HEY!!!
he walked on up and stood there staring. HEY! he said HEY! he had very round eyes and he stood there staring up at me from out of those very round eyes. the eyes had bottoms like the dirty bottoms of swimmingpools – no reflection. I didn’t have but a few minutes, had to rush. I had missed the job the day before and had already been counciled – god knows how many times – for excessive absenteeism. I really wanted to walk away from him but I was too sick to gather myself. he looked like the manager of an apartment house I had once lived in a few years back. one of those who was always standing in the hall at 3 a.m. when you entered with a strange woman.
he kept staring so I said, I CAN’T REMEMBER YOU. I’M SORRY, I JUST CAN’T REMEMBER YOU. I’M JUST NOT VERY GOOD AT THAT SORT OF THING. meanwhile, thinking, why don’t you go away? why do you have to be here? I don’t like you.
I WAS AT YOUR PLACE, he said. OVER THERE, he pointed. he turned around and pointed south and east, where I had never lived. worked, but never lived. good, I thought, he’s a nut. I don’t know him. never knew him. I’m free. I can shove him off.
SORRY, I said, BUT YOU’RE MISTAKEN – I DON’T KNOW YOU. NEVER LIVED OVER THERE. SORRY, MAN.
I started to push my basket off.
WELL, MAYBE NOT THERE. BUT I KNOW YOU. IT WAS A PLACE IN THE BACK, YOU LIVED IN A PLACE IN THE BACK, ON THE SECOND FLOOR. IT WAS ABOUT A YEAR AGO.
SORRY, I told him, BUT I DRINK TOO MUCH. I FORGET PEOPLE. I DID LIVE IN A PLACE IN BACK, SECOND FLOOR, BUT THAT WAS 5 YEARS AGO.
LISTEN, I’M AFRAID YOU’RE MIXED UP. I’M IN A HURRY, REALLY. I HAVE TO GO, I’M REALLY DOWN TO THE MINUTE NOW.
I rolled on off toward the meat dept.
He ran along beside me.
YOU’RE BUKOWSKI, AREN’T YOU?
YES, I AM.
I WAS THERE. YOU JUST DON’T REMEMBER. YOU WERE DRINKING.
WHO THE HELL BROUGHT YOU OVER?
NOBODY. I CAME ON MY OWN. I WROTE A POEM ABOUT YOU. YOU DON’T REMEMBER. BUT YOU DIDN’T LIKE IT.
UMM, I said.
I ONCE WROTE A POEM TO THAT GUY WHO WROTE THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN ARM.’ WHAT’S HIS NAME?
ALGREN. NELSON ALGREN, I said.
YEAH, he said. I WROTE A POEM ABOUT HIM. SENT IT TO THIS MAGAZINE. THE EDITOR SUGGESTED THAT I SEND THE POEM TO HIM. ALGREN WROTE BACK, HE WROTE ME BACK A NOTE ON A RACING FORM. THIS IS MY LIFE,’ HE WROTE ME.
FINE, I said, SO WHAT’S YOUR NAME?
IT DOESN’T MATTER. MY NAME IS ‘LEGION.’
VERY FUNNY, I smiled. we trotted along, then stopped. I reached over and got a package of hamburger. then I decided to give him the brushoff. I took the hamburger and stuck it in his hand and shook his hand with it, saying, WELL, OK, GOOD TO SEE YOU, BUT MAN, REALLY, I’VE GOT TO GO.
then I shifted into high and pushed my basket out of there. toward the bread dept. he wouldn’t shake.
ARE YOU STILL IN THE POST OFFICE? he asked, trotting along.
I’M AFRAID SO.
YOU OUGHT TO GET OUT OF THERE. IT’S A HORRIBLE PLACE. IT’S THE WORST PLACE YOU CAN BE.
I THINK IT IS. BUT YOU SEE, I CAN’T DO ANYTHING, I DON’T HAVE ANY SPECIAL TRAINING.
YOU’RE A GREAT POET, MAN.
GREAT POETS DIE IN STEAMING POTS OF SHIT.
BUT YOU’VE GOT ALL THAT RECOGNITION FROM THE LEFT-WING PEOPLE. CAN’T ANYBODY DO ANYTHING FOR YOU?
left-wing people? this guy was crazy. we trotted along.
I HAVE RECOGNITION. FROM MY BUDDIES AT THE POST OFFICE. I’M RECOGNIZED AS A LUSH AND A HORSE-PLAYER.
CAN’T YOU GET A GRANT OR SOMETHING?
I TRIED LAST YEAR. THE HUMANITIES. ALL I GOT BACK WAS A FORM-LETTER OF REJECTION.
BUT EVERY ASS IN THE COUNTRY IS LIVING ON A GRANT.
YOU FINALLY SAID SOMETHING.
DON’T YOU READ AT THE UNIVERSITIES?
I’D RATHER NOT. I CONSIDER IT PROSTITUTION. ALL THEY WANT TO DO IS ...
he didn’t let me finish. GINSBERG, he said, GINSBERG READS AT THE UNIVERSITIES. AND CREELEY AND OLSON AND DUNCAN AND ...
I KNOW.
I reached over and got my bread.
THERE ARE ALL FORMS OF PROSTITUTION, he said.
now he was getting profound. jesus. I ran toward the vegetable dept.
LISTEN, COULD I SEE YOU AGAIN, SOMETIME?
MY TIME’S SHORT. REALLY TIGHT.
he found a matchbook. HERE, PUT YOUR ADDRESS DOWN IN HERE.
oh christ, I thought, how do you get out without hurting a man’s feelings? I wrote the address down.
HOW ABOUT A PHONE NUMBER? he asked. SO YOU’LL KNOW WHEN I’M COMING OVER.
NO, NO PHONE NUMBER. I handed the book back.
WHEN’S THE BEST TIME?
IF YOU’VE GOT TO COME, MAKE IT SOME FRIDAY NIGHT AFTER 10.
I’LL BRING A SIX-PACK. AND I’LL HAVE TO BRING MY WIFE. I’VE BEEN MARRIED 27 YEARS.
TOO BAD, I said.
OH NO. IT’S THE ONLY WAY.
HOW DO YOU KNOW? YOU DON’T KNOW ANY OTHER WAY.
IT ELIMINATES JEALOUSY AND STRIFE. YOU OUGHT TO TRY IT.
IT DOESN’T ELIMINATE, IT ADDS. AND I’VE TRIED IT.
OH YEAH, I REMEMBER READING IT IN ONE OF YOUR POEMS. A RICH WOMAN.
we hit the vegetables. the frozen ones.
I WAS IN THE VILLAGE IN THE 30’s. I KNEW BODENHEIM. TERRIBLE. HE GOT MURDERED. LAYING AROUND IN ALLEYS LIKE THAT. MURDERED OVER SOME TRASHY WOMAN. I WAS IN THE VILLAGE THEN. I WAS A BOHEMIAN. I’M NO BEAT. AND I’M NO HIPPY. DO YOU READ THE ‘FREE PRESS’?
SOMETIMES.
TERRIBLE.
he meant that he thought the hippies were terrible. he was being profoundly sloppy.
I PAINT TOO. I SOLD A PAINTING TO MY PSYCHIATRIST. $320. ALL PSYCHIATRISTS ARE SICK, VERY SICK PEOPLE.
more 1933 profundity.
YOU REMEMBER THAT POEM YOU WROTE ABOUT GOING DOWN TO THE BEACH AND CLIMBING DOWN THE CLIFF TO THE SAND AND SEEING ALL THOSE LOVERS DOWN THERE AND YOU WERE ALONE AND WANTED TO GET OUT FAST, YOU GOT OUT SO FAST YOU LEFT YOUR SHOES DOWN THERE WITH THEM. IT WAS A GREAT POEM ABOUT LONELINESS.
it was a poem about how HARD it was to EVER GET alone, but I didn’t tell him that.
I picked up a package of frozen potatoes and made for the check stand. he trotted along beside me.
I WORK AS A DISPLAYMAN. IN THE MARKETS. $154 A WEEK. I ONLY HIT THE OFFICE ONCE A WEEK. I WORK FROM ELEVEN A.M. TO FOUR P.M.
ARE YOU WORKING NOW?
OH YEAH, I’M WORKING ON DISPLAYS IN HERE NOW. WISH I HAD SOME INFLUENCE. I’D GET YOU ON.
the boy at the checkstand began tabbing the groceries.
HEY! my friend yelled, DON’T MAKE HIM PAY FOR THOSE GROCERIES! HE’S A POET!
the boy at the checkstand was all right. he didn’t say anything. just went on tabbing it up.
my friend screamed again: HEY! HE’S A GREAT POET! DON’T MAKE HIM PAY FOR HIS GROCERIES.
HE LIKES TO TALK, I said to the checkstand boy.
the checkstand boy was all right. I paid and took my bag.
LISTEN, I’VE GOT TO GO, I said to my friend.
somehow, he could not leave the store. some fear. he wanted to keep his good job. wonderful. it felt very good to see him standing in there by the checkstand. not trotting along beside me.
I’LL BE SEEING YOU, he said.
I waved him away from under the bag.
outside were the parked cars, and the people walking around. none of them read poetry, talked poetry, wrote poetry. for once the masses looked very reasonable to me. I got to my car, threw the stuff in and sat there a moment. a woman got out of the car next to me and I watched as her skirt fell back and showed me flashes of white leg above the stockings. one of the world’s greatest works of Art: a woman with fine legs climbing out of her car. she stood up and the skirt fell back down. for a moment she smiled at me, then she turned and moved it all, wobbling, balancing, shivering toward the grocery store. I started the car and backed out. I had almost forgot
ten my friend. but he wouldn’t forget me. tonight he would say:
DEAR, GUESS WHO I SAW IN THE GROCERY TODAY? HE LOOKED ABOUT THE SAME, MAYBE NOT AS BLOATED. AND HE HAS THIS LITTLE THING ON HIS CHIN.
WHO WAS IT?
CHARLES BUKOWSKI.
WHO’S THAT?
A POET. HE’S SLIPPED. HE CAN’T WRITE AS WELL AS HE USED TO. BUT HE USED TO WRITE SOME GREAT STUFF. POEMS OF LONELINESS. HE’S REALLY A VERY LONELY FELLOW BUT HE DOESN’T KNOW IT. WE’RE GOING TO SEE HIM THIS FRIDAY NIGHT.
BUT I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO WEAR.
HE WON’T CARE. HE DOESN’T LIKE WOMEN.
HE DOESN’T LIKE WOMEN?
YEAH. HE TOLD ME.
LISTEN, GUSTAV, THE LAST POET WE WENT TO SEE WAS A TERRIBLE PERSON. WE HADN’T BEEN THERE MUCH MORE THAN AN HOUR AND HE GOT DRUNK AND STARTED THROWING BOTTLES ACROSS THE ROOM AND CUSSING.
THAT WAS BUKOWSKI. ONLY HE DOESN’T REMEMBER US.
NO WONDER.
BUT HE’S VERY LONELY. WE SHOULD GO SEE HIM.
ALL RIGHT, IF YOU SAY SO, GUSTAV.
THANK YOU, SWEETIE.
don’t you wish you were Charles Bukowski? I can paint too. lift weights. and my little girl thinks that I am God.
then other times, it’s not so good.
MY STAY IN THE POET’S COTTAGE
for those of you interested in madness, yours or mine, I can tell you a little about mine. I stayed at the poet’s cottage at the University of Arizona, not because I am established but because nobody but a damn fool or a poor man ever visits or stays in Tucson in the summer months. it averaged around 106 degrees during my whole stay. nothing to do but drink beer. I am a poet who has made it known that I do not give readings. I am also a person who becomes quite a jackass when drunk. and when sober I don’t have anything to say, so there weren’t many knocks at the poet’s cottage. and I didn’t mind. except I had heard that there was a young colored maid, vury vury nicely built who came around once in a while, so I quietly laid plans to rape her, but she had evidently heard of me too and stayed away. so I scrubbed out my own bathtub; dumped out my own bottles into a large trashcan with painting on the top in black: UNIV. OF ARIZ. I usually heaved right into the top of the can after dumping my bottles around 11 a.m. each morning. then it was mostly a matter of going back to bed after my morning beer and trying to cool off and get well. poet-in-residence, indeed, drunk-in-residence would have been better. I drank around 4 or 5 six-packs a day and night.
well, the cooling system was not bad and with my balls just beginning to unlimber and my stomach getting straight, and my stick still thinking of the colored maid, and my soul still retching from the Creeley’s etc. who had shit in the same shitter, slept in the same bed – about this time the phone would ring. it would be the great editor –
Bukowski?
yeh. yeh. I think so.
would you like some breakfast?
some what?
breakfast.
yeh. that’s what I thought ya said.
my wife and I are kind of around the corner. how about meeting us at the campus cafeteria?
the campus cafeteria?
yes, we’ll be there. all you have to do is to keep walking the opposite way of Speedway and just keep asking everybody you meet, WHERE IS THE CAMPUS CAFETERIA? just keep asking everybody you meet, WHERE IS THE CAMPUS CAFETERIA?
oooooooh, jesus ...
what’s wrong? all you have to do is to keep asking everybody you meet, WHERE IS THE CAMPUS CAFETERIA? we’ll have breakfast together.
listen, let’s put it off. not this morning.
well, o.k., buk, I only thought since we were out this way –
sure, thanks.
around after 3 or 4 beers and a bath and trying to read some of the books of poesy around there, and naturally finding them not well-written, they put me to sleep: Pound, Olson, Creeley, Shapiro. there were hundreds of books, old magazines. none of my books were there, not in that cottage, so it was a very dead place. when I awakened, it was another beer and a walk in the 100 plus heat 8 or 10 blocks to the great editor’s place. I’d usually stop somewhere and pick up a couple of six-packs. they weren’t drinking. they were getting old and having all sorts of physical troubles. it was sad. for them and for me. but her 81-year-old father almost matched me beer for beer. we liked each other.
I was out there to cut a record but when the Ariz. prof in charge of that sort of thing heard I was coming to town he ended up at St. Mary’s hospital with an ulcer. on the day he was due to be discharged I phoned him personally while I was half drunk and they kept him in there 2 more days. so nothing to do but drink with an 81-year-old man and wait for something to happen: maids, fire, the end of the world. I got into an argument with the great editor and went to the back bedroom and sat there with Pops and watched some kind of T.V. program where all the women danced and wore miniskirts. I sat there with a big hard-on. anyway, with a hard-on. I don’t know about Pops.
but one night I found myself on the other side of town. big tall guy with beard all over his face. Archer, or Archnip, or something, he was called. we drank and drank and drank and smoked – Chesterfields. we kept talking out of the skulltops of our underwear. and then the big guy with the hairyface, Archnip, he folded across the top of the table and I began feeling his wife’s legs. she let me. she let me. she had the finest white hairs on these legs – wait! she was around 25! – I only mean they looked kind of white under the electric light on those g.d. big legs. and she kept saying, I really don’t want you but if you can get something ready you can have me. well, that’s more than most of them say. and I kept feeling her legs and trying to get something ready but the Chesterfields and the beer had got me beyond it, so all I could ask her was to run away to Los Angeles with me and that she could get a job as a waitress and support me. she didn’t seem interested, for some reason. and after all that talk with her husband, wherein I had dissected Law, History, Sex, Poetry, the Novel, Medicine ... I had even set the husband up by taking him to a bar and having 3 quick scotch and waters after and on top of the other. all she told me was that she was interested in Los Angeles. I told her to go take a piss and forget it. I should have stayed in the bar. some girl had come out of the wall and danced on the bar; she had kept shaking these red satin panties in my face. but probably only a communist conspiracy, so what the hell.
the next day I got a ride back with a shorter guy with a shorter beard. he gave me a Chesterfield. whatch do, swaddler, I asked him, you got all that hair on your face, whatcha do?
I paint, he said.
so when we got back to the cottage I broke out the beers and straightened him out on painting. I paint too. I told him my secret formula on how to tell whether a new painting was any good or not. I also told him the difference between painting and writing, and what painting could do for you that writing could not. he didn’t say much. after a few beers he decided to leave.
thanks for the ride, I told him.
it’s all right.
when the great editor phoned to ask me to breakfast I had to tell him no once more but I told him about the guy who drove me home.
nice guy, I said, nice kid.
what did you say his name was?
I stated the name.
oh, he said, that was professor – –, he teaches painting at
Arizona U.
oh, I said.
there weren’t any symphony programs on the little A.M. radio so I listened to the other music, crashed the beer down and listened to the other music, crazy: if you come to San Francisco, wear a flower in your hair; hey hey, live for today; and so forth and so on. on one station they had a contest or some damn thing – they asked you to name the month of your birth. August, I told them. were you born in November? the lady sang back. I’m sorry, sir, you just missed, the announcer told me. yeh? I said. yeh? the announcer hung up. you had to first match the month of your birth with the record they spun. then if you hit that, you tried for the day of your birth, that is the 7
th., 19th., so on. then if you tied them together you won A FREE TRIP TO LOS ANGELES WHERE YOU GOT TO STAY IN SOME MOTEL, EXPENSES PAID. phony sons of bitches. the whole thing’s rigged, I said to myself. I went to the refrigerator. it is now 109 degrees, the announcer said.
my last day in town the colored maid still hadn’t shown so I began packing. the great editor told me the bus schedule. all I had to do was walk 3 blocks north, then catch the bus going east on Park ave. to Elm.
if you get to the bus stop too early don’t just stand there. go into the drugstore and wait. get a coke or something.
well, I got packed and walked up to the bus stop in the 105 degree heat. the damn bus was nowhere in sight. shit, I said. I began walking east, fast. the booze came out of me like the Niagara falls. I switched hands on the suitcase. I could have taken a taxi from my place to the train depot but the great editor had wanted to give me some books, something called CRUCIFIX IN A DEATHHAND, that I had to pack into the suitcase. nobody had a car. I just got to the place and broke out a beer when here came the prof out of the hospital, driving up in his car, making sure, I guess, that I left town. he came in.
I was just over at the cottage, he said.
you just missed buk, said the editor. buk always builds his own cage. he won’t eat breakfast in the campus cafeteria. then I told him to WAIT IN THE DRUGSTORE IF THE BUS WAS LATE. you know what he did? he walked all the way over here in this heat with that suitcase.
god damn it, can’t you see? I told the editor, I don’t like drugstores! I don’t like to be in drug stores, waiting. they have this marble fountain. you sit there and stare at this marble fountain, this soda fountain circle thing. an ant shakes by or some kind of bug lays dying in front of you, one wing whirling and the other still. you are a stranger. 2 or 3 dull and cool people stare at you. then the waitress finally comes up. she wouldn’t let you smell the stink of a pair of her dirty panties, yet she’s ugly as hell and doesn’t even know it. with great reluctance she takes your order. a coke. it comes to you in a warm, bent paper cup. you don’t want it. you drink it. the bug is still not dead. the bus is still not there. the marble in the fountain is covered in slimy dust. everything’s a farce, can’t you see? if you go to the counter and try to buy a pack of smokes it will be 5 minutes before somebody arrives. you feel raped-over 9 times before you get out of there.
Tales of Ordinary Madness Page 9
