Hank! Hank! Wake up!”
“Shit. Go away.”
“We’ve got to leave now. You’re reading at noon. It’s a long drive. We’ll barely make it.”
“Let’s not make it.”
“We’ve got to make it. You signed a contract. They’re waiting. They’re going to put you on t.v.”
“T.v.?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my god, I might vomit in front of the camera ...”
“Hank, we’ve got to make it.”
“All right, all right.”
I got out of bed and looked at him. “You’re all right, Belford, to look after me and take all my shit. Why don’t you get angry and cuss me or something?”
“You’re my favorite living poet,” he said.
I laughed. “God, I could probably take my pecker out and piss all over you ...”
“No,” he said, “it’s your words not your piss that I’m interested in.”
There, he had properly put me down and I felt good for him. I finally got on what I had to and Belford helped me down the stairway. There was Hemingway and his wife.
“God, you look awful!” said Hemingway.
“I’m sorry about last night, Ernie. I didn’t know it was your wife until ...”
“Forget it,” he said, “how about a bit of coffee?”
“Fine,” I said, “I need something.”
“How about something to eat?”
“Thanks. I don’t eat.”
We all sat around quietly drinking our coffees. Then Hemingway said something. I don’t know what it was about. James Joyce, I think.
“Oh god damn it!” said his wife, “can’t you ever shut up?”
“Listen, Hank,” said Belford, “we better be leaving. It’s a long drive.”
“O.k.,” I said.
We stood up and walked toward the car. I shook Hemingway’s hand.
“I’ll walk you to the car,” he said.
Belford and H. walked toward the door. I turned to her.
“Goodbye,” I said.
“Goodbye,” she said, and then she kissed me. I’d never been kissed like that. She just gave over, gave everything up. I’d never been screwed like that.
Then I walked outside. Hemingway and I shook hands again. Then we drove off and he walked back into his house to his wife ...
“He teaches Literature,” said Belford.
“Yeah,” I said.
I was really sick. “I don’t know if I can make it. It’s senseless to give a reading at high noon.”
“That’s when most of the students can get to see you.”
We drove along and that’s when I knew there was never any escape. There was always something that had to be done or they blotted you out. It was a hard fact but I noted it down and wondered if there would ever be any way to escape it.
“You don’t look like you’re going to make it,” said Belford.
“Make a stop somewhere. We’ll get a bottle of scotch.”
He pulled into one of those strange-looking Washington stores. I bought a half pint of vodka to try to get straight on and a pint of scotch for the reading. Belford said that they were fairly conservative at the next place and that I’d better get a thermos to drink the scotch out of. So I bought a thermos.
We stopped for breakfast somewhere. Nice place but the girls didn’t show their panties.
Christ, there were women everywhere and over ½ of them looked good enough to fuck, and there was nothing you could do – just look at them. Who’d ever devised such an awful trick? Yet they all looked pretty much alike – overlooking a roll of fat here, no ass there – just so many poppies in a field. Which one did you pick? Which one picked you? It didn’t matter, and it was all so sad. And when the picks were made, it never worked, it never worked for anybody, no matter what they said.
Belford ordered hotcakes for both of us, side order of eggs. Over easy.
A waitress. I looked at her breasts and hips and lips and eyes. Poor thing. Poor thing, hell. There probably wasn’t a thought on her mind except raping some poor son of a bitch out of every dime he had ...
I managed to get down most of the hotcakes, then we were back in the car.
Belford was intent upon the reading. A dedicated young man.
“That guy who drank out of your bottle twice at intermission ...”
“Yeah. He was looking for trouble.”
“Everybody’s afraid of him. He’s flunked-off campus but he still hangs around. He’s always on lsd. He’s crazy.”
“I don’t give a damn about that, Henry. You can steal my women but don’t play with my whiskey.”
We stopped for gas, then drove on. I’d poured the scotch into the thermos and was trying to get the vodka down.
“We’re getting close,” said Belford, “you can see the campus towers now. Look!”
I looked.
“Lord have Mercy!” I said.
As soon as I saw the campus towers I had to stick my head out the side of the car and I began vomiting. Smears of vomit slid and stuck along the side of Belford’s red car. He drove on, dedicated. Somehow he felt as if I could make it, as if I were vomiting as some kind of joke. It kept coming.
“Sorry,” I managed to say.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s almost noon. We have about 5 minutes. I’m glad we made it,” he said.
We parked. I grabbed my travel bag, got out, vomited in the parking lot.
Belford tromped ahead.
“Just a minute,” I said.
I held to a post and vomited again. Some students walking by looked at me: that old man, what’s he doing?
I followed Belford this way and that ... up this path, down that. The American University – a lot of shrubbery and paths and bullshit. I saw my name on a sign – HENRY CHINASKI, READING POETRY AT ...
That’s me, I thought. I almost laughed. I was pushed into this room. There were people everywhere. Little white faces. Little white pancakes.
They sat me in a chair.
“Sir,” said the guy behind the tv camera, “when I hold up my hand, you begin.”
I’m going to vomit, I thought. I tried to find some poetry books. I played around. Then Belford started telling them who I was ... what a grand time we had together in the great Pacific Northwest ...
The guy held up his hand.
I began. “My name’s Chinaski. First poem is called ...”
After 3 or 4 poems I began to hit the thermos. People were laughing. I didn’t care at what. I hit the thermos some more, began to relax. No intermission, this one. I looked up into a side-view tv, saw that I had been reading for 30 minutes with one long hair hanging straight down the center of my forehead and folded over my nose. That amused me anyhow; then I brushed it aside and got to work. I seemed to have gotten away with it. The applause was good though not as good as the other place. Who care
d? Just get me out alive. Some had my books, came down for signatures.
Uh huh, a huh, I thought, this is the way this bullshit works.
Not much more. I signed a paper for my hundred bucks, was introduced to the head of the Literature dept. All sex, she was. I thought, I’ll rape her. She said she might come over to this cabin in the hills later – Belford’s place – but, of course, after hearing my poems she never did. It was over. I was returning to my musty court and madness but my kind of madness. Belford and a friend drove me to the airport and we sat in the bar. I bought the drinks.
“That’s funny,” I said, “I must be going crazy. I keep hearing my name.”
I was right. When we reached the ramp my plane was rolling off, just rising into the air. I had to go back and enter a special room where I was interviewed. I felt like a schoolboy.
“All right,” he said, “we’ll put you on our next flight. But be sure to make this one.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. He said something into a telephone and I walked back to the bar and ordered some more drinks.
“It’s o.k.,” I said, “I’m on the next flight.”
Then it occurred to me that I could miss that next flight forever. And going back and seeing that same man. Each time a little worse: he more angry; I more apologetic. It could happen. Belford and his friend would disappear. Others would arrive. A little fund would be taken up for me ...
“Mommy, what ever happened to daddy?”
“He died at a bar table in Seattle airport while trying to get on a flight for Los Angeles.”
You may not believe it, but I just did make that 2nd flight. I no sooner sat down and the plane was moving. I couldn’t understand it. Why was it so difficult? Anyway, I was on board. I uncapped the bottle. The stewardess caught me. Against the rules. “You know, you can be put off, sir.” The captain had just announced that we were at 50,000 feet.
“Mommy, what ever happened to daddy?”
“He was a poet.”
“What’s a poet, mommy?”
“He said he didn’t know. Now come on, wash your hands, we’re having dinner.”
“He didn’t know?”
“That’s right, he didn’t know. Now come on, I said wash your hands ...”
THE GREAT ZEN WEDDING
I was in the rear, stuck in with the Rumanian bread, liverwurst, beer, soft drinks; wearing a green necktie, first necktie since the death of my father a decade ago. Now I was to be best man at a Zen wedding, Hollis driving 85 m.p.h., Roy’s four-foot beard flowing into my face. It was my ’62 Comet, only I couldn’t drive – no insurance, two drunk-driving raps, and already getting drunk. Hollis and Roy had lived unmarried for three years, Hollis supporting Roy. I sat in the back and sucked at my beer. Roy was explaining Hollis’ family to me one by one. Roy was better with the intellectual shit. Or the tongue. The walls of their place were covered with these many photos of guys bending into the muff and chewing.
Also a snap of Roy reaching climax while jacking off. Roy had done it alone. I mean, tripped the camera. Himself. String. Wire. Some arrangement. Roy claimed he had to jackoff six times in order to get the perfect snap. A whole day’s work: there it was: this milky glob: a work of art. Hollis turned off the freeway. It wasn’t too far. Some of the rich have driveways a mile long. This one wasn’t too bad: a quarter of a mile. We got out. Tropical gardens. Four or five dogs. Big black woolly stupid slobbering-at-the-mouth beasts. We never reached the door – there he was, the rich one, standing on the veranda, looking down, drink in hand. And Roy yelled, “Oh, Harvey, you bastard, so good to see you!”
Harvey smiled the little smile: “Good to see you too, Roy.”
One of the big black woollies was gobbling at my left leg. “Call your dog off, Harvey, bastard, good to see you!” I screamed.
“Aristotle, now STOP that!”
Aristotle left off, just in time.
And.
We went up and down the steps with the salami, the Hungarian pickled catfish, the shrimp. Lobstertails. Bagels. Minced dove assholes.
Then we had it all in there. I sat down and grabbed a beer. I was the only one with a necktie. I was also the only one who had bought a wedding gift. I hid it between the wall and the Aristotle-chewed leg.
“Charles Bukowski ...”
I stood up.
“Oh, Charles Bukowski!”
“Uh huh.”
Then:
“This is Marty.”
“Hello, Marty.”
“And this is Elsie.”
“Hello, Elsie.”
“Do you really, she asked, “break up furniture and windows, slash your hands, all that, when you’re drunk?”
“Uh huh.”
“You’re a little old for that.”
“Now listen, Elsie, don’t give me any shit ...”
“And this is Tina.”
“Hello, Tina.”
I sat down.
Names! I had been married to my first wife for two-and-one-half years. One night some people came in. I had told my wife: “This is Louie the half-ass and this is Marie, Queen of the Quick Suck, and this is Nick, the half-hobble.” Then I had turned to them and said, “This is my wife ... this is my wife ... this is ...” I finally had to look at her and ask: “WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR NAME ANYHOW?”
“Barbara.”
“This is Barbara,” I had told them ...
The Zen master hadn’t arrived. I sat and sucked at my beer.
Then here came more people. On and on up the steps. All Hollis’ family. Roy didn’t seem to have a family. Poor Roy. Never worked a day in his life. I got another beer.
They kept coming up the steps: ex-cons, sharpies, cripples, dealers in various subterfuges. Family and friends. Dozens of them. No wedding presents. No neckties.
I pushed further back into my corner.
One guy was pretty badly fucked-up. It took him 25 minutes to get up the stairway. He had especially-made crutches, very powerful looking things with round bands for the arms. Special grips here and there. Aluminum and rubber. No wood for that baby. I figured it: watered-down stuff or a bad payoff. He had taken the slugs in the old barber chair with the hot and wet shaving towel over his face. Only they’d missed a few vital spots.
There were others. Somebody taught class at UCLA. Somebody else ran in shit through Chinese fishermen’s boats via San Pedro Harbor.
I was introduced to the greatest killers and dealers of the century.
Me, I was between jobs.
Then Harvey walked up.
“Bukowski, care for a bit of scotch and water?”
“Sure, Harvey, sure.”
We walked toward the kitchen.
“What’s the necktie for?”
“The top of the zipper on my pants is broken. And my shorts are too tight. End of necktie covers stinkhairs just above my cock.”
“I think that you are the modern living master of the short story. Nobody touches you.”
“Sure, Harvey. Where’s the scotch?”
Harvey showed me the bottle of scotch.
“I always drink this kind since you always mention it in your short stories.”
“But I’ve switched brands now, Harv. I found some better stuff.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“Damned if I can remember.”
I found a tall water glass, poured in half scotch, half water.
“For the nerves,” I told him. “You know?”
“Sure, Bukowski.”
I drank it straight down.
“How about a refill?”
“Sure.”
I took the refill and walked to the front room, sat in my corner. Meanwhile there was a new excitement: The Zen master had ARRIVED!
The Zen master had on this very fancy outfit and kept his eyes very narrow. Or maybe that’s the way they were.
The Zen master needed tables. Roy ran around looking for tables.
Meanwhile, the Zen master was very calm, very gr
acious. I downed my drink, went in for a refill. Came back.
A golden-haired kid ran in. About eleven years old.
“Bukowski, I’ve read some of your stories. I think that you are the greatest writer I have ever read!”
Long blond curls. Glasses. Slim body.
“Okay, baby. You get old enough. We’ll get married. Live off of your money. I’m getting tired. You can just parade me around in a kind of glass cage with little airholes in it. I’ll let the young boys have you. I’ll even watch.”
“Bukowski! Just because I have long hair, you think I’m a girl! My name is Paul! We were introduced! Don’t you remember?”
Paul’s father, Harvey, was looking at me. I saw his eyes. Then I knew that he had decided that I was not such a good writer after all. Maybe even a bad writer. Well, no man can hide forever.
But the little boy was all right: “That’s okay, Bukowski! You are still the greatest writer I have ever read! Daddy has let me read some of your stories....”
Then all the lights went out. That’s what the kid deserved for his big mouth ...
But there were candles everywhere. Everybody was finding candles, walking around finding candles and lighting them.
“Shit, it’s just a fuse. Replace the fuse,” I said.
Somebody said it wasn’t the fuse, it was something else, so I gave up and while all the candle-lighting went on I walked into the kitchen for more scotch. Shit, there was Harvey standing there.
“Ya got a beautiful son, Harvey. Your boy, Peter ...”
“Paul.”
“Sorry. The Biblical.”
“I understand.”
(The rich understand; they just don’t do anything about it.)
Harvey uncorked a new fifth. We talked about Kafka. Dos. Turgenev, Gogol. All that dull shit. Then there were candles everywhere. The Zen master wanted to get on with it. Roy had given me the two rings. I felt. They were still there. Everybody was waiting on us. I was waiting for Harvey to drop to the floor from drinking all that scotch. It wasn’t any good. He had matched me one drink for two and was still standing. That isn’t done too often. We had knocked off half a fifth in the ten minutes of candle-lighting. We went out to the crowd. I dumped the rings on Roy. Roy had communicated, days earlier, to the Zen master that I was a drunk – unreliable – either faint-hearted or vicious – therefore, during the ceremony, don’t ask Bukowski for the rings because Bukowski might not be there. Or he might lose the rings, or vomit, or lose Bukowski.
Tales of Ordinary Madness Page 5
