On Love

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On Love Page 8

by Charles Bukowski


  for being together 50 or 60

  years

  who would have

  so long ago

  settled for anything

  else

  but fate

  fear and

  circumstance

  bound them,

  and as we tell them

  how wonderful they are

  in their great and enduring

  love

  only they

  really know

  but can’t tell us

  that from their first

  meeting

  on

  it didn’t mean

  all that

  like

  waiting on death

  now.

  it’s about the

  same.

  eulogy

  with old cars, especially when you buy them second

  hand and drive them for many years,

  a love affair begins:

  you have memorized each wire on the engine

  the dash and elsewhere,

  you are overly familiar with the

  carburetor

  the plugs

  the throttle arm

  other sundry

  parts.

  you have learned all the tricks to

  keep the affair going,

  you even know how to slam the glove compartment so that

  it will stay closed,

  how to slap the headlights with an open palm

  in order to have

  light,

  and you know how many times to pump the gas

  and how long to wait

  to start the motor,

  and you know each hole in the

  upholstery

  and the shape of each spring

  sticking through;

  the car has been in and out of

  police impounds,

  has been ticketed for various

  malfunctions:

  broken wipers in the rain,

  no turn signals at night, no

  brake lights, broken tail lights, bad

  brakes, excessive

  exhaust and so on . . .

  but for it all

  you knew it so well

  there was never an accident, the

  old car moved you from one place to

  another,

  almost faithfully

  —the poor man’s miracle.

  and when that last breakdown arrives,

  when the valves quit,

  when the tired piston arms weary and

  break, or the

  crankshaft falls out and

  you must sell it for

  junk

  —to watch it carted

  away

  hung there

  wheeled off

  as if it had no

  soul, no

  meaning,

  the thin rear tires

  and the back windshield

  the twisted license plate

  are the last things you

  see, and it

  hurts

  as if some human you loved very

  much

  and lived with

  day after day

  had died

  and you are the only

  one

  to have known

  the music

  the magic

  the unbelievable

  gallantry.

  40 years ago in that hotel room

  off of Union Avenue, 3 a.m., Jane and I had been

  drinking cheap wine since noon and I walked barefoot

  across the rugs, picking up shards of broken glass

  (in the daylight you could see them under the skin,

  blue lumps working toward the heart) and I walked in

  my torn shorts, ugly balls hanging out, my twisted and

  torn undershirt spotted with cigarette holes of various

  sizes. I stopped before Jane who sat in her drunken

  chair.

  then I screamed at her:

  “I’M A GENIUS AND NOBODY KNOWS IT BUT

  ME!”

  she shook her head, sneered and slurred through her

  lips:

  “shit! you’re a fucking

  asshole!”

  I stalked across the floor, this time picking up a

  piece of glass much larger than usual, and I reached down

  and plucked it out: a lovely large speared chunk dripping

  with my blood, I flung it off into space, turned and glared

  at Jane:

  “you don’t know anything, you

  whore!”

  “FUCK YOU!” she

  screamed.

  then the phone rang and I picked it up and

  yelled: “I’M A GENIUS AND NOBODY KNOWS IT BUT

  ME!”

  it was the desk clerk: “Mr. Chinaski, I’ve warned you

  again and again, you are keeping all our

  guests awake . . .”

  “GUESTS?” I laughed, “YOU MEAN THOSE FUCKING

  WINOS?”

  then Jane was there and she grabbed the phone and

  yelled: “I’M A FUCKING GENIUS TOO AND I’M THE

  ONLY WHORE WHO KNOWS IT!”

  and she hung up.

  then I walked over and put the

  chain on the door.

  then Jane and I pushed the sofa in

  front of the door

  turned out the lights

  and sat up in bed

  waiting for them,

  we were well aware of the

  location of the drunk

  tank: North Avenue

  21—such a fancy sounding

  address.

  we each had a chair at the

  side of the bed,

  and each chair held ashtray,

  cigarettes and

  wine.

  they came with much

  sound:

  “is this the right

  door?”

  “yeah,” he said,

  “413.”

  one of them beat with

  the end of his night

  stick:

  “L.A. POLICE DEPARTMENT!

  OPEN UP IN THERE!”

  we did not

  open up in there.

  then they both beat with

  their night sticks:

  “OPEN UP! OPEN UP IN

  THERE!”

  now all the guests were

  awake for sure.

  “come on, open up,” one of them

  said more quietly, “we just want to

  talk a bit, nothing more . . .”

  “nothing more,” said the other

  one, “we might even have a little drink

  with you . . .”

  30–40 years ago

  North Avenue 21 was a terrible place,

  40 or 50 men slept on the same floor

  and there was one toilet which nobody dared

  excrete upon.

  “we know that you’re nice people, we just

  want to meet you . . .”

  one of them said.

  “yeah,” the other one said.

  then we heard them

  whispering.

  we didn’t hear them walk

  away.

  we were not sure that they

  were gone.

  “holy shit,” Jane asked,

  “do you think they’re

  gone?”

  “shhhh . . .”

  I hissed.

  we sat there in the dark

  sipping at our

  wine.

  there was nothing to do

  but watch two neon signs

  through the window to the

  east

  one was near the library

  and said

  in red:

  JESUS SAVES.

  the other sign was more

  interesting:

  it was a large red bird

  which
flapped its wings

  seven times

  and then a sign lit up

  below it

  advertising

  SIGNAL GASOLINE.

  it was as good a life

  as we could

  afford.

  a magician, gone

  they go one by one and as they do it gets closer

  to me and

  I don’t mind that so much, it’s

  just that I can’t be practical about the

  mathematics that take others

  to the vanishing point.

  last Saturday

  one of racing’s greatest harness drivers

  died—little Joe O’Brien.

  I had seen him win many a

  race. he

  had a peculiar rocking motion

  he flicked the reins

  and rocked his body back and

  forth. he

  applied this motion

  during the stretch run and

  it was quite dramatic and

  effective . . .

  he was so small that he couldn’t

  lay the whip on as hard as the

  others

  so

  he rocked and rocked

  in the sulky

  and the horse felt the lightning

  of his excitement

  that rhythmic crazy rocking was

  transferred from man to

  beast . . .

  the whole thing had the feel of a

  crapshooter calling to the

  gods, and the gods

  so often answered . . .

  I saw Joe O’Brien win

  endless photo finishes

  many by a

  nose.

  he’d take a horse

  another driver couldn’t get a

  run out of

  and Joe would put his touch

  to it

  and the animal would

  most often respond with

  a flurry of wild energy.

  Joe O’Brien was the finest harness driver

  I had ever seen

  and I’d seen many over the

  decades.

  nobody could nurse and cajole

  a trotter or a pacer

  like little Joe

  nobody could make the magic work

  like Joe.

  they go one by one

  presidents

  garbage men

  killers

  actors

  pickpockets

  boxers

  hit men

  ballet dancers

  fishermen

  doctors

  fry cooks

  like

  that

  but Joe O’Brien

  it’s going to be hard

  hard

  to find a replacement for

  little Joe

  and

  at the ceremony

  held for him

  at the track tonight

  (Los Alamitos 10-1-84)

  as the drivers gathered in a

  circle

  in their silks

  at the finish line

  I had to turn my back

  to the crowd

  and climb the upper grandstand

  steps

  to the wall

  so the

  people wouldn’t

  see me

  cry.

  no luck for that

  there is a place in the heart that

  will never be filled

  a space

  and even during the

  best moments

  and

  the greatest of

  times

  we will know it

  we will know it

  more than

  ever

  there is a place in the heart that

  will never be filled

  and

  we will wait

  and

  wait

  in that

  space.

  love poem to a stripper

  50 years ago I watched the girls

  shake it and strip

  at The Burbank and The Follies

  and it was very sad

  and very dramatic

  as the light turned from green to

  purple to pink

  and the music was loud and

  vibrant,

  now I sit here tonight

  smoking and drinking

  listening to classical

  music

  but I still remember some of

  their names: Darlene, Candy, Jeanette

  and Rosalie.

  -Rosalie was the

  best, she knew how,

  and we twisted in our seats and

  made sounds

  as Rosalie brought magic

  to the lonely

  so long ago.

  now Rosalie

  either so very old or

  so quiet under the

  earth,

  this is the pimple-faced

  kid

  who lied about his

  age

  just to watch

  you.

  you were good, Rosalie

  in 1935,

  good enough to remember

  now

  when the light is

  yellow

  and the nights are

  slow.

  love crushed like a dead fly

  in many ways

  I had come upon lucky times

  but was still living in this

  bomb-struck court off the

  avenue.

  I had battered my way through

  many layers of

  adversity:

  being an uneducated man

  with

  wild mad dreams—

  some of them had

  evolved (I mean, if

  you’re going to be here

  you might as well fight

  for the miracle).

  but

  at once

  as such things occur—

  the lady I loved

  let off

  and began to

  fuck

  around the block

  with

  strangers

  imbeciles

  and probably some fairly good

  sorts

  but

  as such things occur—

  it was without

  warning

  and along with it

  the pitiable dull languor of

  disbelief

  and

  that painful mindless

  clawing.

  and also

  in the turning of the

  tides

  I broke out

  with a huge boil

  near

  apple-size, well, half a

  small apple

  but still a

  monstrosity of

  horror.

  I pulled the phone

  from the wall

  locked the door

  pulled the shades and

  drank

  just to pass the time of

  day and night, went

  mad, probably,

  but

  in a strange and

  delicious

  sense.

  found an old record

  played it

  over and over—

  a certain roaring section of

  the tonality

  fitting exactly into my

  cage

  my place

  my

  disenchantment—

  love dead like a crushed

  fly,

  I was reaching back and

  wandering through my

  idiocy, realizing that as a

  being

  I could have been

  better—

  not to her

  but to

  the grocery clerk

  the corner paperboy

  the st
ray cat

  the bartender

  and/or

  etc.

  we keep coming up

  short and

  shorter

  but

  ultimately

  are not so terrible

  as all that, then

  get a girlfriend who

  fucks

  around the block

  and

  a boil near apple-

  size.

  remembering then

  the chances

  turned away,

  some from lovely

  ones (at that

  moment)

  not many

  but some

  fucks

  turned away

  in honor of

  her.

  ah, redemption and

  remorse!

  and the bottle

  and the record

  playing over and

  over—

  asshole, asshole, ass-

  hole, be hard like the

  world,

  gear up for

  disintegration—

  what a record it was

  as you stumbled over the beer and

  whiskey bottles

  the shorts

  the shirts

  the memories

  besotted across the

  room.

  you came out of it

  two weeks later

  to find her

  in your doorway

  on a 9 a.m.

  morning

  hair neatly

  done,

  smiling

  as if all occurrence

  had been

  blotted out.

  she was just a

  dumb

  game-playing

  bitch

  having tried the

  others and

  finding them (in

  one way or the

  other)

  insufficient

  she was

  back (she

  thought)

  as you poured her a

  beer and

  tilted the Scotch

  into your early

  glass

  remembering

  exactly and forever

  the sounds of that record

  heard again and

  again:

  the gift of her had

  ended, new

  failures were about to

  begin

  as she crossed her long

  legs

  made that smile

  smile

  and said,

  gaily, “well, what have you

 

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