“GRISSOM, COME ON OUT! YOU HAVE 60 SECONDS!”
Robert lifted the .32 and shot out of the side window. He heard a scream. The impossible had happened. He had hit somebody.
The first canister of gas came lobbing into the room. Robert picked up his shells and the rags and the can of urine, ran into the bedroom, closed the door and climbed under his bed. He dipped the rag into the can of urine and put it over his nose and mouth. The ultraviolet ray glasses were already taped around his skull. It was an attempt to seal the eyes from any possible tear gas.
And there under the bed he grinned just a bit and watched the bedroom door for whoever wanted to be an immediate part of chapter one in the History of the Second American Revolution.
Down there under the bed he noticed that he wasn’t a very good housekeeper: several missing stockings, an undershirt, various gatherings of dust. It was one hell of a way to end a literary career: not one pair of panties, a love letter or a box of Tampax about. And the Pulitzer Prize looked more impossible than ever . . .
We were both in handcuffs. The cops led us down the stairway between them and sat us in back. My hands were bleeding onto the upholstery, but they didn’t seem to care about the upholstery.
The kid’s name was Albert and Albert sat there and said, “Jesus, you guys mean you’re going to take me and lock me up where I can’t get candy and cigarettes and beer, where I can’t listen to my record player?”
“Stop your sniveling, will you?” I asked the kid.
I hadn’t made the drunk tank for six or eight years. I was due, I was overdue. It was just like driving that long without a traffic ticket—they were just going to get you finally if you drove and they were going to get you finally if you drank. On drunk tank trips vs. traffic tickets the drunk tank led by 18 to seven. Which shows I’m a better driver than I am a drinker.
It was the city jail and Albert and I got separated in the booking. The routine hadn’t changed except the doctor asked how my hands got cut.
“A lady locked me out,” I said, “so I smashed the door in, a glass door.”
The doctor put one band-aid on the worst cut and I was led to the tank.
It was the same. No bunks. Thirty-five men laying on the floor. There were a couple of urinals and a couple of toilets. Ta, ta, ta.
Most of the men were Mexican and most of the Mexicans were between 40 and 68. There were two blacks. No Chinese. I have never seen a Chinese in a drunk tank. Albert was over in the corner talking but nobody was listening, or maybe they were because once in a while somebody would say, “Jesus Christ, shut up, man!”
I was the only one standing up. I walked over to one of the urinals. A guy was asleep with his head against the urinal. The guys were all around the urinals and crappers, not using them but sitting crowded around them. I didn’t want to step over them so I awakened the guy by the urinal.
“Listen, man, I want to piss and your head is right up against the urinal.”
You can never tell when that will mean a fight so I watched him closely. He slid over and I pissed. Then I walked to within three feet of Albert.
“Got a cigarette, kid?”
The kid had a cigarette. He took it out of the pack and threw it at me. It rolled along the floor and I picked it up.
“Anybody got a match?” I asked.
“Here.” It was a skid row white. I took the matchbook, struck up a smoke and handed it back.
“What’s the matter with your friend?” he asked.
“He’s just a kid. Everything’s new to him.”
“You better keep him quiet or I’m going to punch him out, so help me, I can’t stand his babble.”
I walked over to the kid and kneeled down beside him.
“Albert, give it a rest. I don’t know what kind of shit you were on before you met me tonight but all your sentences are fragmented, you’re making bad sense. Give it a rest.”
I walked back to the center of the tank and looked around. A big guy in grey pants was laying on his side. His pants were ripped up the crotch and the shorts were showing through. They’d taken our belts so we couldn’t hang ourselves.
The cell door of the tank opened and a Mexican in his mid-forties staggered in. He was, as the saying goes, built like a bull. And gored like one. He walked into the tank and did some shadow boxing. He threw some good ones.
Both of his cheeks, up high, near the bone had raw red gashes. His mouth was just a blot of blood. When he opened it all you could see was red. It was a mouth to remember.
He threw a couple more, seemed to miss a hard one, lost balance and fell over backwards. As he fell he arched his back so when he hit the cement the ball of his back took the blow, but he couldn’t hold his head back up, it snapped back from the neck, the neck almost acted as a lever and the rear of his head was hurled against the cement. There was the sound, then the head bounced back up, then fell down again. He was still.
I walked over to the tank door. The cops were walking around with papers, doing things. They were all very nice-looking fellows, young, their uniforms very clean.
“Hey, you guys!” I yelled. “There’s a guy in here needs medical attention, bad!”
They just kept walking around doing their duties.
“Listen, do you guys hear me? There’s a man in here needs medical attention, bad, real bad!”
They just kept walking around and sitting, writing on pieces of paper or talking to each other. I walked back into the cell. A guy called to me from the floor.
“Hey, man!”
I walked over. He handed me his property slip. It was pink. They were all pink.
“How much I got in property?”
“I hate to tell you this friend, but it says ‘nothing.’”
I handed his slip back.
“Hey, man, how much I got?” another guy asked me.
I read his and handed it back.
“You’re the same; you’ve got nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing? They took my belt. Isn’t my belt something?”
“Not unless you can get a drink for it.”
“You’re right.”
“Doesn’t anybody have a cigarette?” I asked.
“Can you roll one?”
“Yeah.”
“I got the makings.”
I walked over and he handed me the papers and some Bugler. His papers were all stuck together.
“Friend, you’ve spilled wine all over your papers.”
“Good, roll us a couple. Maybe we can get drunk.”
I rolled two, we lit up and then I walked over and stood against the tank door and smoked. I looked at them all laying there motionless upon the cement floor.
“Listen, gentlemen, let’s talk,” I said. “There’s no use just laying there. Anybody can lay there. Tell me about it. Let’s find something out. Let me hear from you.”
There wasn’t a sound. I began to walk around.
“Look, we’re all waiting for the next drink. We can taste the first one now. To hell with the wine. We want a cold beer, one cold beer to start it out with, to wash the dust out of the throat.”
“Yeah,” said somebody.
I kept walking around.
“Everybody’s talking about liberation now, that’s the thing, you know. Do you know that?”
No response. They didn’t know that.
“All right, I say let’s liberate the roaches and the alcoholics. What’s wrong with a roach? Can anybody tell me what’s wrong with a roach?”
“Well, they stink and they’re ugly,” said some guy.
“So’s an alcoholic. They sell us the stuff to drink, don’t they? Then we drink it and they throw us in jail. I don’t understand. Does anybody understand this?”
No response. They didn’t understand.
The tank door opened up and a cop stepped in.
“Everybody up. We’re moving to another cell.”
They got to their feet and walked toward the door. All except the bull.
Me and another guy walked over and picked the bull up. We walked him out the door and down the aisle. The cops just watched us. When we got to the next tank we laid the bull down in the center of the floor. The cell door shut.
“As I was saying . . . well, what was I saying? O.K., those of us who have money, we bail out, we get fined. The money we pay is used to pay those who arrested us and kept us confined, and the money is used to enable them to arrest us again. Now, I mean, if you want to call that justice you can call it justice. I call it shit down the throat.”
“Alcoholism is a disease,” said some guy from flat on his back.
“That’s a cliché,” I said.
“What’s a cliché?”
“Almost everything. O.K., it’s a disease but we know they don’t know it. They don’t throw people with cancer in jail and make them lay on the floor. They don’t fine them and beat them. We’re the roaches. We need liberation. We should go on parades: ‘FREE THE ALCOHOLIC.’”
“Alcoholism is a disease,” said the same guy from flat on his back.
“Everything’s a disease,” I said. “Eating’s a disease, sleeping’s a disease, fucking’s a disease, scratching your ass is a disease, don’t you get it?”
“You don’t know what a disease is,” said somebody.
“A disease is something that’s usually infectious, something that’s hard to get rid of, something that can kill you. Money is a disease. Bathing is a disease, catching fish is a disease, calendars are a disease, the city of Santa Monica is a disease, bubblegum is a disease.”
“How about thumbtacks?”
“Yeah, thumbtacks too.”
“What isn’t a disease?”
“Now,” I said, “now we got something to think about. Now we got something to help us pass the night.”
The cell door opened and three cops came in. Two of them walked over and picked up the bull. They walked him out. That broke our conversation somehow. The guys just laid there.
“Come on, come on,” I said, “let’s keep it going. We’ll all have that drink in our hand soon. Some sooner than others. Can’t you taste it now? This isn’t the end. Think of that first drink.”
Some of them laid there thinking about that first drink and some of them laid there thinking about nothing. They were resigned to whatever happened. In about five minutes they brought the bull back in. If he had gotten medical attention it wasn’t noticeable. He fell again but this time on his side. Then he was quiet.
“Look, gentlemen, cheer up, for Christ’s sake, or for my sake. I know they treat a murderer better than a drunk. A murderer gets a nice cell, a bunk, he gets attention. He’s treated like a first-class citizen. He’s really done something. All we’ve done is empty a few bottles. But cheer up, we’ll empty some more . . .”
Somebody cheered. I laughed.
“That’s better. Look up, look up! God’s up there with a couple of six packs of Tuborg. Cold and chilled they are with tiny icy bubbles glistening on the side . . . think of it . . .”
“You’re killing me, man . . .”
“You’ll be out, we’ll be out, some sooner than others. And we won’t rush out to an AA meeting and take the 12 great steps back to infancy! Your mother will get you out! Somebody loves you! Now which mother’s boy of us will get out of here first? That’s something to think about . . .”
“Hey, man . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Come here.”
I walked over.
“How much I got?” he asked. He handed me his property slip. I handed it back.
“Brother,” I said, “I hate to tell you . . .”
“Yes?”
“It says ‘nothing,’ a very neatly typed ‘nothing.’”
I walked back to the center of the tank.
“Now look, fellows, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Everybody take out your property slips and throw them in a pile in the center of the floor. I’ll pay a quarter for each pink slip . . . I’ll own your souls . . .”
The door opened. It was a cop.
“Bukowski,” he announced, “Henry C. Bukowski.”
“Be seeing you fellows. It’s my mother.”
I followed the cop on out. The checkout was fairly efficient. They simply extracted $50 for bail (I’d had a good day at the track) and gave me the rest, plus my belt. I thanked the doctor for his band-aid and followed the cop into the waiting room. I’d made two calls out while being booked. I was told I had a ride. I sat for ten minutes and then a door opened and I was told I could go. My mother was sitting on a bench outside. It was Karen, the 32-year-old woman I lived with. She was trying her damnedest not to be angry but she was. I followed her on out. We got to the car and got in and started off. I looked in the glove compartment for a cigarette.
Even the city hall looks good when you get out of the tank. Everything looks good. The billboards, the stoplights, the parking lots, the bus stop benches.
“Well,” said Karen, “now I suppose you’ll have something to write about.”
“Oh, yeah. And I gave the fellows a good show. The fellows are going to miss me. I’ll bet it’s like a tomb in there . . .”
Karen didn’t appear to be impressed. The sun was about to come up and the lady on the billboard, one strap down on her bathing suit, smiled at me as she advertised a sun tan lotion.
Walden, shit, well I’m writing this in King’s Pasture, Utah, no transport, no racetrack, no beer, no Cal Worthington, no love letters from insane ladies in Michigan, Louisiana, New Jersey . . . no poetry readings, no nudie bars . . . My few aficionados who expect tales of drunken nights, child-rape, woman rape, jail, murder—the general calm madness of Hollywood and Los Angeles, will have to wait.
As I write this I fight off a few mosquitoes but, by comparison to the average person, they don’t contact me too often. The alcoholic content of my blood gives them pause, but the few who get a nip of me whir off singing.
I stare right off into 40,000 trees and not a toteboard in sight. But I gather no mental clarity or insight.
I suppose that I am terribly inbred to my prejudices. I find my prejudices comforting; I find my ignorances comforting. I have no desire to be an intelligent man and I have succeeded. Intelligent men bore me with their understanding, with their deep-set knowledgeable eyes, with their vocabularies, with all and everything they know. I prefer a slower seasoning.
So many people are doomed by their ambition and their gathered intelligence, their bank account and savings and loan intelligence. If there is any secret to life, that secret is not to try. Let it come to you: women, dogs, death, and creation.
In writing, especially, there are many fast starters. All men are born artists but most of them are quickly mutilated. Ambition is bad enough but when an obscene ambition gets connected with a commercial recognition it’s not long before the shit backs up in the sewer. Creation means creation without attachment; too many imagine it means a house in Beverly Hills, a red sports car, talk shows, and going to bed with all offers . . .
One could write such a thing without staring at 40,000 trees. I came up here because my woman said there were wildmen in the forest with Wilt Chamberlain peckers who hadn’t been laid for years. I have no idea how many wildmen she has met . . .
There was a party in Escalante before we got up here. I furnished the beer and the cowboy-ranchers furnished the dancing. Those boys are in good shape. They lift their women (and mine) over their heads and whirl them about. They are pitiful drinkers but they can dance for hours. They can start a fire with wet wood, hitch and shod a horse, kill and skin deer, trap, fish, fight, and fuck. Their conversation isn’t too bad either.
I’m no dancer. I’m a hermit who has spent most of his life in a tiny room with a bottle and a typewriter and an occasional woman. I admit to disliking crowds, crowds anywhere, and parties. I suppose there should be a meeting ground for most people, and a party, a dancing party, could be the place. But I’ve seldom been to a party that didn’t generate bad feel
ings. Basically the men are in too much of a rush to be on the make instead of allowing it to happen. Things become ugly, a contest, a push, a joust, a sham.
I got up and kicked my arms and my legs but I soon tired. I am in horrible shape. Also, I am a man who appreciates symphony music. When the ear and the mind become accustomed to classical music then the steady and almost invariable beat of the sound of popular music, turned top volume on the stereo, does dehydrate the inner gut. The very limitation and persistency of the sound is an insult to the senses.
So I found myself sitting on a rock in the desert, getting at the cans of beer I had brought out with me. I had been drinking for days and my stomach was raw. My jumping about and the sound of the music had made me ill. I stood up and started vomiting.
Carl, the owner of the ranch, was coming in from his car which was parked out on the road.
“Having trouble, man?” he asked me.
“I’m all right, Carl.”
I let go another load.
“I’m staying right here with you,” he said.
“It’s all right, Carl, I’ve been through this a thousand times before.”
I let go another batch.
“I’m standing over you,” said Carl. “I’m standing over you tall and true until you’re finished.”
Carl stood over me tall and true until I was finished. Then we walked on inside where I opened another beer and I walked back into the front room where the full-blast stereo gutted the walls with the same limited notes. They danced and they leaped and I stood there with my can of beer and I watched, just to let them know that I knew what a good time was . . .
(I have just watched something murder something here on the ground. Ah, nature, beautiful nature, the beautiful animals and bugs, the beautiful people.)
My first night out in nature, down in lower camp, I had to go.
“What’ll I do?” I asked my woman.
“You just shit in the bushes.”
It was a more crowded camp, one of those roadside machinations, tourists abounding, so I had to put on my clothing. I wasn’t entirely sober. I walked along and looked at the bushes.
I selected some. I got out of my bluejeans, hung them on a bush but before I could squat the beershit began; waterfalls began rolling down my legs—wetwash of stinking beer mildewed with improperly chewed and improperly digested food. I grabbed at a bush and squatted, pissed on my feet, and eliminated a few very soft turds.
More Notes of a Dirty Old Man: The Uncollected Columns Page 7