South of No North

by Charles Bukowski

  Charles Bukowski

  SOUTH OF NO NORTH

  Stories of the Buried Life

  for Ann Menebroker

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Loneliness

  Bop Bop Against That Curtain

  You and Your Beer and How Great You Are

  No Way to Paradise

  Politics

  Love for $17.50

  A Couple of Winos

  Maja Thurup

  The Killers

  A Man

  Class

  Stop Staring at My Tits, Mister

  Something About a Viet Cong Flag

  You Can’t Write a Love Story

  Remember Pearl Harbor?

  Pittsburgh Phil & Co.

  Dr. Nazi

  Christ on Rollerskates

  A Shipping Clerk With a Red Nose

  The Devil Was Hot

  Guts

  Hit Man

  This is What Killed Dylan Thomas

  No Neck and Bad As Hell

  The Way the Dead Love

  All the Assholes in the World and Mine

  Confessions of a Man Insane Enough to Live With Beasts

  About the Author

  Other Books by Charles Bukowski

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  LONELINESS

  Edna was walking down the street with her bag of groceries when she passed the automobile. There was a sign in the side window:

  WOMAN WANTED.

  She stopped. There was a large piece of cardboard in the window with some material pasted on it. Most of it was typewritten. Edna couldn’t read it from where she stood on the sidewalk. She could only see the large letters:

  WOMAN WANTED.

  It was an expensive new car. Edna stepped forward on the grass to read the typewritten portion:

  Man age 49. Divorced. Wants to meet woman for marriage. Should be 35 to 44. Like television and motion pictures. Good food. I am a cost accountant, reliably employed. Money in bank. I like women to be on the fat side.

  Edna was 37 and on the fat side. There was a phone number. There were also three photos of the gentleman in search of a woman. He looked quite staid in a suit and necktie. Also he looked dull and a little cruel. And made of wood, thought Edna, made of wood.

  Edna walked off, smiling a bit. She also had a feeling of repulsion. By the time she reached her apartment she had forgotten about him. It was some hours later, sitting in the bathtub, that she thought about him again and this time she thought how truly lonely he must be to do such a thing:

  WOMAN WANTED.

  She thought of him coming home, finding the gas and phone bills in the mailbox, undressing, taking a bath, the T.V. on. Then the evening paper. Then into the kitchen to cook. Standing there in his shorts, staring down at the frying pan. Taking his food and walking to a table, eating it. Drinking his coffee. Then more T.V. And maybe a lonely can of beer before bed. There were millions of men like that all over America.

  Edna got out of the tub, toweled, dressed and left her apartment. The car was still there. She took down the man’s name, Joe Lighthill, and the phone number. She read the typewritten section again. “Motion pictures.” What an odd term to use. People said “movies” now. Woman Wanted. The sign was very bold. He was original there.

  When Edna got home she had three cups of coffee before dialing the number. The phone rang four times. “Hello?” he answered.

  “Mr. Lighthill?”

  “Yes?”

  “I saw your ad. Your ad on the car.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “My name’s Edna.”

  “How you doing, Edna?”

  “Oh, I’m all right. It’s been so hot. This weather’s too much.”

  “Yes, it makes it difficult to live.”

  “Well, Mr. Lighthill…”

  “Just call me Joe.”

  “Well, Joe, hahaha, I feel like a fool. You know what I’m calling about?”

  “You saw my sign?”

  “I mean, hahaha, what’s wrong with you? Can’t you get a woman?”

  “I guess not, Edna. Tell me, where are they?”

  “Women?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, everywhere, you know.”

  “Where? Tell me. Where?”

  “Well, church, you know. There are women in church.”

  “I don’t like church.”

  “Oh.”

  “Listen, why don’t you come over, Edna?”

  “You mean over there?”

  “Yes. I have a nice place. We can have a drink, talk. No pressure.”

  “It’s late.”

  “It’s not that late. Listen you saw my sign. You must be interested.”

  “Well…”

  “You’re scared, that’s all. You’re just scared.”

  “No, I’m not scared.”

  “Then come on over, Edna.”

  “Well…”

  “Come on.”

  “All right. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

  It was on the top floor of a modern apartment complex. Apt. 17. The swimming pool below threw back the lights. Edna knocked. The door opened and there was Mr. Lighthill. Balding in front; hawknosed with the nostril hairs sticking out; the shirt open at the neck.

  “Come on in, Edna…”

  She walked in and the door closed behind her. She had on her blue knit dress. She was stockingless, in sandals, and smoking a cigarette.

  “Sit down. I’ll get you a drink.”

  It was a nice place. Everything in blue and green and very clean. She heard Mr. Lighthill humming as he mixed the drinks, hmmmmmmm, hmmmmmmmm, hmmmmmmmmm…He seemed relaxed and it helped her.

  Mr. Lighthill—Joe—came out with the drinks. He handed Edna hers and then sat in a chair across the room from her.

  “Yes,” he said, “it’s been hot, hot as hell. I’ve got air-conditioning, though.”

  “I noticed. It’s very nice.”

  “Drink your drink.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Edna had a sip. It was a good drink, a bit strong but it tasted nice. She watched Joe tilt his head as he drank. He appeared to have heavy wrinkles around his neck. And his pants were much too loose. They appeared sizes too large. It gave his legs a funny look.

  “That’s a nice dress, Edna.”

  “You like it?”

  “Oh yes. You’re plump too. It fits you snug, real snug.”

  Edna didn’t say anything. Neither did Joe. They just sat looking at each other and sipping their drinks.

  Why doesn’t he talk? thought Edna. It’s up to him to talk. There is something wooden about him. She finished her drink.

  “Let me get you another,” said Joe.

  “No, I really should be going.”

  “Oh, come on,” he said, “let me get you another drink. We need something to loosen us up.”

  “All right, but after this one, I’m going.”

  Joe went into the kitchen with the glasses. He wasn’t humming anymore. He came out, handed Edna her drink and sat back down in his chair across the room from her. This drink was stronger.

  “You know,” he said, “I do well on the sex quizzes.”

  Edna sipped at her drink and didn’t answer.

  “How do you do on the sex quizzes?” Joe asked.

  “I’ve never taken any.”

  “You should, you know, so you’ll find out who you are and what you are.”

  “Do you think those things are valid? I’ve seen them in the newspaper. I haven’t taken them but I’ve seen them,” said Edna.

  “Of course they’re valid.”

  “Maybe I’m no good at sex,” said Edna, “maybe that’s why I’m alone.” She took a lon
g drink from her glass.

  “Each of us is, finally, alone,” said Joe.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, no matter how well it’s going sexually or love-wise or both, the day arrives when it’s over.”

  “That’s sad,” said Edna.

  “Of course. So the day arrives when it’s over. Either there is a split or the whole thing resolves into a truce: two people living together without feeling anything. I believe that being alone is better.”

  “Did you divorce your wife, Joe?”

  “No, she divorced me.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Sexual orgies.”

  “Sexual orgies?”

  “You know, a sexual orgy is the loneliest place in the world. Those orgies—I felt a sense of desperation—those cocks sliding in and out—excuse me…”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Those cocks sliding in and out, legs locked, fingers working, mouths, everybody clutching and sweating and determined to do it—somehow.”

  “I don’t know much about those things, Joe,” Edna said.

  “I believe that without love, sex is nothing. Things can only be meaningful when some feeling exists between the participants.”

  “You mean people have to like each other?”

  “It helps.”

  “Suppose they get tired of each other? Suppose they have to stay together? Economics? Children? All that?”

  “Orgies won’t do it.”

  “What does it?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Maybe the swap.”

  “The swap?”

  “You know, when two couples know each other quite well and switch partners. Feelings, at least, have a chance. For example, say I’ve always liked Mike’s wife. I’ve liked her for months. I’ve watched her walk across the room. I like her movements. Her movements have made me curious. I wonder, you know, what goes with those movements. I’ve seen her angry, I’ve seen her drunk, I’ve seen her sober. And then, the swap. You’re in the bedroom with her, at last you’re knowing her. There’s a chance for something real. Of course, Mike has your wife in the other room. Good luck, Mike, you think, and I hope you’re as good a lover as I am.”

  “And it works all right?”

  “Well, I dunno…Swaps can cause difficulties…afterwards. It all has to be talked out…very well talked out ahead of time. And then maybe people don’t know enough, no matter how much they talk…”

  “Do you know enough, Joe?”

  “Well, these swaps…I think it might be good for some…maybe good for many. I guess it wouldn’t work for me. I’m too much of a prude.”

  Joe finished his drink. Edna set the remainder of hers down and stood up.

  “Listen Joe, I have to be going…”

  Joe walked across the room toward her. He looked like an elephant in those pants. She saw his big ears. Then he grabbed her and was kissing her. His bad breath came through all the drinks. He had a very sour smell. Part of his mouth was not making contact. He was strong but his strength was not pure, it begged. She pulled her head away and still he held her.

  WOMAN WANTED.

  “Joe, let me go! You’re moving too fast, Joe! Let go!”

  “Why did you come here, bitch?”

  He tried to kiss her again and succeeded. It was horrible. Edna brought her knee up. She got him good. He grabbed and fell to the rug.

  “God, god…why’d you have to do that? You tried to kill me…”

  He rolled on the floor.

  His behind, she thought, he had such an ugly behind.

  She left him rolling on the rug and ran down the stairway. The air was clean outside. She heard people talking, she heard their T.V. sets. It wasn’t a long walk to her apartment. She felt the need of another bath, got out of her blue knit dress and scrubbed herself. Then she got out of the tub, toweled herself dry and set her hair in pink curlers. She decided not to see him again.

  BOP BOP AGAINST THAT CURTAIN

  We talked about women, peeked up their legs as they got out of cars, and we looked into windows at night hoping to see somebody fucking but we never saw anybody. One time we did watch a couple in bed and the guy was mauling his woman and we thought now we’re going to see it, but she said, “No, I don’t want to do it tonight!” Then she turned her back on him. He lit a cigarette and we went in search of a new window.

  “Son of a bitch, no woman of mine would turn away from me!”

  “Me neither. What kind of a man was that?”

  There were three of us, me, Baldy, and Jimmy. Our big day was Sunday. On Sunday we met at Baldy’s house and took the streetcar down to Main Street. Carfare was seven cents.

  There were two burlesque houses in those days, the Follies and the Burbank. We were in love with the strippers at the Burbank and the jokes were a little better so we went to the Burbank. We had tried the dirty movie house but the pictures weren’t really dirty and the plots were all the same. A couple of guys would get some little innocent girl drunk and before she got over her hangover she’d find herself in a house of prostitution with a line of sailors and hunchbacks beating on her door. Besides in those places the bums slept night and day, pissed on the floor, drank wine, and rolled each other. The stink of piss and wine and murder was unbearable. We went to the Burbank.

  “You boys going to a burlesque today?” Baldy’s grampa would ask.

  “Hell no, sir, we’ve got things to do.”

  We went. We went each Sunday. We went early in the morning, long before the show and we walked up and down Main Street looking into the empty bars where the B-girls sat in the doorways with their skirts up, kicking their ankles in the sunlight that drifted into the dark bar. The girls looked good. But we knew. We had heard. A guy went in for a drink and they charged his ass off, both for his drink and the girl’s. But the girl’s drink would be watered. You’d get a feel or two and that was it. If you showed any money the barkeep would see it and along would come the mickey and you were out over the bar and your money was gone. We knew.

  After our walk along Main Street we’d go into the hotdog place and get our eight cent hotdog and our big nickel mug of rootbeer. We were lifting weights and our muscles bulged and we wore our sleeves rolled high and we each had a pack of cigarettes in our breast pocket. We even had tried a Charles Atlas course, Dynamic Tension, but lifting weights seemed the more rugged and obvious way.

  While we ate our hotdog and drank our huge mug of rootbeer we played the pinball machine, a penny a game. We got to know that pinball machine very well. When you made a perfect score you got a free game. We had to make perfect scores, we didn’t have that kind of money.

  Franky Roosevelt was in, things were getting better but it was still the depression and none of our fathers were working. Where we got our small amount of pocket money was a mystery except that we did have a sharp eye for anything that was not cemented to the ground. We didn’t steal, we shared. And we invented. Having little or no money we invented little games to pass the time—one of them being to walk to the beach and back.

  This was usually done on a summer day and our parents never complained when we arrived home too late for dinner. Nor did they care about the high glistening blisters on the bottoms of our feet. It was when they saw how we had worn out our heels and the soles of our shoes that we began to hear it. We were sent to the five and dime store where heels and soles and glue were at the ready and at a reasonable price.

  The situation was the same when we played tackle football in the streets. There weren’t any public funds for playgrounds. We were so tough we played tackle football in the streets all through football season, through basketball and baseball seasons and on through the next football season. When you get tackled on asphalt, things happen. Skin rips, bones bruise, there’s blood, but you get up like nothing was wrong.

  Our parents never minded the scabs and the blood and the bruises; the terrible and unforgivable sin was to rip a hole in one of the knees of your pants. Beca
use there were only two pairs of pants to each boy: his everyday pants and his Sunday pants, and you could never rip a hole in the knee of one of your two pairs of pants because that showed that you were poor and an asshole and that your parents were poor and assholes too. So you learned to tackle a guy without falling on either knee. And the guy being tackled learned how to be tackled without falling on either knee.

  When we had fights we’d fight for hours and our parents wouldn’t save us. I guess it was because we pretended to be so tough and never asked for mercy, they were waiting for us to ask for mercy. But we hated our parents so we couldn’t and because we hated them they hated us, and they’d walk out on their porches and glance casually over at us in the midst of a terrible endless fight. They’d just yawn and pick up a throw-away advertisement and walk back inside.

  I fought a guy who later ended up very high in the United States Navy. I fought him one day from 8:30 in the morning until after sundown. Nobody stopped us although we were in plain sight of his front lawn, under two huge pepper trees with the sparrows shitting on us all day.

  It was a grim fight, it was to the finish. He was bigger, a little older and heavier, but I was crazier. We quit by common consent—I don’t know how this works, you have to experience it to understand it, but after two people beat on each other eight or nine hours a strange kind of brotherhood emerges.