Factotum

by Charles Bukowski

  “You didn’t even get a taxi. These high heels in the snow!”

  I didn’t answer. We walked the four or five blocks to the rooming house. I went up the steps with her beside me. Then I walked down to my room, opened the door, closed it, got out of my clothes and went to bed. I heard her throw something against the wall of her room.

  28

  I kept hand-printing my short stories. I sent most of them to Clay Gladmore, whose New York mag Frontfire I admired. They only paid $25 a story but Gladmore had discovered William Saroyan and many others, had been Sherwood Anderson’s buddy. Gladmore returned many of my things with personal rejections. True, most of them weren’t very long but they did seem kind and they were encouraging. The larger magazines used printed rejection slips. Even Gladmore’s printed slips seemed to have some warmth to them: “We regret, alas, that this is a rejection slip but…”

  So I kept Gladmore busy with four or five stories a week. Meanwhile I was in ladies’s dresswear, down in the cellar. Klein still hadn’t ousted Larabee; Cox, the other shipping clerk, didn’t care who was ousted as long as he could sneak his smoke on the stairway every twenty-five minutes.

  Overtime became automatic. I drank more and more in my off hours. The eight hour day was gone forever. In the morning when you walked in you might as well settle for at least eleven hours. This included Saturdays, which used to be half-days, but which had turned into full days. The war was on but the ladies were buying the hell out of dresses…

  It was after one twelve hour day. I had gotten into my coat, had come up out of the cellar, had lighted a cigarette and was walking along the hallway toward the exit when I heard the boss’s voice: “Chinaski!”

  “Yes?”

  “Step in here.”

  My boss was smoking a long expensive cigar. He looked well-rested.

  “This is my friend, Carson Gentry.”

  Carson Gentry was also smoking a long expensive cigar.

  “Mr. Gentry is a writer too. He is very interested in writing. I told him that you were a writer and he wanted to meet you. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No I don’t mind.”

  They both sat there looking at me and smoking their cigars. Several minutes passed. They inhaled, exhaled, looked at me.

  “Do you mind if I leave?” I asked.

  “It’s all right,” said my boss.

  29

  I always walked to my room, it was six or seven blocks away. The trees along the streets were all alike: small, twisted, half-frozen, leafless. I liked them. I walked along under the cold moon.

  That scene in the office stayed with me. Those cigars, the fine clothes. I thought of good steaks, long rides up winding driveways that led to beautiful homes. Ease. Trips to Europe. Fine women. Were they that much more clever than I? The only difference was money, and the desire to accumulate it.

  I’d do it too! I’d save my pennies. I’d get an idea, I’d spring a loan. I’d hire and fire. I’d keep whiskey in my desk drawer. I’d have a wife with size 40 breasts and an ass that would make the paperboy on the corner come in his pants when he saw it wobble. I’d cheat on her and she’d know it and keep silent in order to live in my house with my wealth. I’d fire men just to see the look of dismay on their faces. I’d fire women who didn’t deserve to be fired.

  That was all a man needed: hope. It was lack of hope that discouraged a man. I remembered my New Orleans days, living on two five-cent candy bars a day for weeks at a time in order to have leisure to write. But starvation, unfortunately, didn’t improve art. It only hindered it. A man’s soul was rooted in his stomach. A man could write much better after eating a porterhouse steak and drinking a pint of whiskey than he could ever write after eating a nickel candy bar. The myth of the starving artist was a hoax. Once you realized that everything was a hoax you got wise and began to bleed and burn your fellow man. I’d build an empire upon the broken bodies and lives of helpless men, women, and children—I’d shove it to them all the way. I’d show them!

  I was at my rooming house. I walked up the stairway to the door of my room. I unlocked the door, turned on the light. Mrs. Downing had put the mail by my door. There was a large brown envelope from Gladmore. I picked it up. It was heavy with rejected manuscripts. I sat down and opened the envelope.

  Dear Mr. Chinaski:

  We are returning these four stories but we are keeping My Beerdrunk Soul is Sadder Than All The Dead Christmas Trees Of The World. We have been watching your work for a long time and we are most happy to accept this story.

  Sincerely,

  Clay Gladmore.

  I got up from the chair still holding my acceptance slip. MY FIRST. From the number one literary magazine in America. Never had the world looked so good, so full of promise. I walked over to the bed, sat down, read it again. I studied each curve in the handwriting of Gladmore’s signature. I got up, walked the acceptance slip over to the dresser, propped it there. Then I undressed, turned out the lights and went to bed. I couldn’t sleep. I got up, turned on the light, walked over to the dresser and read it again:

  Dear Mr. Chinaski…

  30

  I often saw Gertrude in the hall. We talked but I didn’t ask her out again. She stood very close to me, gently swaying, now and then staggering, as if drunk, upon her very high heels. One Sunday morning I found myself on the front lawn with Gertrude and Hilda. The girls made snowballs, laughed and screamed, threw them at me. Never having lived in snow country I was slow at first but I soon found out how to make a snowball and hurl it. Gertrude fired up, screamed. She was delicious. She was all flare and lightning. For a moment I felt like walking across the lawn and grabbing her. Then I gave up, walked away down the street with the snowballs whizzing past me.

  Tens of thousands of young men were fighting in Europe and China, in the Pacific Islands. When they came back she’d find one. She wouldn’t have any problem. Not with that body. Not with those eyes. Even Hilda wouldn’t have any difficulty.

  I began to feel that it was time for me to leave St. Louis. I decided to go back to Los Angeles; meanwhile I kept handprinting short stories by the score, got drunk, listened to Beethoven’s Fifth, Brahm’s Second…

  One particular night after work I stopped at a local bar. I sat and drank five or six beers, got up and walked the block or so to my roominghouse. Gertrude’s door was open as I walked past. “Henry…”

  “Hello.” I walked up to the door, looked at her. “Gertrude, I’m leaving town. I gave notice at work today.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “You people have been nice to me.”

  “Listen, before you leave I want you to meet my boyfriend.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “Yes, he just moved in, right down the hall.”

  I followed her. She knocked and I stood behind her. The door opened: grey and white striped pants; long-sleeved checked shirt; necktie. A thin moustache. Vacant eyes. Out of one of his nostrils streamed a nearly invisible thread of snot that had finally gathered into a little gleaming ball. The ball had settled in the moustache and was gathering to drip off, but meanwhile it sat there and reflected the light.

  “Joey,” she said, “I want you to meet Henry.”

  We shook hands. Gertrude went in. The door closed. I walked back to my room and began packing. Packing was always a good time.

  31

  When I got back to Los Angeles I found a cheap hotel just off Hoover Street and stayed in bed and drank. I drank for some time, three or four days. I couldn’t get myself to read the want ads. The thought of sitting in front of a man behind a desk and telling him that I wanted a job, that I was qualified for a job, was too much for me. Frankly, I was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep, and keep himself clothed. So I stayed in bed and drank. When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn’t have you by the throat.

  I got out of bed one night, dressed and walked up town. I found myself on Alvar
ado Street. I walked along until I came to an inviting bar and went in. It was crowded. There was only one seat left at the bar. I sat in it. I ordered a scotch and water. To my right sat a rather dark blonde, gone a bit to fat, neck and cheeks now flabby, obviously a drunk; but there was a certain lingering beauty to her features, and her body still looked firm and young and well-shaped. In fact, her legs were long and lovely. When the lady finished her drink I asked her if she wanted another. She said yes. I bought her one.

  “Buncha damn fools in here,” she said.

  “Everywhere, but especially in here,” I said.

  I paid for three or four more rounds. We didn’t speak. Then I told the lady, “That drink was it. I’m broke.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “An apartment, two or three days left on the rent.”

  “And you don’t have any money? Or anything to drink?”

  “No.”

  “Come with me.”

  I followed her out of the bar. I noticed that she had a very nice behind. I walked with her to the nearest liquor store. She told the clerk what she wanted: two fifths of Grandad, a sixpack of beer, two packs of cigarettes, some chips, some mixed nuts, some alka-seltzer, a good cigar. The clerk tabbed it up. “Charge it,” she said, “to Wilbur Oxnard.” “Wait,” he said, “I’ll have to phone.” The clerk dialed a number and spoke over the phone. Then he hung up. “It’s all right,” he said. I helped her with her bags and we walked out.

  “Where are we going with this stuff?”

  “To your place. Do you have a car?”

  I took her to my car. I had bought one off a lot in Compton for thirty-five dollars. It had broken springs and a leaking radiator, but it ran.

  We got to my place and I put the stuff in the refrigerator, poured two drinks, brought them out, sat down and lit my cigar. She sat on the couch across from me, her legs crossed. She had on green earrings. “Swell,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You think you’re Swell, you think you’re Hot Shit!”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you do. I can tell by the way you act. I still like you. I liked you right off.”

  “Pull your dress a little higher.”

  “You like legs?”

  “Yeh. Pull your dress a little higher.”

  She did. “Oh, Jesus, now higher, higher yet!”

  “Listen, you’re not some kind of nut, are you? There’s one guy been bothering the girls, he picks them up, then takes them to his place, strips them down and cuts crossword puzzles into their bodies with a pen knife.”

  “I’m not him.”

  “Then there are guys who fuck you and then chop you up into little pieces. They find part of your asshole stuffed up a drainpipe in Playa Del Rey and your left tit in a trashcan down at Oceanside…”

  “I stopped doing that years ago. Lift your skirt higher.”

  She hiked her skirt higher. It was like the beginning of life and laughter, it was the real meaning of the sun. I walked over, sat on the couch next to her and kissed her. Then I got up, poured two more drinks and tuned the radio in to KFAC. We caught the beginning of something by Debussy.

  “You like that kind of music?” she asked.

  Some time during the night as we were talking I fell off the couch. I lay on the floor and looked up those beautiful legs. “Baby,” I said, “I’m a genius but nobody knows it but me.”

  She looked down at me. “Get up off the floor you damn fool and get me a drink.”

  I brought her drink and curled up next to her. I did feel foolish. Later we got into bed. The lights were off and I got on top of her. I stroked once or twice, stopped. “What’s your name, anyhow?”

  “What the hell difference does it make?” she answered.

  32

  Her name was Laura. It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon and I walked along the path behind the furniture shop on Alvarado Street. I had my suitcase with me. There was a large white house back there, wooden, two stories, old, the white paint peeling. “Now stay back from the door,” she said. “There’s a mirror halfway up the stairs that allows him to see who’s at the door.”

  Laura stood there ringing the bell while I hid to the right of the door. “Let him just see me, and when the buzzer sounds, I’ll push the door open and you follow me in.”

  The buzzer rang and Laura pushed the door open. I followed her in, leaving my suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. Wilbur Oxnard stood at the top of the stairway and Laura ran up to him. Wilbur was an old guy, grey-haired, with one arm. “Baby, so good to see you!” Wilbur put his one arm around Laura and kissed her. When they separated he saw me.

  “Who’s that guy?”

  “Oh, Willie, I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  Wilbur didn’t answer me. “Wilbur Oxnard, Henry Chinaski,” Laura introduced us.

  “Good to know you, Wilbur,” I said.

  Wilbur still didn’t answer. Finally he said, “Well, come on up.”

  I followed Wilbur and Laura across the front room. There were coins all over the floor, nickels, dimes, quarters, halves. An electric organ sat in the very center of the room. I followed them into the kitchen where we sat down at the breakfastnook table. Laura introduced me to the two women who sat there. “Henry, this is Grace and this is Jerry. Girls, this is Henry Chinaski.”

  “Hello, there,” said Grace.

  “How are you doing?” asked Jerry.

  “My pleasure, ladies.”

  They were drinking whiskey with beer chasers. A bowl was in the center of the table filled with black and green olives, chili peppers, and celery hearts. I reached out and got a chili pepper. “Help yourself,” Wilbur said, waving toward the whiskey bottle. He’d already put a beer down in front of me. I poured a drink.

  “What do you do?” asked Wilbur.

  “He’s a writer,” said Laura. “He’s been printed in the magazines.”

  “Are you a writer?” Wilbur asked me.

  “Sometimes.”

  “I need a writer. Are you a good one?”

  “Every writer thinks he’s a good one.”

  “I need somebody to do the libretto for an opera I’ve written. It’s called ‘The Emperor of San Francisco.’ Did you know there was once a guy who wanted to be the Emperor of San Francisco?”

  “No, no, I didn’t.”

  “It’s very interesting. I’ll give you a book on it.”

  “All right.”

  We sat quietly a while, drinking. All the girls were in their mid-thirties, attractive and very sexy, and they knew it.

  “How do you like the curtains?” he asked me. “The girls made these curtains for me. The girls have a lot of talent.”

  I looked at the curtains. They were sickening. Huge red strawberries all over them, surrounded by dripping stems.

  “I like the curtains,” I told him.

  Wilbur got out some more beer and we all had more drinks from the whiskey bottle. “Don’t worry,” said Wilbur, “there’s another bottle when this one’s gone.”

  “Thanks, Wilbur.”

  He looked at me. “My arm’s getting stiff.” He lifted his arm and moved his fingers. “I can hardly move my fingers, I think I’m going to die. The doctors can’t figure out what’s wrong. The girls think I’m kidding, the girls laugh at me.”

  “I don’t think you’re kidding,” I told him, “I believe you.”

  We had a couple of drinks more.

  “I like you,” said Wilbur, “you look like you’ve been around, you look like you’ve got class. Most people don’t have class. You’ve got class.”

  “I don’t know anything about class,” I said, “but I’ve been around.”

  “Let’s go into the other room. I want to play you a few choruses from the opera.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  We opened a new fifth, got out somé more beer, and went into the
other room. “Don’t you want me to make you some soup, Wilbur?” asked Grace.

  “Who ever heard of eating soup at the organ?” he answered.

  We all laughed. We all liked Wilbur.

  “He throws money on the floor every time he gets drunk,” Laura whispered to me. “He says nasty things to us and throws coins at us. He says it’s what we’re worth. He can get very nasty.”

  Wilbur got up, went to his bedroom, came out wearing a sailing cap, and sat back down at the organ. He began playing the organ with his one arm and his bad fingers. He played a very loud organ. We sat there drinking and listening to the organ. When he finished, I applauded.

  Wilbur turned around on the stool. “The girls were up here the other night,” he said, “and then somebody hollered ‘RAID!’ You should have seen them running, some of them naked, some of them in panties and bras, they all ran out and hid in the garage. It was funny as hell. I sat up here and they came drifting back, one by one, from the garage. It was sure funny!”

  “Who hollered ‘RAID’?” I asked.

  “I did,” he said.

  Then he stood up and walked into his bedroom and began undressing. I could see him sitting on the edge of his bed in his underwear. Laura walked in and sat on the bed with him and kissed him. Then she came out and Grace and Jerry went in. Laura motioned to the bottom of the stairway. I went down for my suitcase and brought it back up.

  33

  When we awakened, Laura told me about Wilbur. It was 9:30 a.m. and there wasn’t a sound in the house. “He’s a millionaire,” she said, “don’t let this old house fool you. His grandfather bought land all around here and his father did too. Grace is his girl but Grace gives him a rough time. And he’s a tight son of a bitch. He likes to take care of the girls in the bars who have no place to sleep. But all he gives them is food and a bed, never any money. And they only get drinks when he’s drinking. Jerry got to him one night, though. He was horny and chasing her around the table and she said, ‘No, no no, not unless you give me fifty bucks a month for life!’ He finally signed a piece of paper and do you know it held up in court? He has to pay her fifty bucks a month, and it’s fixed so that when he dies his family will have to pay her.”