Run With the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader

by Charles Bukowski

  “Right now we are living mostly on eggs. We have chickens, they lay many eggs …”

  “Christ, Jon, is it that bad?”

  “No, not really. We figure we are here for a long stand. We need most of our money for wine and cigars. How’s the screenplay coming?”

  “I’m happy to say that there are quite a few pages. Only sometimes I don’t know about CAMERA, ZOOM IN, PAN IN … all that crap …”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of that.”

  “Where’s François?” asked Sarah.

  “Ah, he’s in the other room … come …”

  We went in and there was François spinning his little roulette wheel. When he drank his nose became very red, like a cartoon drunk. Also, the more he drank the more depressed he became. He was sucking on a wet half-finished cigar. He managed a few sad puffs. There was an almost empty bottle of wine nearby.

  “Shit,” he said, “I am now sixty thousand dollars in the hole and I am drinking this cheap wine of Jon’s which he claims is good stuff but it is pure crap. He pays a dollar and thirty-five cents a bottle. My stomach is like a balloon full of piss! I am sixty thousand dollars in the hole and I have no visible means of employment I must … kill … myself …”

  “Come on, François,” said Jon, “let’s show our friends the chickens …”

  “The chickens! HEGGS! All the time we eat HEGGS! Nothing but HEGGS! Poop, poop, poop! The chickens poop HEGGS! All day, all night long my job is to save the chickens from the young black boys! All the time the young black boys climb the fence and run at the chicken coop! I hit them with a long stick, I say, ‘You muthafuckas you stay away from my chickens which poop the HEGGS!’ I cannot think, I cannot think of my own life or my own death, I am always chasing these young black boys with the long stick! Jon, I need more wine, another cigar!”

  He gave the wheel another spin.

  It was more bad news. The system was failing.

  “You see, in France they only have one zero for the house! Here in America they have a zero and a double zero for the house! THEY TAKE BOTH YOUR BALLS! WHY? Come on, I’ll show you the chickens....”

  We walked into the yard and there were the chickens and the chicken coop. François had built it himself. He was good that way. He had a real talent for that. Only he hadn’t used chicken wire. There were bars. And locks on each door.

  “I give roll call each night. ‘Cecile, you there?’ ‘Cluck, cluck,’ she answers. ‘Bernadette, you there?’ ‘Cluck, cluck,’ she answers. And so on. ‘Nicole?’ I asked one night. She did not cluck. Can you believe it, through all the bars and all the locks they got Nicole! They have taken her out already! Nicole is gone, gone forever! Jon, Jon, I need more wine!”

  We went back in and sat down and the new wine poured. Jon gave François a new cigar.

  “If I can have my cigar when I want it,” said François, “I can live.”

  We drank a while, then Sarah asked, “Listen, Jon is your landlord black?”

  “Oh, yes …”

  “Didn’t he ask why you were renting here?”

  “Yes …”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him that we were filmmakers and actors from France.”

  “And he said?”

  “He said, ‘oh.’”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, he said, ‘well it’s your ass!’”

  We drank for some time making small talk.

  Now and then I got up and went to the window to see if the car was still there.

  As we drank on I began to feel guilty about the whole thing.

  “Listen, Jon, let me give you the screenplay money back. I’ve driven you to the wall. This is terrible....”

  “No, I want you to do this screenplay. It will become a movie, I promise you …”

  “All right, god damn it …”

  We drank a bit more.

  Then Jon said, “Look …”

  Through a hole in the wall where we were sitting could be seen a hand, a black hand. It was wriggling through the broken plaster, fingers gripping, moving. It was like a small dark animal.

  “GO AWAY,” yelled François. “GO AWAY MURDERER OF NICOLE! YOU HAVE LEFT A HOLE IN MY HEART FOREVER! GO AWAY!”

  The hand did not go away.

  François walked over to the wall and the hand.

  “I tell you now, go away. I only wish to smoke my cigar and drink my wine in peace. You disturb my sight! I cannot feel right with you grabbing and looking at me through your poor black fingers!”

  The hand did not go away.

  “ALL RIGHT THEN!”

  The stick was right there. With one demonic move François picked up the long stick and began whacking it against the wall, again and again and again …

  “CHICKEN KILLER, YOU HAVE WOUNDED MY HEART FOREVER!”

  The sound was deafening. Then François stopped.

  The hand was gone.

  François sat back down.

  “Shit, Jon, my cigar is out! Why don’t you buy better cigars, Jon?”

  “Listen, Jon,” I said, “we’ve got to be going now …”

  “Oh, come now … please … the night is just beginning! You’ve seen nothing yet …”

  “We’ve got to be going … I have more work to do on the screen-play …”

  “Oh … in that case …”

  Back at the house I went upstairs and did work on the screenplay but strangely or maybe not so strangely my past life hardly seemed as strange or wild or as mad as what was occurring now.

  —HOLLYWOOD

  car wash

  got out, fellow said, “hey!” walked toward

  me, we shook hands, he slipped me 2 red

  tickets for free car washes, “find you later,”

  I told him, walked on through to waiting

  area with wife, we sat on outside bench.

  black fellow with a limp came up, said,

  “hey, man, how’s it going?”

  I answered, “fine, bro, you makin’ it?”

  “no problem,” he said, then walked off to

  dry down a Caddy.

  “these people know you?” my wife asked.

  “no.”

  “how come they talk to you?”

  “they like me, people have always liked me,

  it’s my cross.”

  then our car was finished, fellow flipped

  his rag at me, we got up, got to the

  car, I slipped him a buck, we got in, I

  started the engine, the foreman walked

  up, big guy with dark shades, huge guy,

  he smiled a big one, “good to see you,

  man!”

  I smiled back, “thanks, but it’s your party,

  man!”

  I pulled out into traffic, “they know you,”

  said my wife.

  “sure,” I said, “I’ve been there.”

  confession

  waiting for death

  like a cat

  that will jump on the

  bed

  I am so very sorry for

  my wife

  she will see this

  stiff

  white

  body

  shake it once, then

  maybe

  again:

  “Hank!”

  Hank won’t

  answer.

  it’s not my death that

  worries me, it’s my wife

  left with this

  pile of

  nothing.

  I want to

  let her know

  though

  that all the nights

  sleeping

  beside her

  even the useless

  arguments

  were things

  ever splendid

  and the hard

  words

  I ever feared to

  say

  can now be

  said:

  I lo
ve

  you.

  We were a little late for the party but there still weren’t very many people there. Victor Norman was seated a few tables away from ours. After Sarah and I were seated the waiter came with our wine. White wine. Well, it was free.

  I drained my glass and nodded the waiter over for a refill.

  I noticed Victor peering at me.

  People were gradually arriving. I saw the famous actor with the perpetual tan. I’d heard that he went to almost every Hollywood party, everywhere.

  Then Sarah gave me the elbow. It was Jim Serry, the old drug guru of the 60s. He too went to many of the parties. He looked tired, sad, drained. I felt sorry for him. He went from table to table. Then he was at ours. Sarah gave a delighted laugh. She was a child of the 60s. I shook hands with him.

  “Hi, baby,” I said.

  Quickly it began to get crowded. I didn’t know most of the people. I kept waving the waiter in for more wine. He then brought a full bottle, plopped it down.

  “When you finish that, I’ll bring another.”

  “Thank you, buster …”

  Sarah had wrapped a little present for Harry Friedman. I had it in my lap.

  Jon arrived and sat at our table.

  “I’m glad you and Sarah could make it,” he said. “Look, it’s filling up, this place is full of gangsters and killers, the worst!”

  Jon loved it. He had some imagination. It helped get him through the days and the nights.

  Then a very important looking man walked in. I heard some applause.

  I leaped up with the birthday gift. I moved toward him.

  “Mr. Friedman, happy …”

  Jon rushed up and grabbed me from behind. He pulled me back to the table.

  “No! No! That isn’t Friedman! That’s Fischman!”

  “Oh …”

  I sat back down.

  I noticed Victor Norman staring at me. I figured he would let up in a while. When I looked again, Victor was still staring. He was looking at me as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “All right, Victor,” I said loudly, “so I shit my pants! Want to make a World War out of it?”

  He glanced away.

  I got up and looked for the men’s room.

  Coming out I got lost and went into the kitchen. There was a busboy there smoking a cigarette. I reached into my wallet and got a ten. I gave him the ten. I put it in his shirt pocket.

  “I can’t take this, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t.”

  “Everybody else gets tipped. Why not the busboy? I always wanted to be a busboy.”

  I walked off, found the main room again and the table.

  When I sat down Sarah leaned over and whispered, “Victor Norman came over while you were gone. He says that it’s very nice of you that you haven’t said anything about his writing.”

  “I’ve been good, haven’t I, Sarah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Haven’t I been a good boy?”

  “Yes.”

  I looked over at Victor Norman, got his attention. I gave a little nod, winked.

  Just then the real Harry Friedman walked in. Some rose to their feet and applauded. Others looked bored.

  Friedman sat down at his table and the food was served. Pasta. The pasta came around Harry Friedman got his and went right in. He looked like an eater. He was wide, yes. He was in an old suit, his shoes were scuffed. He had a large head, big cheeks. He shoved that pasta into those cheeks. He had large round eyes and the eyes were sad and full of suspicion. Alas, to live in the world! There was a button missing from his wrinkled white shirt, near his belly, and the belly pushed out. He looked like a big baby who had somehow gotten loose, grown real fast, and almost turned into a man. There was charm there but it could be dangerous to believe in it—it would be used against you. No necktie. Happy birthday, Harry Friedman!

  A young lady came in dressed as a cop. She walked right up to Friedman’s table.

  “YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!” she screamed.

  Harry Friedman stopped eating and smiled. His lips were wet from the pasta.

  Then the lady cop took off her coat and then her blouse. She had huge breasts. She shook her breasts under Harry Friedman’s nose.

  “YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!” she screamed.

  Everybody applauded. I don’t know why they applauded.

  Then Friedman motioned the lady cop to bend over. She bent close and he whispered something into her ear. Nobody knew what it was.

  You take me to your place. We’ll see what happens?

  You forgot your club. I’ll take care of that?

  You come see me. I’ll get you in the movies?

  The lady cop put her blouse back on, her coat back on, and then she was gone.

  People came up to Friedman’s table and said little things to him. He looked at them as if he didn’t know who they were. Soon he was finished eating and was drinking wine. He did well with the wine. I liked that.

  He really went for the wine. After a while he went around from table to table, bending over, talking to people.

  “Christ,” I said to Sarah, “look at that!”

  “What?”

  “He’s got a little piece of pasta hanging out of one side of his mouth and nobody is telling him about it. It’s just hanging there!”

  “I see it! I see it!” said Jon.

  Harry Friedman kept walking from table to table, bending over, talking. Nobody told him.

  Finally, he got closer. He was a table or so away from ours when I stood up and walked over to him.

  “Mr. Friedman,” I said.

  He looked at me from that big monster baby face.

  “Yes?”

  “Hold still!”

  I reached out, got hold of the end of the pasta and yanked. It came away.

  “You been walkin’ around with that danglin’. I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  I went back to our table.

  “Well, well,” asked Jon, “what do you think of him?”

  “I think he’s delightful.”

  “I told you. I haven’t met anybody like him since Lido Mamin.”

  “Anyhow,” said Sarah, “it was nice of you to clean that pasta off his face since nobody else had the nerve to. It was very nice of you.”

  “Thank you, I am a very nice guy, really.”

  “Oh yes? What else have you done that is nice lately?”

  Our wine bottle was empty. I got the attention of the waiter. He scowled at me and moved forward with another bottle.

  And I couldn’t think of anything nice that I had done. Lately.

  —HOLLYWOOD

  fan letter

  I been readin’ you for a long time now,

  I just put Billy Boy to bed,

  he got 7 mean ticks from somewhere,

  I got 2,

  my husband, Benny, he got 3.

  some of us love bugs, others hate

  them.

  Benny writes poems.

  he was in the same magazine as you

  once.

  Benny is the world’s greatest writer

  but he got this temper.

  he gave a readin’ once and somebody

  laughed at one of his serious poems

  and Benny took his thing out right

  there

  and pissed on stage.

  he says you write good but that you

  couldn’t carry his balls in a paper

  bag.

  anyhow, I made a BIG POT OF MARMALADE

  tonight,

  we all just LOVE marmalade here.

  Benny lost his job yesterday, he told his

  boss to stick it up his ass

  but I still got my job down at the

  manicure shop.

  you know fags come in to get their nails

  done?

  you aren’t a fag, are you, Mr.

  Chinaski?

  anyhow, I
just felt like writing you.

  your books are read and read around

  here.

  Benny says you’re an old fart, you

  write pretty good but that you

  couldn’t carry his balls in a

  paper sack.

  do you like bugs, Mr. Chinaski?

  I think the marmalade is cool enough to

  eat now.

  so goodbye.

  Dora

  be kind

  we are always asked

  to understand the other person’s

  viewpoint

  no matter how

  out-dated

  foolish or

  obnoxious.

  one is asked

  to view

  their total error

  their life-waste

  with

  kindliness,

  especially if they are

  aged.

  but age is the total of

  our doing.

  they have aged

  badly

  because they have

  lived

  out of focus,

  they have refused to

  see.

  not their fault?

  whose fault?

  mine?

  I am asked to hide

  my viewpoint

  from them

  for fear of their

  fear.

  age is no crime

  but the shame

  of a deliberately

  wasted

  life

  among so many

  deliberately

  wasted

  lives

  is.

  I was there at 8:50 a.m. I parked and waited for Jon. He rolled up at 8:55 a.m. I got out and walked over to Jon’s car.

  “Good morning, Jon …”

  “Hello, Hank … How are you?”

  “Fine. Listen, what happened to the hunger strike?”

  “Oh, I am still on that. But more important is the cutting off of the parts.”

  Jon had the Black and Decker with him. It was wrapped in a dark green towel. We walked into the Firepower building together. The elevator took us up to the lawyer’s office. Neeli Zutnick. The receptionist was expecting our arrival. “Please go right in,” she said.

  Neeli Zutnick was waiting. He rose from behind his desk and shook hands with us. Then he returned, sat down behind his desk. “Would you gentleman care for some coffee?” he asked.