Run With the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader

by Charles Bukowski

  “Hello, Dr. Jensen.” Gloria spoke without emotion.

  “May I sit down?” the doctor asked.

  “Surely,” said Gloria.

  The doctor was a heavy man. He reeked of weight and responsibility and authority. His eyebrows looked thick and heavy, they were thick and heavy. They wanted to slide down into his wet circular mouth and vanish but life wouldn’t let them.

  The doctor looked at Gloria. The doctor looked at Harry. “Well, well, well,” he said. “I’m really pleased with the progress we’ve made so far....”

  “Yes, Dr. Jensen, I was just telling Harry how much more stable I felt, how much the consultations and the group sessions have helped. I’ve lost so much of my unreasonable anger, my useless frustration and much of my destructive self-pity ....”

  Gloria sat with her hands folded in her lap, smiling.

  The doctor smiled at Harry. “Gloria has made a remarkable recovery!”

  “Yes,” Harry said, “I’ve noticed.”

  “I think it will only be a matter of a little more time and then Gloria will be home with you again, Harry.”

  “Doctor?” Gloria asked. “May I have a cigarette?”

  “Why, of course,” the doctor said pulling out a pack of exotic cigarettes and tapping one out. Gloria took it and the doctor extended his gold-plated lighter, flicked it into life. Gloria inhaled, exhaled....

  “You have beautiful hands, Dr. Jensen,” she said.

  “Why, thank you, my dear.”

  “And a kindness that saves, a kindness that cures....”

  “Well, we do the best we can around the old place …” Dr. Jensen said gently. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have to talk to some of the other patients.”

  He lifted his bulk easily from the chair and made his way toward a table where another woman was visiting another man.

  Gloria stared at Harry. “That fat fuck! He eats the nurses’ shit for lunch....”

  “Gloria, it’s been wonderful seeing you but it was a long drive and I need some rest. And I think the doctor is correct. I’ve noticed some progress.”

  She laughed. But it wasn’t a joyful laugh, it was a stage laugh, like a part memorized. “I haven’t made any progress at all, in fact, I’ve retrograded....”

  “That’s not true, Gloria....”

  “I’m the patient, Fishhead. I can make a better diagnosis than anybody.”

  “What’s this ‘Fishhead’?”

  “Hasn’t anybody ever told you that you have a head like a fish?”

  “No.”

  “Next time you shave, take a look. And be careful not to cut off your gills.”

  “I’m going to leave now … but I’ll visit you again, tomorrow....”

  “Next time bring the conductor.”

  “You sure I can’t bring you anything?”

  “You’re just going back to that motel room to fuck some whore!”

  “Suppose I bring you a copy of New York? You used to like that magazine....”

  “Jam New York up your ass, Fishhead! And follow it with TIME!”

  Harry reached across and squeezed the hand she had hit herself in the nose with. “Keep it together, keep trying. You’re going to be well soon....”

  Gloria gave no sign she had heard him. Harry got up slowly, turned and walked toward the stairway. When he got halfway up the stairs he turned and gave Gloria a little wave. She sat, motionless.

  They were in the dark, going good, when the phone rang.

  Harry kept going but the phone kept going. It was very disturbing. Soon, his cock went soft.

  “Shit,” he said and rolled off. He switched on the lamp and picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  It was Gloria. “You’re fucking some whore!”

  “Gloria, do they let you phone out this late? Don’t they give you a sleeping pill or something?”

  “What took you so long to answer the phone?”

  “Don’t you ever take a crap? I was in the middle of a good one, you get me in the middle of a good one.”

  “I’ll bet I did.... You going to finish it after you get me off the phone?”

  “Gloria, it’s your god-damned extreme paranoia that has put you where you are.”

  “Fishhead, my paranoia has often been the forerunner of an approaching truth.”

  “Listen, you’re not making any sense at all. Get yourself some sleep. I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

  “O.K., Fishhead, finish your FUCK!”

  Gloria hung up.

  Nan was in her dressing gown, sitting on the edge of the bed with a whiskey and water on the night table. She lit a cigarette and crossed her legs.

  “Well,” she asked, “how’s the little wifey?”

  Harry poured a drink and sat down beside her.

  “I’m sorry, Nan....”

  “Sorry for what, for who? For her or me or what?”

  Harry drained his shot of whiskey. “Let’s not make a god-damned soap opera out of this thing.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, what do you want to make out of it? A simple roll in the hay? You want to try to finish? Or would you rather go into the bathroom and beat it off?”

  Harry looked at Nan. “God damn it, don’t get smart. You knew the situation as well as I did. You were the one who wanted to come along!”

  “That’s because I knew if you didn’t take me you’d bring some whore!”

  “Oh shit,” said Harry, “there’s that word again.”

  “What word? What word?” Nan drained her glass, threw it against the wall.

  Harry walked over, picked up her glass, refilled it, handed it to Nan, then filled his own.

  Nan looked down into her glass, took a hit, put it down on the nightstand. “I’m going to phone her, I’m going to tell her everything!”

  “Like hell you will! That’s a sick woman.”

  “And you’re a sick son-of-a-bitch!”

  Just then the phone rang again. It was sitting on the floor in the center of the room where Harry had left it. They both leaped from the bed toward the phone. On the second ring they both landed, each grabbing a piece of the receiver. They rolled over and over on the rug, breathing heavily, all legs and arms and bodies in a desperate juxtaposition, and reflected that way in the full-length mirror overhead.

  —SEPTUAGENARIAN STEW

  putrefaction

  of late

  I’ve had this thought

  that this country

  has gone backwards

  4 or 5 decades

  and that all the

  social advancement

  the good feeling of

  person toward

  person

  has been washed

  away

  and replaced by the same

  old

  bigotries.

  we have

  more than ever

  the selfish wants of power

  the disregard for the

  weak

  the old

  the impoverished

  the

  helpless.

  we are replacing want with

  war

  salvation with

  slavery.

  we have wasted the

  gains

  we have become

  rapidly

  less.

  we have our Bomb

  it is our fear

  our damnation

  and our

  shame.

  now

  something so sad

  has hold of us

  that

  the breath

  leaves

  and we can’t even

  cry.

  face of a political candidate on a street billboard

  there he is:

  not too many hangovers

  not too many fights with women

  not too many flat tires

  never a thought of suicide

  not more than three toothaches

  never missed
a meal

  never in jail

  never in love

  7 pairs of shoes

  a son in college

  a car one year old

  insurance policies

  a very green lawn

  garbage cans with tight lids

  he’ll be elected.

  peace

  near the corner table in the

  cafe

  a middle-aged couple

  sit.

  they have finished their

  meal

  and they are each drinking a

  beer.

  it is 9 in the evening.

  she is smoking a

  cigarette.

  then he says something.

  she nods.

  then she speaks.

  he grins, moves his

  hand.

  then they are

  quiet.

  through the blinds next to

  their table

  flashing red neon

  blinks on and

  off.

  there is no war.

  there is no hell.

  then he raises his beer

  bottle.

  it is green.

  he lifts it to his lips,

  tilts it.

  it is a coronet.

  her right elbow is

  on the table

  and in her hand

  she holds the

  cigarette

  between her thumb and

  forefinger

  and

  as she watches

  him

  the streets outside

  flower

  in the

  night.

  Fooling Marie

  It was a warm night at the quarterhorse races. Ted had arrived carrying $200 and now going into the third race he was carrying $530. He knew his horses. Maybe he wasn’t much good at anything else but he knew his horses. Ted stood watching the toteboard and looking at the people. They lacked any ability to rate a horse. But they still brought their money and their dreams to the track. The track ran a $2 exacta almost every race to lure them in. That and the Pick-6. Ted never touched the Pick-6 or the exactas or the doubles. Just straight win on the best horse, which wasn’t necessarily the favorite.

  Marie bitched so much about his going to the track that he only went two or three times a week. He had sold his company and retired early from the construction business. There really wasn’t much else for him to do.

  The four horse looked good at six-to-one but there was still 18 minutes to post. He felt a tug at his coat sleeve.

  “Pardon me, sir, but I’ve lost the first two races. I saw you cashing in your tickets. You look like a guy who knows what he’s doing. Who do you like in this next race?”

  She was a strawberry blonde, about 24, slender hips, surprisingly big breasts; long legs, a cute turned-up nose, flower mouth; dressed in a pale blue dress, wearing white high-heeled shoes. Her blue eyes looked up at him.

  “Well,” Ted smiled at her, “I’ve usually got the winner.”

  “I’m used to betting on thoroughbreds,” said the strawberry blonde. “These quarterhorse races are so fast!”

  “Yeah. Most of them are run in under 18 seconds. You find out pretty quick whether you’re right or wrong.”

  “If my mother knew I was out here losing my money she’d belt-whip me.”

  “I’d like to belt-whip you myself,” said Ted.

  “You’re not one of those, are you?” she asked.

  “Just joking,” said Ted. “Come on, let’s go to the bar. Maybe we can pick you a winner.”

  “All right, Mr.—?”

  “Just call me Ted. What’s your name?”

  “Victoria.”

  They walked into the bar. “What’ll you have?” Ted asked.

  “Whatever you’re having,” said Victoria.

  Ted ordered two Jack Danielses. He stood and knocked his off and she sipped at hers, looking straight ahead. Ted checked her ass: perfect. She was better than some god damned movie starlet, and she didn’t look spoiled.

  “Now,” said Ted, pointing to his program, “in the next race the four horse figures best and they are giving six-to-one odds …”

  Victoria let out a very sexy, “Oooh … ?” She leaned over to look at his program, touching him with her arm. Then he felt her leg press against his.

  “People just don’t know how to rate a horse,” he told her. “Show me a man who can rate a horse and I’ll show you a man who can win all the money he can carry.”

  She smiled at him. “I wish I had going what you’ve got going.”

  “You’ve got plenty going, baby. Want another drink?”

  “Oh no, thank you …”

  “Well, listen,” said Ted, “we better bet.”

  “All right, I’ll bet $2 to win. Which is it, the number four horse?”

  “Yeah, baby, it’s the four …”

  They placed their bets and went out to watch the race. The four didn’t break well, got bumped on both sides, righted himself, was running fifth in a nine horse field, but then began to accelerate and came down to the wire bobbing heads with the two-to-one favorite. Photo.

  God damn, thought Ted, I’ve got to have this one. Please give me this one!

  “Oh,” said Victoria, “I’m so excited!”

  The toteboard flashed the number. Four.

  Victoria screamed and jumped up and down gleefully. “We won, we won, we WON!”

  She grabbed Ted and he felt the kiss on his cheek.

  “Take it easy, baby, the best horse won, that’s all.”

  They waited for the official sign and then the tote flashed the payoff. $14.60.

  “How much did you bet?” Victoria asked.

  “$40 win,” said Ted.

  “How much do you get back?”

  “$292. Let’s collect.”

  They began walking toward the windows. Then Ted felt Victoria’s hand in his. She pulled him to a stop.

  “Bend over,” she said, “I want to whisper something in your ear.”

  Ted leaned over, felt her cool pink lips up against his ear. “You’re a … magic man … I want to … fuck you …”

  Ted stood there grinning weakly at her. “My god,” he said.

  “What’s the matter? Are you afraid?”

  “No, no, it’s not that…”

  “What is the matter then?”

  “It’s Marie … my wife … I’m married … and she has me timed down to the minute. She knows when the races are over and when I’m due in.”

  Victoria laughed: “We’ll leave now! We’ll go to a motel!”

  “Well, sure,” said Ted …

  They cashed their tickets and walked out to the parking lot. “We’ll take my car. I’ll drive you back when we’re finished,” Victoria said.

  They found her car, a blue 1982 Fiat, it matched her dress. The license plate read: VICKY. As she put her key in the door, Victoria hesitated. “You’re really not one of those kind, are you?”

  “What land?” Ted asked.

  “A belt-whipper, one of those. My mother had a terrible experience once…”

  “Relax,” said Ted. “I’m harmless.”

  They found a motel about a mile and a half from the track. The Blue Moon. Only The Blue Moon was painted green. Victoria parked and they got out, went in, signed in, were given Room 302. They had stopped for a bottle of Cutty Sark on the way.

  Ted peeled the cellophane from the glasses, lit a cigarette, and poured a couple as Victoria undressed. The panties and the bra were pink, and the body was pink and white and beautiful. It was amazing how now and then a woman was created who looked like that, when all the others, most of the others, had nothing, or next to nothing. It was maddening. Victoria was a beautiful, maddening dream.

  Victoria was naked. She came over and sat on the edge of the bed next to Ted. She crossed her legs. Her breasts were very firm and she looked as if she was already aroused. He really coul
dn’t believe his luck. Then she giggled.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Are you thinking about your wife?”

  “Well, no, I was thinking about something else.”

  “Well, you should think about your wife …”

  “Hell,” said Ted, “you were the one who suggested fucking!”

  “I wish you wouldn’t use that word …”

  “Are you backing out?”

  “Well, no. Listen, you got a cigarette?”

  “Sure…”

  Ted pulled one out, handed it to her, lighted it as she held it in her mouth.

  “You’ve got the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen,” said Ted.

  “I don’t doubt that,” she said, smiling.

  “Hey, are you backing out of this thing?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” she answered, “get your clothes off.”

  Ted began undressing, feeling fat and old and ugly, but he also felt lucky—it had been his best day at the track, in many ways. He draped his clothes over a chair and sat down next to Victoria.

  Ted poured a new drink for each of them.

  “You know,” he told her, “you’re a class act but I’m a class act too. We each have our own way of showing it. I made it big in the construction business and I’m still making it big with the horses. Not everybody has that instinct.”

  Victoria drank half of her Cutty Sark and smiled at him. “Oh, you’re my big fat Buddha!”

  Ted drained his drink. “Listen, if you don’t want to do it, we won’t do it. Forget it.”

  “Lemme see what Buddha’s got…”

  Victoria reached down and slid her hand between his legs. She got it, she held it.

  “Oh oh … I feel something…” Victoria said.

  “Sure … So what?”

  Then her head ducked down. She kissed it at first. Then he felt her open mouth and her tongue.

  “You cunt!” he said.

  Victoria lifted her head up and looked at him. “Please, I don’t like dirty talk.”

  “All right, Vicky, all right. No dirty talk.”

  “Get under the sheets, Buddha!”

  Ted got under there and he felt her body next to his. Her skin was cool and her mouth opened and he kissed her and pushed his tongue in. He liked it like that, fresh, spring fresh, young, new, good. What a god damned delight. He’d rip her! He played with her down there, she was a long time coming around. Then he felt her open up and he forced his finger in. He had her, the bitch. He pulled his finger out and rubbed the clit. You want foreplay, you’ll get foreplay! he thought.