South of No North

by Charles Bukowski

“Who are you?” he asked. “What’s your name?”

  “Henry Chinaski.”

  “Haven’t heard of you,” he said.

  “You will,” I said.

  All the people came over. Ernie was left alone. Poor Ernie. Everybody crowded around me. The women too. I was pretty starved-down, except for one place. A real class broad was really looking me up and down. She looked like a society broad, rich, educated, and everything—nice body, nice face, nice clothes, all that.

  “What do you do?” somebody asked me.

  “Fuck and drink.”

  “No, no, I mean what’s your occupation?”

  “Dishwasher.”

  “Dishwasher?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have a hobby?”

  “Well, I don’t know if you could call it a hobby. I write.”

  “You write?”

  “Yeh.”

  “What?”

  “Short stories. They’re pretty good.”

  “Have you been published?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t submitted.”

  “Where are your stories?”

  “Over there,” I pointed to a torn paper suitcase.

  “Listen, I’m a critic for The New York Times. Do you mind if I take your stories home and read them? I’ll return them.”

  “It’s o.k. with me, punk, only I don’t know where I’ll be.”

  The class society broad stepped forward. “He’ll be with me.”

  Then she said, “Come on, Henry, get into your togs. It’s a long drive in and we have things to-talk about.”

  I got dressed and then Ernie regained consciousness.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked.

  “You met a pretty good man, Mr. Hemingway,” somebody told him.

  I finished dressing and went over to his table.

  “You’re a good man, Papa. Nobody wins them all.” I shook his hand. “Don’t blow your brains out.”

  I left with the society broad and we got into an open-topped yellow car half a block long. She drove with the throttle to the floor and took the curves sliding and screeching and without expression. That was class. If she loved like she drove it was going to be a hell of a night.

  The place was up in the hills, off by itself. A butler opened the door.

  “George,” she told him, “take the night off. On second thought, take the week off.”

  We walked in and there was a big guy sitting in a chair with a drink in his hand.

  “Tommy,” she said, “get lost.”

  We moved on through the house.

  “Who was the big guy?” I asked her.

  “Thomas Wolfe,” she said, “a bore.”

  She stopped in the kitchen for a fifth of bourbon and two glasses. Then she said, “Come on.”

  I followed her into the bedroom.

  The next morning the phone awakened us. It was for me. She handed me the phone and I sat up in bed next to her.

  “Mr. Chinaski?”

  “Yeh?”

  “I read your stories. I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep all night. You’re surely the greatest genius of the decade!”

  “Only of the decade?”

  “Well, perhaps of the century.”

  “That’s better.”

  “The editors of Harper’s and Atlantic are here with me now. You may not believe this but each of them has accepted five stories for future publication.”

  “I believe it,” I said.

  The critic hung up. I lay down. The society broad and I made love one more time.

  STOP STARING AT MY TITS, MISTER

  Big Bart was the meanest man in the West. He had the fastest gun in the West and he’d fucked a larger variety of women in the West than anybody else. He wasn’t fond of bathing or bullshit or coming out second best. He was also boss of a wagon train going West, and there wasn’t a man his age who had killed more Indians or fucked more women or killed more white men.

  Big Bart was great and he knew it and everybody knew it. Even his farts were exceptional, louder than the dinner gong, and he was well-hung. Big Bart’s gig was to get the wagons through safely, score on the ladies, kill a few men and then head back for another wagon load. He had a black beard, a dirty bunghole, and radiant yellow teeth.

  He had just hammered hell out of Billy Joe’s young wife while he made Billy Joe watch. He made Billy Joe’s wife talk to Billy Joe while he was at it. He made her say, “Ah, Billy Joe, all this turkeyneck stuck into me from snatch to throat, I can hardly breathe! Billy Joe, save me! No, Billy Joe, don’t save me!”

  After Big Bart climaxed he made Billy Joe wash his parts and then they all went out to a big dinner of hamhocks and limas with biscuits.

  The next day they came across this lone wagon running all by itself through the prairie. Some skinny kid of about sixteen with a bad case of acne was at the reins. Big Bart rode over.

  “Say, kid,” he said.

  The kid didn’t answer.

  “I’m talkin’ to ya, kid…”

  “Kiss my ass,” said the kid.

  “I’m Big Bart,” said Big Bart.

  “Kiss my ass, Big Bart,” said the kid.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “They call me ‘The Kid.’”

  “Look, Kid, there’s no way a man can make it through this here Indian territory with a lone wagon.”

  “I intend to,” said the Kid.

  “O.k., it’s your balls, Kid,” said Big Bart, and he made to ride off when the flaps of the wagon opened and out came this little filly with 40-inch breasts and a fine big ass and eyes like the sky after a good rain. She put her eyes upon Big Bart and his turkeyneck quivered against the saddle horn.

  “For your own good, Kid, you’re a comin’ with us.”

  “Fuck off, old man,” said The Kid, “I don’t take no motherfuckin’ advice from an old man in dirty underwear.”

  “I’ve killed men for blinkin their eyes,” said Big Bart.

  The Kid just spit on the ground. Then reached up and scratched his crotch.

  “Old man, you bore me. Now lose yourself from my sight or I’ll assist you in resembling a hunk of swiss cheese.”

  “Kid,” said the girl, leaning over him, one of her breasts flopping out and giving the sunlight a hard-on, “Kid, I think the man’s right. We got no chance against those motherfucking Indians alone. Now don’t be an asshole. Tell the man we’ll join up.”

  “We’ll join up,” said The Kid.

  “What’s your girl’s name?” asked Big Bart.

  “Honeydew,” said The Kid.

  “And stop staring at my tits, mister,” said Honeydew, “or I’ll belt the shit out of you.”

  Things went well for a while. There was a skirmish with the Indians at Blueball Canyon. 37 Indians killed, one captured. No American casualties. Big Bart bungholed the captured Indian and then hired him on as cook. There was another skirmish at Clap Canyon, 37 Indians killed, one captured. No American casualties. Big Bart bungholed…

  It was obvious that Big Bart had hotrocks for Honeydew. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. That ass, mostly it was that ass. He fell off his horse watching one time and one of the two Indian cooks laughed. That left only one Indian cook.

  One day Big Bart sent The Kid out with a hunting party to score on some buffalo. Big Bart waited until they rode off and then he made for The Kid’s wagon. He leaped up onto the seat and pushed the flaps back and walked in. Honeydew was crouched in the center of the wagon masturbating.

  “Jesus, baby,” said Big Bart, “don’t waste it!”

  “Get the hell out of here,” said Honeydew, withdrawing her finger and pointing it at Big Bart, “get the hell out of here and let me do my thing!”

  “Your man ain’t takin’ care of you, Honeydew!”

  “He’s takin’ care of me, asshole, it’s just that I don’t get enough. It’s just that after my period I get hot.”

&n
bsp; “Listen, baby…”

  “Fuck off!”

  “Listen, baby, lookee…”

  And he pulled out the jackhammer. It was purple and flipped back and forth like the weight in a grandfather’s clock. Driblets of spittle fell to the floor.

  Honeydew couldn’t keep her eyes off that instrument. At last she said, “You’re not going to stick that god damned thing into me!”

  “Say it like you mean it, Honydew.”

  “YOU’RE NOT GOING TO STICK THAT GOD DAMNED THING INTO ME!”

  “But why? Why? Look at it!”

  “I am looking at it!”

  “But why don’t you want it?”

  “Because I’m in love with The Kid.”

  “Love?” said Big Bart laughing. “Love? That’s a fairytale for idiots! Look at this god damned scythe! That can beat love anytime!”

  “I love The Kid, Big Bart.”

  “And there’s my tongue,” said Big Bart, “the best tongue in the West!”

  He stuck it out and made it do gymnastics.

  “I love The Kid,” said Honeydew.

  “Well, fuck you,” said Big Bart, and he ran forward and threw himself upon Honeydew. It was dog’s work getting that thing in and when he did, Honeydew screamed. He gave it about seven slices and then he felt himself being roughly pulled off.

  IT WAS THE KID. BACK FROM THE HUNTING PARTY.

  “We got your buffalo, motherfucker. Now if you’ll pull up your pants and step outside we’ll settle the rest.”

  “I’ve got the fastest gun in the West,” said Big Bart.

  “I’ll blow a hole in you so big your asshole will look like a pore in your skin,” said The Kid. “Come on, let’s get it done. I’m hungry for dinner. This hunting buffalo works up the appetite…”

  The men sat around the campfire watching. There was a definite vibration in the air. The women stayed in the wagons, praying, masturbating, and drinking gin. Big Bart had 34 notches in his gun, and a bad memory. The Kid didn’t have any notches in his gun. But he had confidence such as the others had seldom seen before. Big Bart seemed the more nervous of the two. He took a sip of whiskey, draining half the flask, then walked up to The Kid.

  “Look, Kid…”

  “Yeah, motherfucka…?”

  “I mean, why you lost your cool?”

  “I’m gonna blow your balls off, old man!”

  “What for?”

  “You were messin’ with my woman, old man!”

  “Listen Kid, don’t you see? The female plays one man against the other. We’re just falling for her game.”

  “I don’t want to hear your shit, dad! Now back off and draw! You’ve had it!”

  “Kid…”

  “Back off and draw!”

  The men at the campfire stiffened. A slight wind blew from the West smelling of horseshit. Somebody coughed. The women crouched in the wagons, drinking gin, praying, and masturbating. Twilight was moving in.

  Big Bart and The Kid were 30 paces apart.

  “Draw, you chickenshit,” said The Kid, “draw, you chickenshit woman molester!”

  Quietly through the flaps of a wagon a woman appeared with a rifle. It was Honeydew. She put the rifle to her shoulder and squinted down the barrel.

  “Come on, you tinhorn rapist,” said The Kid, “DRAW!”

  Big Bart’s hand flicked toward his holster. A shot rang through the twilight. Honeydew lowered her smoking rifle and went back into the covered wagon. The Kid was dead on the ground, a hole in his forehead. Big Bart put his unused gun back in his holster and strode toward the wagon. The moon was up.

  SOMETHING ABOUT A VIET CONG FLAG

  The desert baked under the summer sun. Red jumped off the freight as it slowed just outside the railroad yard. He took a shit behind some tall rocks to the north, wiped his ass with some leaves. Then he walked fifty yards, sat behind another rock out of the sun and rolled a cigarette. He saw the hippies walking toward him. Two guys and a girl. They had jumped off the train in the yard and were walking back.

  One of the guys carried a Viet Cong flag. The guys looked soft and harmless. The girl had a nice wide ass—it almost split her bluejeans. She was blond and had a bad case of acne. Red waited until they almost reached him.

  “Heil Hitler!” he said.

  The hippies laughed.

  “Where you going?” Red asked.

  “We’re trying to get to Denver. I guess we’ll make it.”

  “Well,” said Red, “you’re going to have to wait a while. I’m going to have to use your girl.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You heard me.”

  Red grabbed the girl. With one hand grabbing her hair and the other her ass, he kissed her. The taller of the guys reached for Red’s shoulder. “Now wait a minute…”

  Red turned and put the guy on the ground with a short left. A stomach punch. They guy stayed down, breathing heavily. Red looked at the guy with the Viet Cong flag. “If you don’t want to get hurt, leave me alone.”

  “Come on,” he said to the girl, “get over behind those rocks.”

  “No, I won’t do it,” said the girl, “I won’t do it.”

  Red pulled his switchblade and hit the button. The blade was flat across her nose, pressed it down.

  “How do you think you’d look without a nose?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I’ll slice it off.” He grinned.

  “Listen,” said the guy with the flag, “you can’t get away with this.”

  “Come on, girly,” said Red, pushing her toward the rocks.

  Red and the girl disappeared behind the rocks. The guy with the flag helped his friend up. They stood there. They stood there some minutes.

  “He’s fucking Sally. What can we do? He’s fucking her right now.”

  “What can we do? He’s a madman.”

  “We should do something.”

  “Sally must think we’re real shits.”

  “We are. There are two of us. We could have handled him.”

  “He has a knife.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We could have taken him.”

  “I feel god damned miserable.”

  “How do you think Sally feels? He’s fucking her.”

  They stood and waited. The tall one who had taken the punch was called Leo. The other was Dale. It was hot in the sun as they waited. “We’ve got two cigarettes left,” said Dale, “should we smoke?”

  “How the hell can we smoke when that’s going on behind the rocks?”

  “You’re right. My god, what’s taking so long.”

  “God, I don’t know. You think he’s killed her?”

  “I’m getting worried.”

  “Maybe I’d better have a look.”

  “O.k. but be careful.”

  Leo walked toward the rocks. There was a small hill with some brush. He crawled up the hill behind the brush and looked down. Red was fucking Sally. Leo watched. It seemed endless. Red went on and on. Leo crawled down the hill and walked over and stood next to Dale.

  “I guess she’s all right,” he said.

  They waited.

  Finally Red and Sally came out from behind the rocks. They walked toward them.

  “Thank you brothers,” said Red, “she was a very fine piece.”

  “May you rot in hell!” said Leo.

  Red laughed. “Peace! Peace!…He flashed the sign with his fingers. “Well, I think I’ll be going…”

  Red rolled a quick cigarette, smiling as he wet it. Then he lit up, inhaled, and walked off toward the north, keeping in the shade.

  “Let’s hitchhike the rest of the way,” said Dale. “Freights aren’t any good.”

  “The highway’s to the west,” said Leo, “let’s go.”

  They began moving toward the west.

  “Christ,’ said Sally, “I can hardly walk! He’s an animal!”

  Leo and Dale didn’t say anything.

  “I hope I don’t get pregnant,” said Sally.


  “Sally,” said Leo, “I’m sorry…”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  They walked. It was getting along toward evening and the desert heat was dropping off.

  “I hate men!” said Sally.

  A jackrabbit leaped out from behind a bush and Leo and Dale jumped as it ran off.

  “A rabbit,” said Leo, “a rabbit.”

  “That rabbit scared you guys, didn’t it?”

  “Well, after what happened, we’re jumpy.”

  “You’re jumpy? What about me? Listen let’s sit down a minute. I’m tired.”

  There was a patch of shade and Sally sat between them.

  “You know, though…” she said.

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t so bad. On a strictly sexual basis, I mean. He really put it to me. On a strictly sexual basis it was quite something.”

  “What?” said Dale.

  “I mean, morally, I hate him. The son of a bitch should be shot. He’s a dog. A pig. But on a strictly sexual basis it was something…”

  They sat there a while not saying anything. Then they got out the two cigarettes and smoked them, passing them around.

  “I wish we had some dope,” said Leo.

  “God, I knew it was coming, said Sally. “You guys almost don’t exist.”

  “Maybe you’d feel better if we raped you?” asked Leo.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “You think I can’t rape you?”

  “I should have gone with him. You guys are nothing.”

  “So now you like him?” asked Dale.

  “Forget it!” said Sally. “Let’s get down to the highway and stick our thumbs out.”

  “I can slam it to you,” said Leo, “I can make you cry.”

  “Can I watch?” asked Dale, laughing.

  “There won’t be anything to watch,” said Sally. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  They stood up and walked toward the highway. It was a ten minute walk. When they got there Sally stood in the highway with her thumb out. Leo and Dale stood back out of view. They had forgotten the Viet Cong flag. They had left it back at the freight yard. It was in the dirt near the railroad tracks. The war went on. Seven red ants, the big kind, crawled across the flag.

  YOU CANT WRITE A LOVE STORY