they worked at their beer.
“how come?” asked Anderson.
“how come what?”
“how come we agree on almost everything?”
“that’s why we’re friends, I guess. that’s what friendship means: sharing the prejudice of experience.”
“Moss and Anderson. a team. we should be on Broadway.”
“the seats would be empty.”
“yeah.”
(silence, silence, silence) then:
“beer keeps getting flatter and flatter. they sure make it lousy anymore.”
“yeah. Garza. I could never hit with Garza.”
“his percentage ain’t high.”
“but now that Gonzales lost his bug maybe he’ll get better mounts.”
“Gonzales. he ain’t big and strong enough. his horses always drift out on the turns.”
“he makes more money than we do.”
“that’s no miracle.”
“no.”
Moss tossed his beer bottle toward the basket, missed.
“I was never an athlete,” he said. “god, in school they always chose me next to last when they chose teams. right before the subnormal idiot. Winchell was his name.”
“whatever happened to Winchell?”
“now president of a steel company.”
“god.”
“want to hear the rest?”
“why not?”
“the hero. Harry Jenkins. now at San Quentin.”
“god. are the right men in jail or the wrong men in jail?”
“both: the right and the wrong.”
“you’ve been in jail. what’s it like?”
“it’s the same.”
“what do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s a society of the world in another element. they grade themselves according to their trade. the swindlers don’t hobnob with the car thieves. the car thieves don’t hobnob with the rapists. the rapists don’t hobnob with the indecent exposure cases. all men are graded according to what they got caught at doing. for instance, a maker of dirty films is graded fairly high while a man who molested a child is graded damn low.”
“how do you grade them?”
“all the same: caught.”
“all right, then. what’s the difference between a guy in the big-house and the average guy you pass on the street?”
“the guy in the bighouse is a Loser who has tried.”
“you win. I still need some pussy.”
Moss went to the refrigerator and brought out some more beer. sat down and cracked two open.
“ah, pussy,” he said. “we talk like kids of fifteen. I just can’t get at it anymore, I just can’t jump through all the boring loopholes, do the litthe niceties. some men just have the natural touch. I think of Jimmy Davenport. christ what a vain terrible little shit he was, but the ladies just loved him. a horrible monster of a person. after he finished screwing them he used to go to their refrigerators and piss onto the open bowls of salad and into the cartons of milk, anywhere he could. he thought it was very funny. then she’d come out and sit down, her eyes just mushrooming with love for the bastard. he took me around to his girl friend’s places to show me how he did it, and even lined me up a bit now and then, so that’s why I was there and saw it. but it seems that the most beautiful women always go for the most horrible shits, the most obvious fakes. or am I just jealous, is my vision distorted?”
“you’re right, man. the woman loves the fake because he lies so well.”
“well, then, presuming this is true — that the female procreates with the fake — then doesn’t this destroy a law of Nature? — that the strong mate with the strong? what kind of a society does this give us?”
“society’s laws and nature’s laws are different. we have an unnatural society. that’s why we are near to being blown to Hell. intuitively the female knows that the fake survives in our society and that is why she prefers him. she is only interested in bearing the child and bringing him through safely.”
“then you say the female has brought us to the edge of hell where we sit today?”
“the word for that is ‘misogynist.’ ”
“and Jimmy Davenport is King.”
“King of the Pissers. the pussy has betrayed us and their atomic eggs lay stacked all about us …”
“call it ‘misogyny.’ ”
Moss lifted his beer bottle:
“to Jimmy Davenport!”
Anderson lifted his:
“to Jimmy Davenport!”
they drained their bottles.
Moss opened two more. “two lonely old men blaming it on the ladies …”
“we’re really a couple of shits,” said Anderson.
“yeah.”
“listen, you sure you don’t know a couple of pussy somewhere?”
“maybe.”
“whyn’t you try?”
“you’re a jerk,” said Moss. then he got up and went to the phone. dialed a number.
he waited.
“Shareen?” he said. “oh yeah, Shareen … Lou. Lou Moss … you remember? the party on Katella Ave. Lou Brinson’s place … a hell of a night. sure, I know I was nasty but we made it, remember? I always liked you, it’s the face, I think it’s the face, so classical-like. no. just a couple of beers. how’s Mary Lou? Mary Lou’s a fine person. I’ve got this friend … what? he teaches philosophy at Harvard. no kidding. but a natural guy. I know Harvard’s a Law School! but what the hell, they still have these Immanuel Kants running around! what? a ’65 Chevvy. just made my last payment. when? do you still have that green dress with that screwy belt that hangs way down around your tail? I’m not being funny. very sexy. and beautiful. I keep dreaming of you and chickens. what? a joke. how about Mary Lou? o.k. fine. but tell her this guy is very deferential. brainy. bashful. all that … oh, a distant cousin. Maryland. what? oh hell, I’ve got a powerful family! oh, is that right? now you’re being funny. anyhow, he’s in town and loose. no, of course he isn’t married! why would I lie? no, I keep thinking of you — that low-hanging belt — I know it sounds corny — class. you’re top class. sure, radio and heater. the Strip? just a bunch of kids down there now. why don’t I just bring a bottle? … all right, sorry. no, I’m not saying you’re old. Christ, you know me, me and my mouth. no, I would have called but they sent me out of town. how old? he’s 32 but looks younger. I think he’s on some kind of grant, going to Europe soon. to teach at Heidelberg. no, no shit. what time? all right, Shareen. see you, sweets.”
Moss hung up. sat down. picked up his beer.
“we’ve got an hour’s freedom, professor.”
“an hour?” asked Anderson.
“an hour. they’ve got to powder their pussies, all that. you know how it works.”
“to Jimmy Davenport!” said the professor from Harvard.
“to Jimmy Davenport!” said the punch-press operator.
they drank them down.
________
the phone rang.
he was sitting on the rug. he pulled the whole phone to the floor by the wire. then he picked up the receiver. there was a sound.
“hello?” he said.
“McCuller!”
“yowp?”
“it’s been 3 days.”
“since what?”
“since you’ve been to work.”
“I’m building a Leyden Jar.”
“what’s that?”
“an apparatus for storing static electricity, invented by Cuneus of Leyden in 1746.”
he hung the phone up and then threw it across the room. the receiver fell off. he finished his beer and went in to shit. he zipped up and walked back into the other room.
“DA DA!” he sang,
“DA DA
DA DA
DA DA DA DA!”
he liked Herb A’s T. Brass. jesus, what sour melancholy.
“RA DA
RA DA
RA DA DA DA — ”
when he sat
down in the center of the rug, there was his three and one-half year old daughter. he farted.
“hey! you FARTED!” she said.
“I FARTED!” he said.
they both laughed.
“Fred,” she said.
“yowp?”
“I gotta tellya somethin’.”
“shoot.”
“mama got all this shit pulled outa her ass.”
“yes?”
“yes, these people reached up into her ass with their fingers and pulled all this shit outa there.”
“what makes you talk that way? you know that didn’t happen.”
“yes, it did, it did! I saw it!”
“go get me a beer.”
“o.k. . . .”
she ran off into the other room.
“RA DA,”
he sang,
“RA DA
RA DA
RA DA DA DA!”
his daughter came back with the beer.
“sweetheart,” he said, “I want to tell you something.”
“all right.”
“the pain is now almost entirely total. when it gets entirely total I will not be able to last any longer.”
“why don’t you get blue like me?” she asked.
“I’m already blue.”
“why don’t you get blue like me and the flowers?”
“I’ll try,” he said.
“let’s dance to ‘The Man of La Mancha,’ “ she said.
he put on ‘The Man of La Mancha.’ they danced, he six feet tall and she about 1/3 or 1/4 his size. they danced separately with different movements and were very serious, yet sometimes laughed at the same time.
the record stopped.
“Marty slapped me,” she said.
“what?”
“yes, Marty and mama were hugging and kissing in the kitchen and I was thirsty and asked Marty for a glass of water and Marty wouldn’t give me one and then I cried and then Marty slapped me.”
“go get me a beer!”
“a beer! beer!”
he got up and walked over and hung the phone up. as soon as he did, it rang.
“Mr. McCuller?”
“yowp?”
“your auto insurance has expired. your new rate is $248 a year and must be paid in advance. you have picked up three traffic violations. each violation is viewed by us in the same light as an auto accident …”
“horseshit!”
“what?”
“an auto accident costs you money; a so-called violation costs me money. and the boys on their bikes, who protect us from ourselves, have a sixteen to thirty a day ticket quota to meet in order to buy their homes, their new cars, and clothing and trinkets for their lower-middle class wives. don’t give me all your shit. I’ve stopped driving. I pushed my car off the pier last night. I only have one regret.”
“what’s that?”
“that I wasn’t inside that fucking car when it went down.”
McCuller hung up and took the beer his daughter had brought him.
“little maiden,” he said, “may at least some of your hours be more gentle than mine.”
“I love you, Freddie,” she said.
she reached around and put her arms around his body but the arms would not go entirely around.
“I squeeze you! I love you! I squeeze you!”
“I love you too, little maiden!”
he reached around her and squeezed her. she glowed and glowed and if she had been a cat she would have purred.
“man, man, it’s a funny world,” he said. “we’ve got everything but we can’t have it.”
they got down on the floor and played a game called “BUILD A CITY.” there was some argument over where the railroad tracks were and just what and who was allowed to use the railroad tracks.
then the bell rang. he got up and opened the door. his daughter saw them:
“Mama! Marty!”
“get your stuff, sweety, it’s time to go!”
“I wanna stay with Freddie!”
“I said, ‘Get your stuff!’ ”
“but I wanna stay with Freddie!”
“I’m not going to tell you again! get your stuff or I’ll paddle your behind!”
“Freddie, you tell them I want to stay!”
“she wants to stay.”
“you’re drunk again, Freddie. I tole you I don’ want you ta drink ’round the kid!”
“well, you’re drunk!”
“don’t call her drunk, Freddie,” said Marty, lighting a cigarette. “I don’t like you anyhow. I always thought you were about halfqueer.”
“thank you for telling me what you think I am.”
“just don’t call her drunk, Freddie or I’ll whip your ass …”
“just a moment, I have something to show you.”
Freddie walked back into the kitchen. when he came out he was singing:
“RA DA
RA DA
RA DA DA DA!”
Marty saw the butcher knife. “what do you think you’re going to do with that thing? I’ll jam it up your ass.”
“no doubt, but I wanted to tell you. the lady from the business office of the phone company phoned me and said that my service would be disconnected because retributions for past bills had not been made. I told her that I’d like to fuck her and she hung up.”
“so what?”
“I mean, I too can disconnect.”
Freddie moved very fast. the quickness was a still magic. the butcher knife sliced four or five times across Marty’s throat before he fell back, down, halfway down the steps …
“geezus … don’ kill me, please don’ kill me.”
Freddie walked back into the front room, threw the knife into the fireplace and sat on the rug again. his daughter sat down with him:
“now we can finish our game.”
“sure.”
“no cars on the railroad tracks.”
“hell no. the police would arrest us.”
“and we don’t want the police to arrest us, do we?”
“uh uh.”
“Marty’s fulla blood, isn’t he?”
“sure is.”
“is that what we’re made of?”
“mostly.”
“mostly what?”
“mostly blood and bones and pain.”
they sat there and played Build a City. you could hear the sirens. one ambulance, too late. three squad cars. a white cat walked by, looked at Marty, lifted its nose, ran off. one ant crawled on the sole of his left shoe.
“Freddie.”
“what?”
“I wanna tell ya somethin’.”
“shoot.”
“these people reached into mama’s ass and pulled all that shit outa there with their fingers …”
“o.k., I believe you.”
“where’s mama, now?”
“I don’t know.”
mama was running up and down the streets telling all the newsboys and grocery clerks and bartenders and subnormals and sadists and motorcycle riders and salt-eaters and x-seamen and loafers and hustlers and readers of Matt Weinstock, and so forth and so forth, and the sky was blue and the bread was in wrappers, and for the first time in years her eyes were live and beautiful. but death was really boredom, death was really boredom, and even the tigers and ants would never know how and the peach would someday scream.
________
all the rivers are going to get higher, and yet it’s tight, the schoolteachers whack you with rulers and the worms eat the corn; they are mounting the mgs on tripods and the bellies are white and the bellies are black and the bellies are bellies. men are beaten simply for the sake of beating; courts are places where the ending is written first and all that precedes is simply vaudeville. men are taken into rooms for questioning and come out half-men or no-men at all. some men hope for revolution but when you revolt and set up your new government you find your new government is still the same old Papa, he has only put on a cardboard
mask. the Chicago boys sure made a mistake busting the big press boys on the head — that knock on the head might get them to thinking and the big presses — aside from an earlier New York Times and some editions of The Christian Science Monitor — stopped thinking with the declaration of World War One. you can bust OPEN CITY for printing a normal portion of the human body but when you kick the editorial writer of a million circulation newspaper in the ass you better watch out, he just might start writing the truth about Chicago and everyplace else, advertisers be damned. he might only be able to write one column but that one column might get a million readers thinking — for a change — and nobody could tell what might happen then. but the lock’s on tight: when you are given a choice between Nixon and Humphrey it’s like being given a choice between eating warm shit or cold shit.
there just isn’t much change anywhere. the thing in Prague has dampened a lot of boys who have forgotten Hungary. they hang in the parks with the Che idol, with pictures of Castro in their amulets, going OOOOOOOOMMMMM OOOOOOOMMM while William Burroughs, Jean Genet and Allen Ginsberg lead them. these writers have gone, soft, cuckoo, eggshit, female — not homo but female — and if I were a cop I’d feel like clubbing their addled brains myself. hang me for that. the writer of the streets is getting his soul cock-sucked by the idiots. there is only one place to write and that is ALONE at a typewriter. a writer who has to go INTO the streets is a writer who does not know the streets. I have seen enough factories, whorehouses, jails, bars, park orators to last 100 men 100 lifetimes. to go into the streets when you have a NAME is to go the easy way — they killed Thomas and Behan with their LOVE, their whiskey, their idolatry, their cunt, and they half-murdered half a hundred others. WHEN YOU LEAVE YOUR TYPEWRITER YOU LEAVE YOUR MACHINE GUN AND THE RATS COME POURING THROUGH. when Camus began giving speeches before the academies his writing died. Camus did not begin as a speechmaker, he began as a writer; it was not an automobile accident that killed him.
when some of my few friends ask, “why don’t you give poetry readings, Bukowski?” they simply do not understand why I say “no.”
and so we have Chicago and so we have Prague and it’s no different than it has ever been. the little boy is going to get his ass beat and when (and if) the little boy gets big he is going to beat on ass. I’d rather see Cleaver president than Nixon but that’s no big thing. what these god-damned revolutionaries who lay around my place drinking my beer and eating my food and showing off their women must learn is that the thing must come from inside out. you just can’t give a man a new government like a new hat and expect a different man inside that hat. he’s still going to have chickenshit proclivities and a full belly and a complete set of Dizzy Gillespie ain’t going to change that. a lot of people swear that there is going to be a revolution but I’d hate to see all those people get killed for nothing. I mean, you can kill most people and you aren’t killing anything but a few good men are bound to go. and then what do you end up with: a government OVER the people. a new dictator in sheep’s clothing; the ideology was only to keep the guns going.
Notes of a Dirty Old Man Page 6