From
Ham on Rye
One day, just like in grammar school, like with David, a boy attached himself to me. He was small and thin and had almost no hair on top of his head. The guys called him Baldy. His real name was Eli LaCrosse. I liked his real name, but I didn’t like him. He just glued himself to me. He was so pitiful that I couldn’t tell him to get lost. He was like a mongrel dog, starved and kicked. Yet it didn’t make me feel good going around with him. But since I knew that mongrel dog feeling, I let him hang around. He used a cuss word in almost every sentence, at least one cuss word, but it was all fake, he wasn’t tough, he was scared. I wasn’t scared but I was confused so maybe we were a good pair.
I walked him back to his place after school every day. He was living with his mother, his father and his grandfather. They had a little house across from a small park. I liked the area, it had great shade trees, and since some people had told me that I was ugly, I always preferred shade to the sun, darkness to light.
During our walks home Baldy had told me about his father. He had been a doctor, a successful surgeon, but he had lost his license because he was a drunk. One day I met Baldy’s father. He was sitting in a chair under a tree, just sitting there.
“Dad,” he said, “this is Henry.”
“Hello, Henry.”
It reminded me of when I had seen my grandfather for the first time, standing on the steps of his house. Only Baldy’s father had black hair and a black beard, but his eyes were the same—brilliant and glowing, so strange. And here was Baldy, the son, and he didn’t glow at all.
“Come on,” Baldy said, “follow me.”
We went down into a cellar, under the house. It was dark and damp and we stood a while until our eyes grew used to the gloom. Then I could see a number of barrels.
“These barrels are full of different kinds of wine,” Baldy said. “Each barrel has a spigot. Want to try some?”
“No.”
“Go ahead, just try a god-damned sip.”
“What for?”
“You think you’re a god-damned man or what?”
“I’m tough,” I said.
“Then take a fucking sample.”
Here was little Baldy, daring me. No problem. I walked up to a barrel, ducked my head down.
“Turn the god-damned spigot! Open your god-damned mouth!”
“Are there any spiders around here?”
“Go on! Go on, god damn it!”
I put my mouth under the spigot and opened it. A smelly liquid trickled out and into my mouth. I spit it out.
“Don’t be chicken! Swallow it, what the shit!”
I opened the spigot and I opened my mouth. The smelly liquid entered and I swallowed it. I turned off the spigot and stood there. I thought I was going to puke.
“Now, you drink some,” I said to Baldy.
“Sure,” he said, “I ain’t fucking afraid!”
He got down under a barrel and took a good swallow. A little punk like that wasn’t going to outdo me. I got under another barrel, opened it and took a swallow. I stood up. I was beginning to feel good.
“Hey, Baldy,” I said, “I like this stuff.”
“Well, shit, try some more.”
I tried some more. It was tasting better. I was feeling better.
“This stuff belongs to your father, Baldy. I shouldn’t drink it all.”
“He doesn’t care. He’s stopped drinking.”
Never had I felt so good. It was better than masturbating.
I went from barrel to barrel. It was magic. Why hadn’t someone told me? With this, life was great, a man was perfect, nothing could touch him.
I stood up straight and looked at Baldy.
“Where’s your mother? I’m going to fuck your mother!”
“I’ll kill you, you bastard, you stay away from my mother!”
“You know I can whip you, Baldy.”
“Yes.”
“All right, I’ll leave your mother alone.”
“Let’s go then, Henry.”
“One more drink . . .”
I went to a barrel and took a long one. Then we went up the cellar stairway. When we were out, Baldy’s father was still sitting in his chair.
“You boys been in the wine cellar, eh?”
“Yes,” said Baldy.
“Starting a little early, aren’t you?”
We didn’t answer. We walked over to the boulevard and Baldy and I went into a store which sold chewing gum. We bought several packs of it and stuck it into our mouths. He was worried about his mother finding out. I wasn’t worried about anything. We sat on a park bench and chewed the gum and I thought, well, now I have found something, I have found something that is going to help me, for a long long time to come. The park grass looked greener, the park benches looked better and the flowers were trying harder. Maybe that stuff wasn’t good for surgeons but anybody who wanted to be a surgeon, there was something wrong with them in the first place.
* * *
I raised my glass and drained it. “You’re just hiding from reality,” Becker said.
“Why not?”
“You’ll never be a writer if you hide from reality.”
“What are you talking about? That’s what writers do!”
Becker stood up. “When you talk to me, don’t raise your voice.”
“What do you want to do, raise my dick?”
“You don’t have a dick!”
I caught him unexpectedly with a right that landed behind his ear. The glass flew out of his hand and he staggered across the room. Becker was a powerful man, much stronger than I was. He hit the edge of the dresser, turned, and I landed another straight right to the side of his face. He staggered over near the window which was open and I was afraid to hit him then because he might fall into the street.
Becker gathered himself together and shook his head to clear it.
“All right now,” I said, “let’s have a little drink. Violence nauseates me.”
“O.K.,” said Becker.
He walked over and picked up his glass. The cheap wine I drank didn’t have corks, the tops just unscrewed. I unscrewed a new bottle. Becker held out his glass and I poured him one. I poured myself one, set the bottle down. Becker emptied his. I emptied mine.
“No hard feelings,” I said.
“Hell, no, buddy,” said Becker, putting down his glass. Then he dug a right into my gut. I doubled over and as I did he pushed down on the back of my head and brought his knee up into my face. I dropped to my knees, blood running from my nose all over my shirt.
“Pour me a drink, buddy,” I said, “let’s think this thing over.”
“Get up,” said Becker, “that was just chapter one.”
I got up and moved toward Becker. I blocked his jab, caught his right on my elbow, and punched a short straight right to his nose. Becker stepped back. We both had bloody noses.
I rushed him. We were both swinging blindly. I caught some good shots. He hit me with another good right to the belly. I doubled over but came up with an uppercut. It landed. It was a beautiful shot, a lucky shot. Becker lurched backwards and fell against the dresser. The back of his head hit the mirror. The mirror shattered. He was stunned. I had him. I grabbed him by the shirt front and hit him with a hard right behind his left ear. He dropped on the rug, and knelt there on all fours. I walked over and unsteadily poured myself a drink.
“Becker,” I told him, “I kick ass around here about twice a week. You just showed up on the wrong day.”
I emptied my glass. Becker got up. He stood a while looking at me. Then he came forward.
“Becker,” I said, “listen . . .”
He started a right lead, pulled it back and slammed a left to my mouth. We started in again. There wasn’t much defense. It was just punch, punch, punch. He pushed me over a chair and the chair flattened. I got up, caught him coming in. He stumbled backwards and I landed another right. He crashed backwards into the wall and the whole room sho
ok. He bounced off and landed a right high on my forehead and I saw lights: green, yellow, red . . . Then he landed a left to the ribs and a right to the face. I swung and missed.
God damn, I thought, doesn’t anybody hear all this noise? Why don’t they come and stop it? Why don’t they call the police?
Becker rushed me again. I missed a roundhouse right and then that was it for me . . .
barred from the Polo Lounge
once in Paris
drunk on national TV
before 50 million Frenchmen
I began babbling vulgar thoughts
and when the host put his hand over my
mouth
I leaped up from the round table of
various literary pricks
and tried to walk out
but the doors were locked
and manned by guards
but I was determined to get
the shit out of there
so I pulled my 6 inch blade
and demanded exit
as the guards backed off
regrouped
then charged me
grabbed my steel
and tossed me outside
upon my ass.
this time
it was about a recording
deal.
I was to meet various
producers at the
Polo Lounge
only they were late
so I found the bar and
began sucking it
up
until finally somebody
gave me a necktie
and I was led to a
table
where I was seated with
these producers and hangers-
on
and they ordered
dinner.
I passed, ordered
drinks.
I kept drinking.
then I had to piss
and I asked,
“where’s the crapper?”
and they told me
and my girlfriend said,
“he gets lost so easy,
somebody ought to go
with him, he cracks up
when he gets lost.”
but I told everybody
that I would be
all right
and I found the
crapper
pissed well
but coming out
I was lost at
once
and all my old
nightmares of being
lost
became reality
I wandered up and
down
among dozens of
tables
but mine had
vanished
and all the people
were contented and
superior
and I wandered about
and I got very
thirsty
so I walked over to
a table
lifted some guy’s drink
and drank it down.
I thought it was very
funny
but the people stared
at me
with their paperclip
eyes
and so I started
talking to them
like what I thought they
looked like and felt like
to me
and then this guy
rushed up to me and he
was the
maître d’
and since he looked
over-startling
I pulled out my 6 inch
blade
pointed it a fingertip from
his stomach and said,
“now, you show me where I’m
sitting!”
and sure enough, he
did . . .
next morning I awakened,
popped up, asked my
girlfriend, “where are
we?”
she told me that we were
in a motel room.
“do you remember what
happened last night?”
she asked.
then I heard it: a
good friend of mine
had given the maître d’
$200 not to call
the police but
for the rest of my
life I was
forever barred from the
Polo Lounge.
“where the hell is our
car?” I asked.
“take it easy,” she
said, “the car’s out
back, I got up early
this morning and
checked.”
“o.k.,” I said, moving
toward the bathroom,
“now we can begin all
over again . . .”
trying to dry out
I am a drunk trying to stay off the bottle for
one night;
the tv has drugged me with stale faces that say
nothing;
I am naked and alone on the bed
among the twisted sheets I read the pages of a
supermarket scandal sheet
and am dulled with the treacherous boredom of
famous lives;
drop the paper to the floor,
scratch my balls . . .
good day at the track: made $468. I look
at the ceiling, ceilings are friendly like the
tops of large tombs;
I begin to try to remember the names of all the
women I have lived with . . .
soon enter a stage of half-sleep, the best kind:
totally relaxed yet semi-conscious under the over-
head light, the cat
asleep at my feet, the phone rings! I
sit up in terror, it’s like an invasion and I
reach over
pick up the
phone
yes? . . .
what are you doing?
nothing . . .
are you alone?
with cat . . .
do you have a woman with
you?
just the
cat . . .
no . . .
that’s good.
we say goodbye and I hang the phone up
then walk down the stairway into the kitchen
into the kitchen closet
get the bottle of 1978 Mirassou Monterey County
Gamay Beaujolais
and walk up the stairway, thinking, well, maybe
tomorrow night will be the
night.
speaking of drinking . . .
many curious things have happened to me while
intoxicated like awakening in some bed with a
woman I didn’t know or in a jail cell or
injured or having been rolled
or any of the strange aftermaths of imbibing
or during imbibing like
one night while making what I thought was a
left against traffic into what I thought was
the driveway of a liquor store
only there wasn’t any driveway where I thought
there was
and in that split-second of timing
I swung right to miss hitting the curb
and found myself driving straight into traffic
on a main and busy boulevard and
like in a mad dream
the first car to go past me
(in the opposite direction)
was a police car
and for some reason I
waved at the officer
then took a quick left at the next
corner and
zig-zagged through a series of
streets in order to
throw off his pursuit
and I eventually came upon
another liquor store
got my Jim Beam
and sneaked it up the back street
s
to my place where I opened the
door
tripped on a throw rug near the
coffee table
and crashed against it
glass top and
all.
I awakened the next morning flat
against the coffee table
the 230 pounds of me having crushed all
four legs of the table under
but when I got up
the thin glass top was down there
unbroken . . .
I drank the Jim Beam that night to
celebrate my luck which
like anybody else’s came more from
practice than
divinity.
From
Tough Company
Question: Your writing is permeated with drink. You’re guiltless about it. There was a recent book by Donald Newlove, Those Drinking Days, which centered around the corrosive effect of drinking on American writers: Hemingway, Berryman, Mailer, etc. You have any brief pronouncements on the role of drinking in your life and writing?
Bukowski: There is a great sense of guilt attached to drinking. I don’t share that guilt. If I wish to destroy my brain cells and my liver and various other parts, that’s my business. Drink has gotten me into situations I never would have gotten into: beds, jails, fights, and long crazy nights. In all my years as a common laborer and bum, drink was the one thing that made me feel better. It got me out of the stale muck trap. The Greeks didn’t call wine “the Blood of the Gods” for no reason at all. One hundred percent of my work was (is) written while drunk and drinking. It loosens the air, puts some gamble into the word. I don’t think drink destroys writers. I think they are destroyed by self-satisfaction, the god damned ego. They lack durability because they’ve had to endure very little—some of them had just a bit, in the beginning. They start too fast, quit too early and are generally lower-level human beings. [ . . . ]
Question: Have your drinking habits changed since you’ve been a little more successful? You seem to have gone from beer and cheap wine to good wine and scotch. Are the drunks any different? Hangovers less painful?
Bukowski: I drink mostly good wine now, and drinking some, of course, right now. I now stay out of the bars, prefer to drink alone. And the better stuff makes for less fierce hangovers. Now I drink more hours but I drink much slower than I used to. All of which had increased the number of pages I type up. And I was always shamefully prolific.
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