Betting on the Muse

by Charles Bukowski

“No!”

  “God damn you!”

  Wanda stood up. She took her napkin and slapped James’ face once and then again, hard.

  James looked down into his plate of uneaten eggs. He spoke softly.

  “I want you out of my house. I don’t want you here…”

  Wanda just stood there. Then she laughed.

  “Why, you old fuck! After all these years of taking care of you, you think I’m just going to walk out of here?”

  “I’ll give you the money…”

  “You’ll give me the money? I handle the money around here.”

  “I don’t want you here…”

  Wanda walked around the table and stood over him.

  “Why you big baby! That’s what you are, a big baby!” she laughed.

  “I hate you,” he said.

  “You hate me, you ungrateful old man? Who cuts your hair, your toenails, pays your bills? Who makes your dental appointments? Who protects you from people? Who washes the shit out of your shorts? Who feeds you? You’d be dead in a week without me!”

  James sat there over his eggs as Wanda stood there.

  “I want to die,” he said, “I don’t care anymore…”

  “No use dying, old boy, you can still make us some money. I know Stanhouse is going to give us that half million. And all you have to do is say a few lines, or mumble a few. Anyhow, if you die now, you’ll only go to hell.”

  “This is hell…”

  “Yeah, for me. Now, Jimmy, I’m telling you for the last time. Eat those eggs!”

  James hated those eggs. They were dry and burned. He only felt like eating when he felt good and Wanda just stood there not understanding how or why he felt like he did. When he had first met her she had seemed so nice. She had laughed at everything he said, she had sat with him in the projection room while they watched his old films and she had said, “You were really better than Brando and a hell of a lot more man!” After his four wives and his endless girlfriends, Wanda had finally seemed the answer. But it had changed, it had changed all around.

  He picked up the plate of eggs and threw them on the floor.

  “I won’t eat these eggs!”

  Wanda stepped back a moment. She was a large woman with straight black hair, cut short. She stiffened and she smiled.

  “Well, well, well. Look here, we have a bad boy here today, a very bad boy!”

  Wanda walked over and finished off her sherry. Her cigarette had gone out. She lit her cigarette. Then she walked to the kitchen closet. She came back with a whisk broom, a dustpan and a wastebasket. She stood over James with them and then suddenly threw them at him. They struck him, then clattered to the floor.

  “Now!” she said, “you clean up that mess!”

  James just sat there staring at the table. She stood over him. He could feel her there. Like something impossible. A pain gripped his throat, then his head. He sat there.

  “Well,” she said, “get going!”

  Still, he sat there.

  “Well, I’m not going to wait much longer!”

  Then he said it:

  “Go to hell!”

  “What? What did you say?”

  “I said, go to hell!”

  Wanda leaped on him like a leopard. His chair fell backwards. She had a grip on his head and they rolled on the floor. She was partly on top of him, an arm locked around his head. Her strength surprised him. He could hardly breathe, but he could hear her:

  “You old fool, you don’t know the misery it’s been living with you…”

  James couldn’t breathe. It was getting worse. He felt that it was over for him and he didn’t mind that except somehow he really resented it that it was at the hands of Wanda. Then he saw the fork on the floor. Then he had the fork in his hand and he plunged it into her back as hard as he could. Wanda screamed and leaped up. James scrambled to his feet. Wanda stood there trying to reach the fork in her back, screaming. It was in a place that she couldn’t quite reach with either hand. She looked awful with that fork stuck in there and the blood coming down. Then she stopped screaming and just looked at him. She had the look of an animal in a trap.

  “It’s not going to kill you, Wanda,” he said, “it’s just a fork.”

  “Pull it out, Jimmy!” she commanded.

  She turned her back to him and he stared at the fork sticking out there. It was firmly in place and the blood was flowing. He was surprised at all the blood. The blood made Wanda real again. It was like when they first met: she was human after all.

  “Pull it out, Jimmy!”

  “I will, Wanda, if you will promise me something…”

  “Just pull the fork out!”

  He looked at the fork in her back. He remembered how they used to make love. How every day was a good day. How it felt so good to care for somebody again and how it felt so good to be loved again. How everything had seemed funny, there were so many things to laugh at. Why did it go away? He had never wanted it to go away.

  “You’ve got to promise me something…”

  “All right, I promise! What is it?”

  “If I pull the fork out will you go away and leave me alone?”

  “I promise! Now pull it out!”

  James grabbed the fork with both hands and pulled.

  “Christ,” he said, “it’s really in there!”

  “Pull, you son-of-a-bitch! You’re the leading man, you’re the movie star, remember?”

  James remembered his movies and it gave him strength. The fork came out and he had it in his hand and he looked at it. Wanda whirled, furious, grabbed the fork and they stared at one another. Then she suddenly plunged it into his stomach. She pulled it out and jammed it in again and pulled it out. James fell to the floor holding his gut.

  “Now we’re even,” he said helplessly, looking at her.

  “You senile asshole!” she screamed. “I always hated you and your movies!”

  She moved over him and jabbed the fork at his face. She pulled it back as he grabbed at his mouth with both hands. She stuck the fork into his stomach again. She leaped on him and rolled him over screaming, “I hate you, I hate you!”

  Once more she jammed the fork into his stomach, pulled it out. Then she stopped. James lay very still, not looking at her, almost not breathing. She dropped the fork, got up and walked back to the table, sat down. She then saw his plate, his eggs, his potatoes on the floor. When she saw that, the anger left her. Her eyes became very wide and almost beautiful. With a rush a sudden remorse came over her. It was odd. Now, she cared for him. He had been a strange and a wonderful and famous man. He had gotten old. But that wasn’t his fault. Now she didn’t want the money. She only wanted him alive. She wanted him there with her. Far off she heard a dog barking. That dog was alive. When something was alive it was unique, exceptional, no matter what the circumstances.

  Wanda inhaled, exhaled, very conscious of doing so. She didn’t dare think of James.

  The dog barked again.

  She took the bottle, poured another sherry. She drank it down. She looked around. It was a beautiful house.

  The phone rang. Wanda picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  It was Stanhouse. Stanhouse said it was okay about the half million. He was ready to come over with the papers when James could see him.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stanhouse,” Wanda said, “we’ve talked it over and James has decided to give up acting.”

  She hung up quietly.

  Off in the distance the same dog barked again.

  an evaluation

  I’ve seen 70,000 horse races

  and often

  like this afternoon

  as the horses slowly approached

  the gate,

  I thought, this is insanity,

  I am murdering the hours,

  I am tearing my heart out and

  stamping on it with my

  feet,

  this is a madhouse,

  this is towering stupidity,

&nb
sp; this is death laughing at

  me.

  this is just another 8 hour

  job.

  they put them in the gate,

  the sun came down,

  a bell rang and they broke

  from the gate

  and were off down the

  track,

  and I thought, does it

  really matter?

  where’s the glory here?

  it’s just repeat and

  repeat and

  repeat,

  the grinding hours,

  the routine.

  it was a

  business,

  it was a

  fake.

  the game was getting old,

  I was getting old.

  they came around and into

  the stretch,

  the son-of-a-bitch, it was

  the 7 horse, my horse,

  drawing away at about 9-to-one.

  I had a ten on it.

  it paid $90.20.

  I decided to stay for one more

  race.

  what would I do at home

  at 3:30 in the

  afternoon?

  sleep?

  I strolled toward the

  payoff

  window.

  a fellow had to keep his

  hand in the

  action.

  neon

  today at the track they gave

  all the patrons

  neon caps.

  the caps glowed and

  said

  HOLLYWOOD PARK.

  some of those jerk-offs

  wore their caps

  backwards.

  25 thousand neon

  heads.

  faces of

  greed.

  stone

  faces.

  faces of

  horror.

  blank wall

  faces.

  idiot eyes

  under

  neon.

  fat white

  stupefied

  husbands and

  wives.

  Oakies with

  blond hair.

  screechers

  preachers

  poachers

  punks…

  left-overs,

  half-dead,

  part

  warm.

  neon

  neon.

  cement

  faces.

  blithering

  voices.

  nothing.

  neon over

  nothing.

  I thought I was

  in hell.

  maybe I was in

  hell.

  a day-glow

  inferno of

  festering

  hell.

  they think this is the way it’s done

  he saw me walking into the track and he stood

  waiting, he was a jockey’s agent and I only knew

  him slightly

  but then he moved toward me,

  “Hey, Hank, I want to ask you something…”

  I stopped.

  he said, “Listen, I know this fellow, he’s a friend

  of mine and he writes poems, really wonderful

  poems…”

  “I can’t help him,” I said and began walking

  off.

  “Yes, you can, all you have to do is to get on the

  telephone!”

  “No, I can’t…”

  I walked further off.

  “WHAT IS HE SUPPOSED TO DO THEN?” he yelled.

  “SEND HIS WORK TO A GOD-DAMNED PUBLISHER!” I

  yelled back.

  then I was up the escalator and that was

  over.

  if I ever owned a horse I would never use one of

  his jocks.

  meanwhile, I checked the tote.

  my selection was reading 5-to-one.

  nice way to right a day that had started

  wrong.

  the pile-up

  the 3 horse clipped the heels of

  the 7, they both went down and

  the 9 stumbled over them,

  jocks rolling, horses’ legs flung

  skyward.

  then the jocks were up, stunned

  but all right

  and I watched the horses

  rising in the late afternoon,

  it had not been a good day for

  me

  and I watched the horses rise,

  please, I said inside, no broken

  legs!

  and the 9 was all right

  and the 7

  and the 3 also,

  they were walking,

  the horses didn’t need the van,

  the jocks didn’t need the

  ambulance.

  what a beautiful day,

  what a perfectly beautiful day,

  what a wondrously lovely

  day—

  3 winners in a

  single race.

  12 minutes to post

  as we stand there before the purple mountains

  in our stupid clothing, we pause, look

  about: nothing changes, it only solidifies,

  our lives crawl slowly, our wives deprecate

  us.

  then

  we awaken a moment—

  the animals are entering the track:

  Quick’s Sister, Perfect Raj, Vive le Torch,

  Miss Leuschner, Keepin’ Peace, True to Be,

  Lou’s Good Morning.

  now, it’s good for us: the lightning flash

  of hope, the laughter of the hidden gods.

  we were never meant to be what we are or where

  we are, we are looking for an out, some music

  from the sun, the girl we never found.

  we are betting on the miracle again

  there before the purple mountains

  as the horses parade past

  so much more beautiful than

  our lives.

  as the poems go

  as the poems increase into the thousands you

  realize that you’ve created very

  little.

  it all comes down to rain, the sunlight,

  the traffic, the nights and the days of the

  years, the faces.

  leaving this will be easier than living

  it.

  typing one more line now as

  a man plays a piano through the radio.

  the best writers have said very

  little

  and the worst,

  far too much.

  the telephone

  many women I have known have

  been very much connected to

  the telephone.

  they can talk virtually for

  hours.

  it is their manner of

  measuring where they

  are or are

  not.

  some women have major

  problems with aging

  and with

  men.

  on the telephone they

  speak of

  real and imagined

  injustice,

  they let loose their

  poison,

  they justify their

  beliefs and

  positions.

  my wife has been

  speaking to one of her

  gender

  back east.

  the conversation is

  now proceeding

  into its second

  hour.

  if a psychiatrist or

  a psychologist

  were listening

  their notes would be

  bulging with

  references to

  trenchant

  instability and

  gratuitous masturbation

  of the

  psyche.

  but I am neither psychiatrist

  nor psychologist.

  I am just the poor
son-of-a-bitch

  who has to pay

  the

  phone bill.

  a misogynist who

  writes these

  poems.

  HIDEAWAY

  Harry walked into the bar and found a stool alone. Nobody on either side of him. The bartender dragged his bloated body up and Harry ordered a scotch and water. The barkeep waddled off. He was wearing dark brown pants. His butt was wide, gross. Harry stared at the sagging buttocks, watched the wrinkles in the back of his pants. Then Harry glanced around. Nothing but lonely middle-aged guys who wanted to talk about the Rams or the Dodgers or something equally senseless.

  The bartender came back with the drink. Harry paid him but the bartender kept standing there. He was wearing a faded blue t-shirt with a hole near the left shoulder. He leaned against the bar and his belly flopped over the wood. He kept looking at Harry and Harry could hear him breathing.

  “What do you want?” Harry asked him.

  “I wanna welcome ya to the Hideaway.” The bartender grinned through his greasy lips.

  “Thanks,” said Harry.

  The bartender reached under the bar and came up with a wooden cup. He grinned foolishly at Harry, shook the container up near his ear, lowered it and flipped out a pair of dice. “All the boys,” he said, “are going to roll to see who buys the next round of drinks. Low number buys. You wanna join us?”

  The conversation in the bar stopped. The juke box was silent. Harry noted that most of the patrons were dressed in dirty white t-shirts. Some of them were skinny, with long thin arms and the t-shirts hung from them like dirty rags. Others were fat or muscular and the t-shirts gripped them snugly, creeping up toward their armpits leaving their hairy bellies and bellybuttons exposed. One guy was dressed in a heavy jacket that was much too large for him. They all seemed to be waiting for his answer.