On Drinking

by Charles Bukowski

  cigarettes.”

  when we got back

  he’d sit and look at me a while

  and then bring out the pint,

  peel the cellophane, uncap the bottle

  and put it to his

  lips . . . “Aaaaah!

  Care for a nip?”

  he finally moved to Cincinnati

  and I guess he’s

  still doing it.

  me?

  I gave up drinking

  yesterday.

  drinking

  for me

  it was or

  is

  a manner of

  dying

  with boots on

  and gun

  smoking and a

  symphony music

  background.

  drinking alone,

  I mean.

  that’s the only

  drinking—

  drinking alone

  being alone

  fitting the parts

  feeling the parts.

  of course

  drinking can

  kill

  you

  a cold shower

  can

  or a painting by

  Gaugin

  or an old dog

  on a hot

  day.

  I would have to suppose

  that one thousand swallows

  crossing your marble

  overhead

  sky

  at once

  could do

  it.

  that’s why I

  drink: waiting for

  something like

  that.

  the angels of Sunday

  Sunday night in Los Angeles is the graveyard of the nation,

  they are all waiting for Monday morning.

  we went into Shakey’s anyhow.

  of course, they didn’t have the movies on.

  it looked more like a mortuary,

  7 people in there.

  my friend Dutch was crazy, worked 7 days a week,

  and bought a straw hat from one of the waiters

  for a buck, they gave me one for

  nothing.

  we sat there and ate pizza and drank beer.

  “Bukowski,” said Dutch, “you must be a Chinaman, your eyes

  are just little slits, but your nose is too big so you

  can’t be a Chinaman.”

  later he put some seats together and stretched out.

  I’d been drinking all day so when the guy came in and

  sat down at the piano I

  got up and danced

  throwing my straw up into the air and catching it.

  the 7 people watched me.

  I blew a kiss to an old grey-haired lady,

  but there was nothing I could do for the night

  there was nothing I could do for the town.

  the night and the town were dead.

  there weren’t even any police around.

  I shook Dutch.

  “let’s go, I want to get drunk alone.”

  we walked out, Dutch stealing the beer pitcher.

  outside he pissed designs in the parking lot.

  then we got into the car and drove away from there,

  just two old guys without women

  in Los Angeles

  the Sunday graveyard of the nation,

  and the biggest action I caught all that day and night

  was when I burned my fingers

  lighting a cigarette outside my door.

  then I went in and got drunk,

  alone.

  From

  “Charles Bukowski Answers 10 Easy Questions”

  Question: What would you say is the best brand of American beer on the market today?

  Bukowski: Well, that’s a bit difficult. Miller’s is the easiest on my system but each new batch of Miller’s seems to taste a bit worse. Something is going on there that I don’t like. I seem to be gradually going over to Schlitz. And I prefer beer in the bottle. Beer in the can definitely gives off a metallic taste. Cans are for the convenience of storekeepers and breweries. Whenever I see a man drinking out of a can I think, “now there is a damn fool.” Also, bottled beer should be in a brown bottle. Miller again errs in putting the stuff into a white bottle. Beer should be protected both from metal and from light.

  Of course, if you have the money, it’s best to go up the scale and get the more expensive beers, imported or better-made American. Instead of a dollar 35 you have to go a dollar 75 or 2 and quarter and up. The taste is immediately noticeable. And you can drink more with less hangover. Most ordinary American beer is almost poison, especially the stuff that comes out of the spigots at racetracks. This beer actually stinks, I mean, to the nose. If you must buy a beer at the racetrack it is best to let it sit for 5 minutes before drinking it. There is something about the oxygen getting in there that removes some of the stink. The stuff is simply green.

  Beer was much better before World War 2. It had tang and was filled with sharp little bubbles. It’s wash now, strictly flat. You just do the best you can with it.

  Beer is better to write with and talk with than whiskey. You can go longer and make more sense. Of course, much depends upon the talker and the writer. But beer is fattening, plenty, and it lessens the sex drive, I mean, both the day you are drinking it and the day after. Heavy drinking and heavy loving seldom go hand in hand after the age of 35. I’d say a good chilled wine is the best way out and it should be drank slowly after a meal, with just perhaps a small glass before eating.

  Heavy drinking is a substitute for companionship and it’s a substitute for suicide. It’s a secondary way of life. I dislike drunks but I do suppose I take a little drink now and then myself. Amen.

  drunk

  ol’ Bukowski

  drunk

  I hold to the edge of the table

  with my belly dangling over my

  belt

  and I glare at the lampshade

  the smoke clearing

  over

  North Hollywood

  the boys put their muskets down

  lift high their green-fish beer

  as I fall forward off the couch

  kiss rug hairs like cunt

  hairs

  close as I’ve been in a

  long time.

  From

  “Notes on the Life of an Aged Poet”

  Most poets read badly. They are either too vain or too stupid. They read too low or too loud. And, of course, most of their poetry is bad. But the audience hardly notices. They are personality gazing. And they laugh at the wrong time and like the wrong poems for the wrong reasons. But bad poets create bad audiences; death brings more death. I had to give most of my early readings while quite intoxicated. Fear was there, of course, fear of reading to them, but the disgust was stronger. At some universities I simply broke out the pint and drank as I read. It seemed to work—the applause was fair enough and I felt little pain from the reading, but it seemed I was not invited back. The only 2nd invites I have received have been at places where I didn’t drink at the reading. So much for their measurements of poetry. Now and then, though, a poet does fall upon a magic audience where everything is right. I can’t explain how this works. It is very strange—it is as if the poet were the audience and the audience were the poet. It all flows.

  Of course, parties after readings can lead to many joys and/or disasters. I remember after one reading that the only room available to me was in the woman’s dorm, so we partied there, the profs and a few of the students and after they were gone I still had a bit of whiskey left and a bit of life left and I looked up at the ceiling and drank. Then I realized that, after all, I was THE DIRTY OLD MAN, so I left my room and walked around knocking on doors and demanding entrance. I wasn’t very lucky. The girls were nice enough, they laughed. I walked all about knocking on the doors and demanding entrance. Soon I was lost and I couldn’t find my room. Panic. Lost in a girls’ dor
m! It took me what seemed several hours to find my room again. I believe the adventures that come with the readings are what might make them possibly more than survival goals.

  Once my ride in from the airport arrived drunk. I wasn’t entirely sober. On the way in I read him a dirty poem a lady had written me. It was snowing and the roads were slick. When I reached this particularly erotic line my friend said, “Oh, my god!” and he lost control of the car and we spun and spun and spun, and I told him as we were spinning, “This is it, Andre, we’re not going to make it!,” and I lifted my bottle and there we tumbled into a ditch, unable to get out. Andre got out and thumbed; I pleaded old age and sat in the car sucking at my bottle. And who picked us up? Another drunk. We had 6 packs all over the floor and a 5th of whiskey. That turned out to be some reading.

  At another reading, someplace in Michigan, I put down my poems and asked if anybody wanted to arm wrestle. Then while 400 students circled around us I got down on the floor with this student and we began. I beat him and then we all went out and got drunk (after I got my check). I doubt I will ever repeat that performance.

  Of course, there are times when you awaken in a young lady’s house in bed with her and you realize that you have taken advantage of your poetry or that your poetry has been taken advantage of. I don’t believe a poet has any more right to a special young body than a garage mechanic, if as much. This is what spoils the poet: special treatment or his own idea that he is special. Of course, I am special but I don’t believe this applies to many of the others . . .

  my landlady and my landlord

  56, she leans

  forward

  in the kitchen

  2:25 a.

  m.

  same red

  sweater

  holes in

  elbows

  cook him something to

  EAT

  he says

  from the

  same red

  face

  3 years ago

  we broke down a tree

  fighting

  after he caught me

  kissing

  her.

  beer by the

  quarts

  we drink

  bad beer

  by the

  quarts

  she gets up

  and

  begins to

  fry

  something

  all night

  we sing songs

  songs from 1925 a.

  d. to

  1939 a.

  d.

  we talk about

  short skirts

  Cadillacs the

  Republican Administration

  the depression

  taxes

  horses

  Oklahoma

  here

  you son of a bitch,

  she says.

  drunk

  I lean forward and

  eat.

  The Blinds

  I moved to Philadelphia for some peace and quiet after New York City. After paying a week’s rent in a roominghouse, I walked down the street to look for the nearest bar. Half a block. I walked in and sat down. It was the poor part of town and the bar was fifty years old. You could smell the urine and shit of one-half a century wafting up into the bar from the restrooms.

  I ordered a draft. Everybody was talking, screaming up and down the bar. It was unlike Los Angeles bars or San Francisco bars or New York bars or New Orleans bars or the bars of any of the cities I had been in.

  It was 4:30 in the afternoon. Two guys were fighting in the center of the room. Everybody ignored them and kept on talking and drinking. The guy to the right of me was named Danny, the guy to the left, Jim. A bottle came looping through the air and just missed Danny’s nose. He grinned as it sailed past his cigarette. Then he turned in his seat and said to one of the fighters:

  “That was pretty close, you son of a bitch! Come that close again, and you got a real fight on your hands!”

  Then he turned away.

  Almost every seat was taken. I wondered where they came from, these people, how they made it. Jim was quieter, older, very red-faced. He had a kind of gentle weariness created by thousands of hangovers. It was the bar of the lost and the damned if I had ever seen one.

  There were women in there: one dyke who drank as if she didn’t enjoy it, a few housewives, fat, merry and a bit stupid, and two or three ladies who had come down from better times and were unattached. As I sat there one girl got up and left with a man. She was back in five minutes.

  “Helen! Helen! How do you do it?”

  She just laughed.

  Another jumped up to try her.

  “That must be good. I gotta have some!”

  Helen was back in five minutes, sitting over her drink.

  “She must have a suction pump for a pussy!”

  They all laughed. Helen laughed.

  “I gotta try me some of that,” said some old guy down at the end of the bar. “I haven’t had a hard-on since Teddy Roo-sevelt took his last hill.”

  It took Helen ten minutes with that one.

  “I want a sandwich,” said some guy. “Who’s gonna run me an errand for a sandwich?”

  “I will,” I said. I walked over.

  “O.k.,” he said, “I want a roast beef on a bun, everything on. You know where Hendrick’s is?”

  “No.”

  “One block west and across the street. You can’t miss it.”

  He gave me the money. “Keep the change.”

  I walked down to Hendrick’s. An old guy with a huge belly was behind the counter. “Roast beef on a bun, everything on, to go for some drunk down at Sharkey’s. And one beer for this drunk.”

  “We don’t have any draft.”

  “Bottle’s all right.”

  I drank the beer and took the sandwich back and sat down. A shot of whiskey appeared in front of me. I nodded thanks and drank it down. The juke box played.

  A young-looking fellow of about 22 walked down from behind the bar. He wasn’t the bartender.

  “I need the venetian blinds cleaned around here.”

  “You sure do. A filthier set of shafts I’ve never seen.”

  “The girls clean their pussies with them. Not only that, but I’ve lost five or six of those slats up there too.”

  “Probably room for more,” I said.

  “No doubt. What do you do?”

  “Run errands for sandwiches.”

  “How about the blinds?”

  “How much?”

  “Five bucks.”

  “You’re on.”

  Billy Boy (that was his name—he’d married the female owner of the bar, a gal of about 45, and had taken over) brought me two buckets, some suds, some rags and sponges and I took two blinds down, laid them out and began.

  “Drinks are free,” said Tommy the night bartender, “as long as you’re working.”

  “Shot of whiskey, Tommy.”

  I walked over to the bar, drank it down, then walked back to the buckets. It was slow work, the dust had settled into hard grime. I cut my hands several times and when I put them into the soapy water they stung and burned.

  “Shot of whiskey, Tommy.”

  I finally got one set of blinds finished and hung them back up. The patrons of the bar turned and admired my work.

  “Jesus. Beautiful.”

  “It sure helps this place.”

  “They’ll probably raise the price of drinks.”

  “Shot of whiskey, Tommy.”

  I drank it at the bar, then turned to get another set of blinds. I took them down, pulled out the slats and laid them on the table. I beat Jim at the pinball machine for a quarter, then I emptied the buckets in the crapper and got fresh water. The juke box played.

  The second set went slower. I cut my hands some more. The patrons stopped joking with me. It was simply work. The fun was gone. I doubted that those blinds had been cleaned in ten years. I was a hero, a five-dollar hero, but
nobody appreciated me. I won another quarter at pinball, then Billy Boy hollered at me to go back to work. I walked back to the venetian blinds. Helen walked by. I called her over. She was on her way to the women’s crapper.

  “Helen, I’ll have five bucks when I’m finished here. Will that cover?”

  “Sure, but you won’t be able to get it up after all that drinking.”

  “Baby, you don’t know a real man when you see one.”

  She laughed. “I’ll be here at closing time. If you can still stand up then, you can have it for nothing.”

  “I’ll be standing tall, baby!”

  Helen laughed again and walked back toward the crapper.

  “Shot of whiskey, Tommy.”

  “Hey, take it easy,” said Billy Boy, “or you’ll never finish that job tonight.”

  “Billy, if I don’t finish you keep your five.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Billy. “All you people heard? Those blinds gotta be finished by closing or no pay.”

  “We heard, Billy, you cheapass.”

  “We heard you, Billy.”

  “One for the road, Tommy.”

  Tommy gave me another whiskey and I drank it and walked back to the blinds. I began to feel sullen. Everybody else was sitting down drinking and laughing and I was scrubbing the grime off of venetian blinds. But I needed the five. There were three windows. After any number of whiskeys, I had the three sets of blinds up and shining.

  I walked up, got another whiskey and said, “O.k., Billy, pay up. I finished the job.”

  “You’re not finished, Hank.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s three more windows in the back room.”

  “The back room?”

  “The back room. The party room.”

  I walked back there with him. There were three more windows.

  “But, Billy, nobody ever comes back here.”

  “Oh yeah, sometimes we use this room.”

  “I’ll settle for two-fifty, Billy.”

  “No, you gotta do ’em all or no pay.”

  I walked back, got my buckets, dumped the water, put in clean water, soap, then took a set of blinds down. There wasn’t anybody in the back room. I pulled the blinds apart, put them on a table and looked at them. I went in for another whiskey, brought it back, sat down. My desire was gone.

  Jim walked back on his way to the crapper, stopped.

  “What’s the matter?”