“bartender,” I said, “two more drinks.”
the blood was coming. I took out my hanky and held it to the back of my head. then the two big boys came up out of the crapper and sat down.
“bartender,” I nodded toward them, “two drinks for those gentlemen there.”
more juke, more talk, the girl didn’t move away from me. I didn’t make out most of what she was saying. then I had to piss again. I got up and made for the MEN’S room again. one of the big boys said to the other as I passed, “you can’t kill that son of a bitch. he’s crazy.”
they didn’t come down again, but when I came back up I didn’t sit by the girl again. I had proved some kind of point and was no longer interested. I drank there the rest of the night and when the bar closed we all went outside and talked and laughed and sang. I had done some drinking with a black-haired kid for the last couple of hours. he came up to me: “listen, we want you in the gang. you’ve got guts. we need a guy like you.”
“thanks, pal. appreciate it but I can’t do it. thanks anyhow.”
then I walked off. always the old sense of drama.
I hailed a cop car a few blocks down, told them I had been blackjacked and robbed by a couple of sailors. they took me to emergency and I sat under a bright electric light with a doc and a nurse. “now this is gonna hurt,” he told me. the needle started working. I couldn’t feel a thing. I felt like I had myself and everything under pretty good control. they were putting some kind of bandage on me when I reached out and grabbed the nurse’s leg. I squeezed her knee. it felt good to me.
“hey! what the hell’s the matter with you?”
“nothing. just joking,” I told the doc.
“you want us to run this guy in?” one of the cops asked.
“no, take him home. he’s had a rough night.”
the cops rode me on in. it was good service. if I had been in L.A. I would have made the tank. when I got to my room I drank a bottle of wine and went to sleep.
I didn’t make the 5:30 A.M. opening at the old bar. I sometimes did that. I sometimes stayed in bed all day. about 2 P.M. I heard a couple of women talking outside the window. “I don’t know about that new roomer. sometimes he just stays in his room all day with the shades down just listening to his radio. that’s all he does.”
“I’ve seen him,” said the other, “drunk most of the time, a horrible man.”
“I think I’ll have to ask him to move,” said the first one.
ah, shit, I thought. ah, shit, shit shit shit shit.
I turned Stravinsky off, put on my clothes and walked on down to the bar. I went on in.
“hey, there he is!!!”
“we thought ya got killed!”
“did ya hit that gang bar?”
“yeah.”
“tell us about it.”
“I’ll need a drink first.”
“sure, sure.”
the scotch and water arrived. I sat down at the end stool. the dirty sunshine around 16th and Fairmount worked its way in. my day had begun.
“the rumors,” I began, “about it being a very tough joint are definitely true . . .” then I told them roughly about what I have told you.
the rest of the story is that I couldn’t comb my hair for two months, went back to the gang bar once or twice more, was nicely treated and left Philly not much later looking for more trouble or whatever I was looking for. I found trouble, but the rest of what I was looking for, I haven’t found that yet. maybe we find it when we die. maybe we don’t. you’ve got your books of philosophy, your priest, your preacher, your scientist, so don’t ask me. and stay out of bars with MEN’s crapper downstairs.
The Great Zen Wedding
I was in the rear, stuck in with the Rumanian bread, liverwurst, beer, soft drinks; wearing a green necktie, first necktie since the death of my father a decade ago. Now I was to be best man at a Zen wedding, Hollis driving 85 m.p.h., Roy’s four-foot beard flowing into my face. It was my ’62 Comet, only I couldn’t drive—no insurance, two drunk-driving raps, and already getting drunk. Hollis and Roy had lived unmarried for three years, Hollis supporting Roy. I sat in the back and sucked at my beer. Roy was explaining Hollis’ family to me one by one. Roy was better with the intellectual shit. Or the tongue. The walls of their place were covered with these many photos of guys bending into the muff and chewing.
Also a snap of Roy reaching climax while jacking off. Roy had done it alone. I mean, tripped the camera. Himself. String. Wire. Some arrangement. Roy claimed he had to jackoff six times in order to get the perfect snap. A whole day’s work: there it was: this milky glob: a work of art. Hollis turned off the freeway. It wasn’t too far. Some of the rich have driveways a mile long. This one wasn’t too bad: a quarter of a mile. We got out. Tropical gardens. Four or five dogs. Big black woolly stupid slobbering-at-the-mouth beasts. We never reached the door—there he was, the rich one, standing on the veranda, looking down, drink in hand. And Roy yelled, “Oh, Harvey, you bastard, so good to see you!”
Harvey smiled the little smile: “Good to see you too, Roy.”
One of the big black woollies was gobbling at my left leg. “Call your dog off, Harvey, bastard, good to see you!” I screamed.
“Aristotle, now STOP that!”
Aristotle left off, just in time.
And.
We went up and down the steps with the salami, the Hungarian pickled catfish, the shrimp. Lobstertails. Bagels. Minced dove assholes.
Then we had it all in there. I sat down and grabbed a beer. I was the only one with a necktie. I was also the only one who had bought a wedding gift. I hid it between the wall and the Aristotle-chewed leg.
“Charles Bukowski . . .”
I stood up.
“Oh, Charles Bukowski!”
“Uh huh.”
Then:
“This is Marty.”
“Hello, Marty.”
“And this is Elsie.”
“Hello, Elsie.”
“Do you really,” she asked, “break up furniture and windows, slash your hands, all that, when you’re drunk?”
“Uh huh.”
“You’re a little old for that.”
“Now listen, Elsie, don’t give me any shit . . .”
“And this is Tina.”
“Hello, Tina.”
I sat down.
Names! I had been married to my first wife for two-and-one-half years. One night some people came in. I had told my wife: “This is Louie the half-ass and this is Marie, Queen of the Quick Suck, and this is Nick, the half-hobble.” Then I had turned to them and said, “This is my wife . . . this is my wife . . . this is . . .” I finally had to look at her and ask: “WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR NAME ANYHOW?”
“Barbara.”
“This is Barbara,” I had told them. . . .
The Zen master hadn’t arrived. I sat and sucked at my beer.
Then here came more people. On and on up the steps. All Hollis’ family. Roy didn’t seem to have a family. Poor Roy. Never worked a day in his life. I got another beer.
They kept coming up the steps: ex-cons, sharpies, cripples, dealers in various subterfuges. Family and friends. Dozens of them. No wedding presents. No neckties.
I pushed further back into my corner.
One guy was pretty badly fucked-up. It took him 25 minutes to get up the stairway. He had especially-made crutches, very powerful looking things with round bands for the arms. Special grips here and there. Aluminum and rubber. No wood for that baby. I figured it: watered-down stuff or a bad payoff. He had taken the slugs in the old barber chair with the hot and wet shaving towel over his face. Only they’d missed a few vital spots.
There were others. Somebody taught class at UCLA. Somebody else ran in shit through Chinese fishermen’s boats via San Pedro Harbor.
I was introduced to the greatest killers and dealers of the century.
Me, I was between jobs.
Then Harvey walked up.
“Bukowski,
care for a bit of scotch and water?”
“Sure, Harvey, sure.”
We walked toward the kitchen.
“What’s the necktie for?”
“The top of the zipper on my pants is broken. And my shorts are too tight. End of necktie covers stinkhairs just above my cock.”
“I think that you are the modern living master of the short story. Nobody touches you.”
“Sure, Harvey. Where’s the scotch?”
Harvey showed me the bottle of scotch.
“I always drink this kind since you always mention it in your short stories.”
“But I’ve switched brands now, Harv. I found some better stuff.”
“What’s the name of it?”
“Damned if I can remember.”
I found a tall water glass, poured in half scotch, half water.
“For the nerves,” I told him. “You know?”
“Sure, Bukowski.”
I drank it straight down.
“How about a refill?”
“Sure.”
I took the refill and walked to the front room, sat in my corner. Meanwhile there was a new excitement: The Zen master had ARRIVED!
The Zen master had on this very fancy outfit and kept his eyes very narrow. Or maybe that’s the way they were.
The Zen master needed tables. Roy ran around looking for tables.
Meanwhile, the Zen master was very calm, very gracious. I downed my drink, went in for a refill. Came back.
A golden-haired kid ran in. About eleven years old.
“Bukowski, I’ve read some of your stories. I think that you are the greatest writer I have ever read!”
Long blond curls. Glasses. Slim body.
“Okay, baby. You get old enough. We’ll get married. Live off of your money. I’m getting tired. You can just parade me around in a kind of glass cage with little airholes in it. I’ll let the young boys have you. I’ll even watch.”
“Bukowski! Just because I have long hair, you think I’m a girl! My name is Paul! We were introduced! Don’t you remember?”
Paul’s father, Harvey, was looking at me. I saw his eyes. Then I knew that he had decided that I was not such a good writer after all. Maybe even a bad writer. Well, no man can hide forever.
But the little boy was all right: “That’s okay, Bukowski! You are still the greatest writer I have ever read! Daddy has let me read some of your stories . . .”
Then all the lights went out. That’s what the kid deserved for his big mouth . . .
But there were candles everywhere. Everybody was finding candles, walking around finding candles and lighting them.
“Shit, it’s just a fuse. Replace the fuse,” I said.
Somebody said it wasn’t the fuse, it was something else, so I gave up and while all the candle-lighting went on I walked into the kitchen for more scotch. Shit, there was Harvey standing there.
“Ya got a beautiful son, Harvey. Your boy, Peter . . .”
“Paul.”
“Sorry. The Biblical.”
“I understand.”
(The rich understand; they just don’t do anything about it.)
Harvey uncorked a new fifth. We talked about Kafka. Dos. Turgenev, Gogol. All that dull shit. Then there were candles everywhere. The Zen master wanted to get on with it. Roy had given me the two rings. I felt. They were still there. Everybody was waiting on us. I was waiting for Harvey to drop to the floor from drinking all that scotch. It wasn’t any good. He had matched me one drink for two and was still standing. That isn’t done too often. We had knocked off half a fifth in the ten minutes of candle-lighting. We went out to the crowd. I dumped the rings on Roy. Roy had communicated, days earlier, to the Zen master that I was a drunk—unreliable—either faint-hearted or vicious—therefore, during the ceremony, don’t ask Bukowski for the rings because Bukowski might not be there. Or he might lose the rings, or vomit, or lose Bukowski.
So here it was, finally. The Zen master began playing with his little black book. It didn’t look too thick. Around 150 pages, I’d say.
“I ask,” said the Zen, “no drinking or smoking during the ceremony.”
I drained my drink. I stood to Roy’s right. Drinks were being drained all over the place.
Then the Zen master gave a little chickenshit smile.
I knew the Christian wedding ceremonies by the sad rote of experience. And the Zen ceremony actually resembled the Christian, with a small amount of horseshit thrown in. Somewhere along the way, three small sticks were lit. Zen had a whole box of the things—two or three hundred. After the lighting, one stick was placed in the center of a jar of sand. That was the Zen stick. Then Roy was asked to place his burning stick upon one side of the Zen stick, Hollis asked to place hers on the other.
But the sticks weren’t quite right. The Zen master, smiling a bit, had to reach forward and adjust the sticks to new depths and elevations.
Then the Zen master dug out a circle of brown beads.
He handed the circle of beads to Roy.
“Now?” asked Roy.
Damn, I thought, Roy always read up on everything else. Why not his own wedding?
Zen reached forward, placed Hollis’ right hand within Roy’s left. And the beads encircled both hands that way.
“Do you . . .”
“I do . . .”
(This was Zen? I thought.)
“And do you, Hollis . . .”
“I do . . .”
Meanwhile, in the candlelight, there was some asshole taking hundreds of photos of the ceremony. It made me nervous. It could have been the F.B.I.
“Plick! Plick! Plick!”
Of course, we were all clean. But it was irritating because it was careless.
Then I noticed the Zen master’s ears in the candlelight. The candlelight shone through them as if they were made of the thinnest of toilet paper.
The Zen master had the thinnest ears of any man I had ever seen. That was what made him holy! I had to have those ears! For my wallet or my tomcat or my memory. Or for under the pillow.
Of course, I knew that it was all the scotch and water and all the beer talking to me, and then, in another way, I didn’t know that at all.
I kept staring at the Zen master’s ears.
And there were more words.
“ . . . and you Roy, promise not to take any drugs while in your relationship with Hollis?”
There seemed to be an embarrassing pause. Then, their hands locked together in the brown beads: “I promise,” said Roy, “not to . . .”
Soon it was over. Or seemed over. The Zen master stood straight up, smiling just a touch of a smile.
I touched Roy upon a shoulder: “Congratulations.”
Then I leaned over. Took hold of Hollis’ head, kissed her beautiful lips.
Still everybody sat there. A nation of subnormals.
Nobody moved. The candles glowed like subnormal candles.
I walked over to the Zen master. Shook his hand: “Thank you. You did the ceremony quite well.”
He seemed really pleased, which made me feel a little better. But the rest of those gangsters—old Tammany Hall and the Mafia: they were too proud and stupid to shake hands with an Oriental. Only one other kissed Hollis. Only one other shook the hand of the Zen master. It could have been a shotgun wedding. All that family! Well, I’d be the last to know or the last to be told.
Now that the wedding was over, it seemed very cold in there. They just sat and stared at each other. I could never comprehend the human race, but somebody had to play clown. I ripped off my green necktie, flipped it into the air:
“HEY! YOU COCKSUCKERS! ISN’T ANYBODY HUNGRY?”
I walked over and started grabbing at cheese, pickled-pigs’ feet and chicken cunt. A few stiffly warmed up, walked over and grabbed at the food, not knowing what else to do.
I got them to nibbling. Then I left and hit for the scotch and water.
As I was in the kitchen, refilling, I heard the Zen master say,
“I must leave now.”
“Oooh, don’t leave . . .” I heard an old, squeaky and female voice from among the greatest gangland gathering in three years. And even she didn’t sound as if she meant it. What was I doing in with these? Or the UCLA prof? No, the UCLA prof belonged there.
There must be a repentance. Or something. Some action to humanize the proceedings.
As soon as I heard the Zen master close the front door, I drained my waterglass full of scotch. Then I ran out through the candlelit room of jabbering bastards, found the door (that was a job, for a moment), and I opened the door, closed it, and there I was . . . about 15 steps behind Mr. Zen. We still had 45 or 50 steps to go to get down to the parking lot.
I gained upon him, lurching, two steps to his one.
I screamed: “Hey, Masta!”
Zen turned. “Yes, old man?”
Old man?
We both stopped and looked at each other on that winding stairway there in the moonlit tropical garden. It seemed like a time for a closer relationship.
Then I told him: “I either want both your motherfucking ears or your motherfucking outfit—that neon-lighted bathrobe you’re wearing!”
“Old man, you are crazy!”
“I thought Zen had more moxie than to make unmitigated and offhand statements. You disappoint me, Masta!”
Zen placed his palms together and looked upward.
I told him, “I either want your motherfucking outfit or your motherfucking ears!”
He kept his palms together, while looking upward.
I plunged down the steps, missing a few but still flying forward, which kept me from cracking my head open, and as I fell downward toward him, I tried to swing, but I was all momentum, like something cut loose without direction. Zen caught me and straightened me.
“My son, my son . . .”
We were in close. I swung. Caught a good part of him. I heard him hiss. He stepped one step back. I swung again. Missed. Went way wide left. Fell into some imported plants from hell. I got up. Moved toward him again. And in the moonlight, I saw the front of my own pants—splattered with blood, candle-drippings and puke.
On Drinking Page 3