Run With the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader

by Charles Bukowski

  Then she straightened and danced back to the center of the stage. From where I was sitting I could hear her singing to herself over the music. She took a hold of her pink bra and ripped it off and a guy three rows down lit a cigarette. There was just the G-string now. She pushed her finger into her bellybutton, and moaned.

  Darlene remained dancing at stage center. The band was playing very softly. She began a gentle grind. She was fucking us. The beaded G-string was swaying slowly. Then the four man band began to pick up gradually once again. They were reaching for the culmination of the act; the drummer was cracking rim-shots like firecrackers; they looked tired, desperate.

  Darlene fingered her naked breasts, showing them to us, her eyes filled with the dream, her lips moist and parted. Then suddenly she turned and waved her enormous behind at us. The beads leaped and flashed, went crazy, sparkled. The spotlight shook and danced like the sun. The four man band crackled and banged. Darlene spun around. She tore away the beads. I looked, they looked. We could see her cunt hairs through the flesh-colored gauze. The band really spanked her ass.

  And I couldn’t get it up.

  —FACTOTUM

  The Night They Took Whitey

  bird-dream and peeling wallpaper

  symptoms of grey sleep

  and at 4 a.m. Whitey came out of his room

  (the solace of the poor is in numbers

  like Summer poppies)

  and he began to scream help me! help me! help me!

  (an old man with hair as white as any ivory tusk)

  and he was vomiting blood

  help me help me help me

  and I helped him he down in the hall

  and I beat on the landlady’s door

  (she is as French as the best wine but as tough as

  an American steak) and

  I hollered her name, Marcella! Marcella!

  (the milkman would soon be coming with his

  pure white bottles like chilled lilies)

  Marcella! Marcella! help me help me help me,

  and she screamed back through the door:

  you polack bastard, are you drunk again? Then

  Promethean the eye at the door

  and she

  sized up the red river in her rectangular brain

  (oh, I am nothing but a drunken polack

  a bad pinch-hitter a writer of letters to the newspapers)

  and she spoke into the phone like a lady ordering bread and eggs,

  and I held to the wall

  dreaming bad poems and my own death

  and the men came … one with a cigar, the other needing a shave,

  and they made him stand up and walk down the steps

  his ivory head on fire (Whitey, my drinking pal—

  all the songs, Sing Gypsy, Laugh Gypsy, talk about

  the war, the fights, the good whores,

  skid-row hotels floating in wine,

  floating in crazy talk,

  cheap cigars and anger)

  and the siren took him away, except the red part

  and I began to vomit and the French wolverine screamed

  you’ll have to clean it up, all of it, you and Whitey!

  and the steamers sailed and rich men on yachts

  kissed girls young enough to be their daughters,

  and the milkman came by and stared

  and the neon lights blinked selling something

  tires or oil or underwear

  and she slammed her door and I was alone

  ashamed

  it was the war, the war forever, the war was never over,

  and I cried against the peeling walls,

  the weakness of our bones, our sotted half-brains,

  and morning began to creep into the hall—

  toilets flushed, there was bacon, there was coffee,

  there were hangovers, and I too

  went in and closed my door and sat down and waited for the sun.

  the soldier, his wife and the bum

  I was a bum in San Francisco but once managed

  to go to a symphony concert along with the well-

  dressed people

  and the music was good but something about the

  audience was not

  and something about the orchestra

  and the conductor was

  not,

  although the building was fine and the

  acoustics perfect

  I preferred to listen to the music alone

  on my radio

  and afterwards I did go back to my room and I

  turned on the radio but

  then there was a pounding on the wall:

  “SHUT THAT GOD-DAMNED THING OFF!”

  there was a soldier in the next room

  living with his wife

  and he would soon be going over there to

  protect me from Hitler so

  I snapped the radio off and then heard his

  wife say, “you shouldn’t have done that.”

  and the soldier said, “FUCK THAT GUY!”

  which I thought was a very nice thing for him

  to tell his wife to do.

  of course,

  she never did.

  anyhow, I never went to another live concert

  and that night I listened to the radio very

  quietly, my ear pressed to the

  speaker.

  war has its price and peace never lasts and

  millions of young men everywhere would die

  and as I listened to the classical music I

  heard them making love, desperately and

  mournfully, through Shostakovich, Brahms,

  Mozart, through crescendo and climax,

  and through the shared

  wall of our darkness.

  the tragedy of the leaves

  I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead,

  the potted plants yellow as corn;

  my woman was gone

  and the empty bottles like bled corpses

  surrounded me with their uselessness;

  the sun was still good, though,

  and my landlady’s note cracked in fine and

  undemanding yellowness; what was needed now

  was a good comedian, ancient style, a jester

  with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd

  because it exists, nothing more;

  I shaved carefully with an old razor

  the man who had once been young and

  said to have genius; but

  that’s the tragedy of the leaves,

  the dead ferns, the dead plants;

  and I walked into a dark hall

  where the landlady stood

  execrating and final,

  sending me to hell,

  waving her fat, sweaty arms

  and screaming

  screaming for rent

  because the world had failed us

  both.

  You and Your Beer and How Great You Are

  Jack came through the door and found the pack of cigarettes on the mantel. Ann was on the couch reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. Jack lit up, sat down in a chair. It was 10 minutes to midnight.

  “Charley told you not to smoke,” said Ann, looking up from the magazine.

  “I deserve it. It was a rough one tonight.”

  “Did you win?”

  “Split decision but I got it. Benson was a tough boy, lots of guts. Charley says Parvinelli is next. We get over Parvinelli, we get the champ.”

  Jack got up, went to the kitchen, came back with a bottle of beer.

  “Charley told me to keep you off the beer,” Ann put the magazine down.

  “‘Charley told me, Charley told me’ … I’m tired of that. I won my fight. I won 16 straight, I got a right to a beer and a cigarette.”

  “You’re supposed to stay in shape.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I can whip any of them.”

  “You’re so great, I keep hearing it when you get drunk,
you’re so great. I get sick of it.”

  “I am great. 16 straight, 15 k.o.’s. Who’s better?”

  Ann didn’t answer. Jack took his bottle of beer and his cigarette into the bathroom.

  “You didn’t even kiss me hello. The first thing you did was go to your bottle of beer. You’re so great, all right. You’re a great beer-drinker.”

  Jack didn’t answer. Five minutes later he stood in the bathroom door, his pants and shorts down around his shoes.

  “Jesus Christ, Ann, can’t you even keep a roll of toilet paper in here?”

  “Sorry.”

  She went to the closet and got him the roll. Jack finished his business and walked out. Then he finished his beer and got another one. “Here you are living with the best light-heavy in the world and all you do is complain. Lots of girls would love to have me but all you do is sit around and bitch.”

  “I know you’re good, Jack, maybe the best, but you don’t know how boring it is to sit around and listen to you say over and over again how great you are.”

  “Oh, you’re bored with it, are you?”

  “Yes, goddamn it, you and your beer and how great you are.”

  “Name a better light-heavy. You don’t even come to my fights.”

  “There are other things besides fighting, Jack.”

  “What? Like laying around on your ass and reading Cosmopolitan?”

  “I like to improve my mind.”

  “You ought to. There’s a lot of work to be done there.”

  “I tell you there are other things besides fighting.”

  “What? Name them.”

  “Well, art, music, painting, things like that.”

  “Are you any good at them?”

  “No, but I appreciate them.”

  “Shit, I’d rather be best at what I’m doing.”

  “Good, better, best … God, can’t you appreciate people for what they are?”

  “For what they are? What are most of them? Snails, bloodsuckers, dandies, finks, pimps, servants …”

  “You’re always looking down on everybody. None of your friends are good enough. You’re so damned great!”

  “That’s right, baby.”

  Jack walked into the kitchen and came out with another beer.

  “You and your goddamned beer!”

  “It’s my right. They sell it. I buy it.”

  “Charley said …”

  “Fuck Charley!”

  “You’re so goddamned great!”

  “That’s right. At least Pattie knew it. She admitted it. She was proud of it. She knew it took something. All you do is bitch.”

  “Well, why don’t you go back to Pattie? What are you doing with me?”

  “That’s just what I’m dunking.”

  “Well, we’re not married, I can leave any time.”

  “That’s one break we’ve got. Shit, I come in here dead-ass tired after a tough ten rounder and you’re not even glad I took it. All you do is complain about me.”

  “Listen, Jack, there are other things besides fighting. When I met you, I admired you for what you were.”

  “I was a fighter. There aren’t any other things besides fighting. That’s what I am—a fighter. That’s my life, and I’m good at it. The best. I notice you always go for those second raters … like Toby Jorgenson.”

  “Toby’s very funny. He’s got a sense of humor, a real sense of humor. I like Toby.”

  “His record is 9, 5, and 1. I can take him when I’m dead drunk.”

  “And god knows you’re dead drunk often enough. How do you think I feel at parties when you’re laying on the floor passed out, or lolling around the room telling everybody, ‘I’M GREAT, I’M GREAT, I’M GREAT!’ Don’t you think that makes me feel like an ass?”

  “Maybe you are an ass. If you like Toby so much, why don’t you go with him?”

  “Oh, I just said I liked him, I thought he was funny, that doesn’t mean I want to go to bed with him.”

  “Well, you go to bed with me and you say I’m boring. I don’t know what the hell you want.”

  Ann didn’t answer. Jack got up, walked over to the couch, lifted Ann’s head and kissed her, walked back and sat down again.

  “Listen, let me tell you about this fight with Benson. Even you would have been proud of me. He decks me in the first round, a sneak right. I get up and hold him off the rest of the round. He plants me again in the second. I barely get up at 8. I hold him off again. The next few rounds I spend getting my legs back. I take the 6th, 7th, 8th, deck him once in the 9th and twice in the 10th. I don’t call that a split. They called it a split. Well, it’s 45 grand, you get that, kid? 45 grand. I’m great, you can’t deny I’m great, can you?”

  Ann didn’t answer.

  “Come on, tell me I’m great.”

  “All right, you’re great.”

  “Well, that’s more like it.” Jack walked over and kissed her again. “I feel so good. Boxing is a work of art, it really is. It takes guts to be a great artist and it takes guts to be a great fighter.”

  “All right, Jack.”

  “‘All right, Jack,’ is that all you can say? Pattie used to be happy when I won. We were both happy all night. Can’t you share it when I do something good? Hell, are you in love with me or are you in love with the losers, the half-asses? I think you’d be happier if I came in here a loser.”

  “I want you to win, Jack, it’s only that you put so much emphasis on what you do …”

  “Hell, it’s my living, it’s my life. I’m proud of being best. It’s like flying, it’s like flying off into the sky and whipping the sun.”

  “What are you going to do when you can’t fight anymore?”

  “Hell, we’ll have enough money to do whatever we want.”

  “Except get along, maybe.”

  “Maybe I can learn to read Cosmopolitan, improve my mind.”

  “Well, there’s room for improvement.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “What?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Well, that’s something you haven’t done in a while.”

  “Some guys like to fuck bitching women, I don’t.”

  “I suppose Pattie didn’t bitch?”

  “All women bitch, you’re the champ.”

  “Well, why don’t you go back to Pattie?”

  “You’re here now. I can only house one whore at a time.”

  “Whore?”

  “Whore.”

  Ann got up and went to the closet, got out her suitcase and began putting her clothes in there. Jack went to the kitchen and got another bottle of beer. Ann was crying and angry. Jack sat down with his beer and took a good drain. He needed a whiskey, he needed a bottle of whiskey. And a good cigar.

  “I can come pick up the rest of my stuff when you’re not around.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll have it sent to you.”

  She stopped at the doorway.

  “Well, I guess this is it,” she said.

  “I suppose it is,” Jack answered.

  She closed the door and was gone. Standard procedure. Jack finished the beer and went over to the telephone. He dialed Pattie’s number. She answered.

  “Pattie?”

  “Oh, Jack, how are you?”

  “I won the big one tonight. A split. All I got to do is get over Parvinelli and I got the champ.”

  “You’ll whip both of them, Jack. I know you can do it.”

  “What are you doing tonight, Pattie?”

  “It’s 1:00 a.m. Jack. Have you been drinking?”

  “A few. I’m celebrating.”

  “How about Ann?”

  “We split. I only play one woman at a time, you know that, Pattie.”

  “Jack …”

  “What?”

  “I’m with a guy.”

  “A guy?”

  “Toby Jorgenson. He’s in the bedroom …”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too, Jack, I loved you
… maybe I still do.”

  “Oh, shit, you women really throw that word around …”

  “I’m sorry, Jack.”

  “It’s o.k.” He hung up. Then he went to the closet for his coat. He put it on, finished the beer, went down the elevator to his car. He drove straight up Normandie at 65 m.p.h., pulled into the liquor store on Hollywood Boulevard. He got out and walked in. He got a six-pack of Michelob, a pack of Alka-Seltzers. Then at the counter he asked the clerk for a fifth of Jack Daniels. While the clerk was tabbing them up a drunk walked up with two six-packs of Coors.

  “Hey, man!” he said to Jack, “ain’t you Jack Backenweld, the fighter?”

  “I am,” answered Jack.

  “Man, I saw that fight tonight, Jack, you’re all guts. You’re really great!”

  “Thanks, man,” he told the drunk, and then he took his sack of goods and walked to his car. He sat there, took the cap off the Daniels and had a good slug. Then he backed out, ran west down Hollywood, took a left at Normandie and noticed a well-built teenage girl staggering down the street. He stopped his car, lifted the fifth out of the bag and showed it to her.

  “Want a ride?”

  Jack was surprised when she got in. “I’ll help you drink that, mister, but no fringe benefits.”

  “Hell, no,” said Jack.

  He drove down Normandie at 35 m.p.h., a self-respecting citizen and third ranked light-heavy in the world. For a moment he felt like telling her who she was riding with but he changed his mind and reached over and squeezed one of her knees.

  “You got a cigarette, mister?” she asked.

  He flicked one out with his hand, pushed in the dash fighter. It jumped out and he lit her up.

  —SOUTH OF NO NORTH

  cancer

  I found her room at the top of the

  stairway.

  she was alone.

  “hello, Henry,” she said, then,

  “you know, I hate this room, there’s

  no window.”

  I had a terrible hangover.

  the smell was unbearable,

  I felt as if I was going to

  vomit.

  “they operated on me two days ago,”

  she said. “I felt better the next

  day but now it’s the same, maybe