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You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense

Page 8

by Charles Bukowski


  moon

  came through

  to light

  the

  whirling

  feast.

  hard times

  as I got out of my car down at the docks

  two men started walking toward

  me.

  one looked old and mean and the other was

  big and smiling.

  they were both wearing

  caps.

  they kept walking toward me.

  I got ready.

  “something bothering you guys?”

  “no,” said the old

  guy.

  they both stopped.

  “don’t you remember us?”

  “I’m not sure…”

  “we painted your house.”

  “oh, yeah…come on, I’ll buy you a

  beer…”

  we walked toward a cafe.

  “you were one of the nicest guys we ever

  worked for…”

  “yeah?”

  “yeah, you kept bringing us beer…”

  we sat at one of those rough tables

  overlooking the harbor. we

  sucked at our

  beers.

  “you still live with that young

  woman?” asked the old

  guy.

  “yeah. how you guys doing?”

  “there’s no work now…”

  I took out a ten and handed it to the old

  one.

  “listen, I forgot to tip you guys…”

  “thanks.”

  we sat with our beer.

  the canneries had shut down.

  Todd Shipyard had failed

  and was

  phasing them

  out.

  San Pedro was back in the

  30’s.

  I finished my beer.

  “well, you guys, I gotta go.”

  “where ya gonna go?”

  “gonna buy some fish…”

  I walked off toward the fish market,

  turned halfway there

  gave them

  thumb-up

  right hand.

  they both took their caps off and

  waved them.

  I laughed, turned, walked

  off.

  sometimes it’s hard to know

  what to

  do.

  longshot

  of course, I had lost much blood

  maybe it was a different kind of

  dying

  but I still had enough left to wonder

  about

  the absence of fear.

  it was going to be easy: they had

  put me in a special ward they had

  in that place

  for the poor who were

  dying.

  —the doors were a little thicker

  —the windows a little smaller

  and there was much

  wheeling in and out of

  bodies

  plus

  the presence of the priest

  giving last

  rites.

  you saw the priest all the time

  but you seldom saw a

  doctor.

  it was always nice to see a

  nurse—

  they rather took the place of

  angels

  for those who

  believed in that sort of

  thing.

  the priest kept bugging me.

  “no offense, Father, but I’d

  rather die without

  it,” I whispered.

  “but on your entrance application you

  stated ‘Catholic.’”

  “that was just to be

  social…”

  “my son, once a Catholic, always a

  Catholic!”

  “Father,” I whispered, “that’s not

  true…”

  the nicest thing about the place were

  the Mexican girls who came in to

  change the sheets, they giggled, they

  joked with the dying and

  they were

  beautiful.

  and the worst thing was

  the Salvation Army Band who

  came around at

  5:30 a.m.

  Easter Morning

  and gave us the old

  religious feeling—horns and drums

  and all, much

  brass and

  pounding, tremendous volume

  there were 40 or so

  in that room

  and that band

  stiffened a good

  10 or 15 of us by

  6 a.m.

  and they rolled them right out

  to the morgue elevator

  over to the west, a very

  busy elevator.

  I stayed in Death’s waiting room for

  3 days.

  I watched them roll out close to

  fifty.

  they finally got tired of waiting

  for me

  and rolled me

  out of there.

  a nice black homosexual fellow

  pushed me

  along.

  “you want to know the odds of

  coming out of that ward?”

  he asked.

  “yeah.”

  “50 to one.”

  “hell,

  got any

  smokes?”

  “no, but I can get you

  some.”

  we rolled along

  as the sun managed to come through the

  wire-webbed windows

  and I began to think of

  that first drink when

  I got

  out.

  concrete

  he had set up the

  reading

  he was one of the foremost practitioners

  of concrete poetry

  and after I read I went

  up there to where he

  lived

  his place was high in the

  mountains and

  we drank and looked out the large

  window at very large

  birds

  flying about

  gliding mostly

  he said they were eagles

  (he might have been putting me

  on)

  and his wife played the

  piano

  a bit of

  Brahms

  he didn’t talk

  much

  he was a concrete

  man

  his wife was very

  beautiful

  and the way the eagles

  glided

  that was very beautiful

  also

  then it was twilight

  then it was night

  and you couldn’t see the eagles

  anymore

  it had been an afternoon

  reading

  we drank until one

  a.m.

  then I got into my car

  and drove the winding

  narrow road

  d

  o

  w

  n

  I was too drunk to fear the

  danger

  when I got to my place I

  drank two bottles of

  beer and went to

  bed.

  then the phone

  rang

  it was my

  girlfriend

  she had been calling all

  night

  she was angry

  she accused me of fornicating with

  another

  I told her about the beautiful

  eagles

  how they glided

  and that I had been with a concrete

  man

  bullshit

  she said

  and hung

  up

  I stretched out there

  looked at the ceiling and

  wondered what the eagles />
  ate

  then the phone rang

  again

  and she asked

  did the concrete man have a

  concrete wife and did you stick you

  dick in her?

  no

  I answered

  I fucked an

  eagle

  she hung up

  again

  concrete poetry

  I thought

  what the hell is

  it?

  then I went to sleep and I

  slept and I

  slept.

  Gay Paree

  the cafes in Paris are just like you imagine

  they are:

  very well-dressed people, snobs, and

  the snob-waiter comes up and takes your

  order

  as if you were a

  leper.

  but after you get your wine

  you feel better

  you begin to feel like a snob

  yourself

  and you give the guy at the next table

  a sidelong glance

  he catches you and

  you twitch your nose

  a bit as if you had just smelled

  dogshit

  then you

  look away.

  and the food

  when it arrives

  is always too mild.

  the French are delicate with their

  spices.

  and

  as you eat and drink

  you realize that everybody is

  terrorized:

  too bad

  too bad

  such a lovely city

  full of

  cowards.

  then

  more wine brings more

  realization:

  Paris is the world and the world

  is

  Paris.

  drink to it

  and

  because of

  it.

  I thought the stuff tasted worse than usual

  I used to drink with Jane

  every night

  until two or

  three

  a.m.

  and I had to

  report for

  work

  at 5:30

  a.m.

  one morning

  I was sitting

  casing mail

  next to this

  healthy

  religious

  fellow

  and he said,

  “hey, I smell

  something, don’t

  you?”

  I answered in the

  negative.

  “actually,” he said,

  “it smells something

  like

  gasoline.”

  “well,” I told

  him, “don’t light a

  match or

  I might

  explode.”

  the blade

  there was no parking near the post office where

  I worked at night

  so I found this splendid spot

  (nobody seemed to care to park there)

  on a dirt road behind a

  slaughterhouse

  and as I sat in my car

  just before work

  smoking a last cigarette

  I was treated to the same

  scene

  as each evening tailed off into

  night—

  the pigs were herded out of the

  yard pens

  and onto runways

  by a man making pig sounds and

  flapping a large canvas

  and the pigs ran wildly

  up the runway

  toward the waiting

  blade,

  and many evenings

  after watching that

  after finishing my

  smoke

  I just started the car

  backed out of there and

  drove away from my

  job.

  my absenteeism reached such astonishing

  proportions

  that I had to finally

  park

  at some expense

  behind a Chinese bar

  where all I could see were tiny shuttered

  windows

  with neon signs advertising some

  oriental

  libation.

  it seemed less real, and that was

  what was

  needed.

  the boil

  I was making good with the girls on the assembly line at

  Nabisco, I had recently beaten up the company

  bully

  on my lunch hour,

  things were going well, I was from out of

  town, the stranger who seldom spoke to

  anybody, I was the mystery man, I was the

  cool number,

  almost all those fillies had an interest

  in me

  and the guys didn’t know

  what the hell.

  then one morning I awakened in my

  room

  with a huge boil on the side of

  my head (right cheek)

  and

  it was damn near the size of a

  golf ball.

  I should have phoned in sick

  but

  I didn’t have the sense and

  went on in

  anyhow.

  it made a difference: the women’s eyes

  fell away from mine, and the guys

  no longer acted fearful

  and I felt defeated by

  fate.

  the boil remained

  for

  2 days

  3 days

  4 days.

  on the 5th day the foreman handed me

  my papers: “we’re cutting back, you’re

  finished.”

  this was one hour before

  lunch.

  I walked to my locker, opened it,

  took off my apron and cap

  threw them in there

  along with the

  key

  and walked

  out

  a truly horrible walk

  to the street

  where I turned around

  and looked back at the building

  feeling as if they had

  discovered

  something

  hideously indecent

  about me.

  not listed

  my horse was the grey

  a 4 to one shot

  with early lick

  and he had a length and

  a half

  3/4’s of the way

  down the stretch

  when his left front leg

  snapped

  and he tumbled

  tossing the jock

  over his neck and

  head.

  luckily

  the field avoided both

  the horse and the

  jock—who

  got up and limped away

  from the kicking

  animal.

  accident potential:

  that’s something

  that’s not listed in

  the Racing Form.

  in the clubhouse

  I saw Harry

  standing in a far-

  off corner.

  he was an x-jock’s

  agent

  now working as a

  trainer

  but not having

  too many mounts

  to train.

  he was behind his

  dark shades

  looking

  awful.

  “you have the grey?”

  I asked.

  “yeah,” he said,

  “heavy…”

  “you need a transfusion,

  it’s not much but…”

  I slipped

  3 folded 20’s

  into his coat

  pocket.
<
br />   “thanks,” he

  said.

  “put it on a good one.”

  Harry had done me some

  nice things

  and anyhow

  he was one of the

  best

  working for an edge

  in one of the bloodiest

  rackets

  around: we are trying to

  beat the percentages

  and each day

  some must fall

  so that

  others can go

  on. (the track is just

  like anyplace else

  only there

  it usually happens

  more

  quickly.)

  I walked over and got

  a coffee.

  I liked the next

  race

  a six furlong affair for

  non-winners of

  two.

  one good hit

  would put the gods in

  place

  and cure

  everything

  in a flash of

  glory…

  I’m not a misogynist

  more and more

  I get letters from

  young ladies:

  “I’m a well-built 19

  am between jobs and

  your writing turns me

  on

  I’m a good housekeeper

  and secretary and

  would never get in

  your way

  and

  would send a

  photo but that’s

  so tacky…”

  “I’m 21

  tall and attractive

  have read your books

 

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