LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT
I walked along in the sun wondering what to do. I kept walking, walking. I seemed to be on the outer edge of something. I looked up and there were railroad tracks and by the edge of the tracks was a little shack, unpainted. It had a sign out:
HELP WANTED
I walked in. A little old guy was sitting there in blue-green suspenders and chewing tobacco.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“I, ah, I ah, I ...”
“Yeh, come on, man, spit it out! Whatcha want?”
“I saw ... your sign ... help wanted.”
“Ya wanna sign on?”
“Sign on? What?”
“Well, shit, it ain’t a spot as a chorus girl!”
He leaned over and spit into his filthy spitoon, then worked at his wad again, drawing his cheeks in over his toothless mouth.
“What do I do?” I asked.
“You’ll be tole what to do!”
“I mean, what is it?”
“Railroad track gang, someplace west of Sacramento.”
“Sacramento?”
“You heard me, god damn it. Now I’m a busy man. You wanna sign or not?”
“I’ll sign, I’ll sign ...”
I signed the list he had on the clipboard. I was # 27. I even signed my own name.
He handed me a ticket. “You show up at gate 21 with your gear. We got a special train for you guys.”
I slipped the ticket into my empty wallet.
He spit again. “Now, well, look, kid, I know you’re a little goofy. This line takes care of a lot of guys like you. We help humanity. We’re nice folks. Always remember old – – – – – – – – – – – – Lines and put in a good word for us here and there. And when you get out on those tracks, listen to your foreman. He’s on your side. You can save money out on that desert. God knows, there’s no place to spend it. But on Saturday night, kid, on Saturday night ...”
He leaned to his spitoon again, came back:
“Why hell, on a Saturday night you go to town, get drunk, catch a cheap blowjob from a wetback Mexican senorita and come back in feeling good. Those blowjobs suck the misery right out of a man’s head. I started on the gang, now I’m here. Good luck to you, kid.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now get the hell out of here! I’m busy! ...”
I arrived at gate 21 at the time instructed. By my train were all these guys standing there in rags, stinking, laughing, smoking rolled cigarettes. I went over and stood behind them. They needed haircuts and shaves and they acted brave and were nervous at the same time.
Then a Mexican with a knife scar on his cheek told us to get on. We got on. You couldn’t see through the windows.
I took the last seat in the back of our car. The others all sat up in front, laughing and talking. One guy pulled out a half pint of whiskey and 7 or 8 of them each had a little suck.
Then they began looking back at me. I began hearing voices and they weren’t all in my head:
“What’s wrong with that sona bitch?”
“He think he’s better than us?”
“He’s gonna hafta work with us, man.”
“Who’s he think he is?”
I looked out the window, I tried to, the thing hadn’t been cleaned in 25 years. The train began to move out and I was on there with them. There were about 30 of them. They didn’t wait very long. I stretched out on my seat and tried to sleep.
“SWOOSH!”
Dust blew up into my face and eyes. I heard somebody under my seat. There was the blowing sound again and a mass of 25 year old dust rose up into my nostrils, my mouth, my eyes, my eyebrows. I waited. Then it happened again. A real good blast. Whoever was under there was getting darned good at it.
I leaped up. And I heard all this sound from under my seat and then he was out from under there and running up toward the front. He threw himself into a seat, trying to be part of the gang, but I heard his voice:
“If he comes up here I want you fellows to help me! Promise to help me if he comes up here!”
I didn’t hear any promises, but he was safe: I couldn’t tell one from the other.
Just before we got out of Louisiana I had to walk up front for a cup of water. They watched me.
“Look at him. Look at him.”
“Ugly bastard.”
“Who’s he think he is?”
“Son of a bitch, we’ll get him when we get him out over those tracks alone, we’ll make him cry, we’ll make him suck dick!”
“Look! He’s got that paper cup upsidedown! He’s drinking from the wrong end! Look at him! He’s drinking from the little end! That guy’s nuts!”
“Wait’ll we get him over those tracks, we’ll make him suck dick!”
I drained the paper cup, refilled it and emptied it again, wrong-sideup. I threw the cup into the container and walked back. I heard:
“Yeah, he acts nuts. Maybe he had a split-up with his girlfriend.”
“How’s a guy like that gonna get a girl?”
“I dunno. I seen crazier things than that happen.” ...
We were over Texas when the Mexican foreman came through with the canned food. He handed out the cans. Some of them didn’t have any labels on them and were badly dented-up.
He came back to me.
“You Bukowski?”
“Yes.”
He handed me a can of Spam and wrote “75” under column “F.” I could see that I was charged with “$45.90” under column “T.” Then he handed me a small can of beans. “45” he wrote down under column “F.”
He walked back toward the front of the car.
“Hey! Where the hell’s a can opener? How can we eat this stuff without a can opener?” somebody asked him.
The foreman swang through the vestibule and was gone.
There were water stops in Texas, bunches of green. At each stop 2 or 3 or 4 guys leaped off. When we got to El Paso there were 23 left out of the 31.
In El Paso they pulled our traincar out and the train went on. The Mexican foreman came through and said, “We must stop at El Paso. You will stay at this hotel.”
He gave out tickets.
“These are your tickets to the hotel. You will sleep there. In the morning you will take traincoach #24 to Los Angeles and then on to Sacramento. These are your hotel tickets.”
He came up to me again.
“You Bukowski?”
“Yes.”
“Here’s your hotel.”
He handed me the ticket and wrote in “12.50” under my “L” column.
Nobody had been able to get their cans of food open. They would be picked up later and given to the next crew across.
I threw my ticket away and slept in the park about two blocks from the hotel. I was awakened by the roaring of alligators, one in particular. I could see 4 or 5 alligators in the pond, and perhaps there were more. There were two sailors dressed in their whites. One sailor was in the pond, drunk, pulling at the tail of an alligator. The alligator was angry but slow and could not turn its neck enough to get at the sailor. The other sailor stood on the shore, laughing, with a young girl. Then while the sailor in the pond was still fighting the alligator, the other sailor and the girl walked away. I turned over and slept.
On the ride to Los Angeles, more and more of them jumped off at the waterstops. When we reached Los Angeles there were 16 left of the 31.
The Mexican foreman came through the train.
“We will be in Los Angeles for two days. You will catch the 9:30 a.m. train, gate 21, Wednesday morning, traincoach 42. It is written upon the cover which goes around your hotel tickets. You are also being issued food-ration coupons which can be honored at French’s Cafe, Main Street.”
He handed out 2 little booklets, one labeled ROOM, the other FOOD.
“You Bukowski?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
He handed me my booklets. And added under my “L” column: 12.80 and under my “F” column,
6.00
I came out of Union Station and while I was cutting across the plaza I noticed 2 small guys who had been on the train with me. They were walking faster than I and cut across to my right. I looked at them.
They both got these big grins on and said, “Hi! How ya doin’?”
“I’m doin’ all right.”
They walked faster and slid across Los Angeles street toward Main ...
In the cafe the boys were using their food coupons for beer. I used my food coupons for beer. Beer was just ten cents a glass. Most of them got drunk very fast. I stood down at the end of the bar. They didn’t talk about me anymore.
I drank up all my coupons and then sold my lodging tickets to another bum for 50 cents. I had 5 more beers and walked out.
I began walking. I walked north. Then I walked east. Then north again. Then I was walking along the junkyards where all the broken-down cars were stacked. A guy had once told me, “I sleep in a different car each night. Last night I slept in a Ford, the night before in a Chevy. Tonight I am going to sleep in a Cadillac.”
I found a place with the gate chained but the gate door was bent and I was thin enough to slide my body between the chains and the gate and the lock. I looked around until I found a Cadillac. I didn’t know the year. I got into the back seat and slept.
It must have been about 6 a.m. in the morning when I heard this kid screaming. He was about 15 years old and had this toy baseball bat in his hand:
“Get out of there! Get out of our car, you dirty bum!”
The kid looked frightened. He had on a white t shirt and tennis shoes and there was a tooth missing from the center of his mouth.
I got out.
“Stand back!” he yelled. “Stand back, stand back!” He pointed the bat at me.
I slowly walked toward the gate, which was then open but not very far.
Then an old guy, about 50, fat and sleepy, stepped out of a tarpaper shack.
“Dad!” The kid yelled, “This man was in one of our cars! I found him in the back seat asleep!”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right, Dad! I found him asleep in the back seat of one of our cars!”
“What were you doing in our car, Mr.?”
The old guy was nearer to the gate than I was but I kept moving toward it.
“I asked you, ‘What were you doing in our car?’ ”
I moved closer to the gate.
The old guy grabbed the bat from the kid, ran up to me and jammed the end of it into my belly, hard.
“Oof!” I went, “god o mighty!”
I couldn’t straighten up. I backed away. The kid took courage when he saw that.
“I’ll get him, Dad! I’ll get him!”
The kid grabbed the bat from the old man and began swinging it. He hit me almost everywhere. On the back, the sides, all along both legs, on the knees, the ankles. All I could do was protect my head. I kept my arms up around my head and he beat me on the arms and elbows. I backed up against the wire fence.
“I’ll get him, Dad! I’ll get him!”
The kid wouldn’t stop. Now and then the bat got through to my head.
Finally the old man said, “O.k., that’s enough son.”
The kid kept swinging the bat.
“Son, I said, ‘That’s enough.’ ”
I turned and held myself up by the wires of the fence. For a moment I couldn’t move. They watched me. I finally let go and was able to stand. I limped toward the gate.
“Let me get him again, Dad!”
“No, son.”
I got through the gate and walked north. As I began to walk, everything began to tighten. Everything was beginning to swell. My steps became shorter. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to move much further. There were only more junkyards. Then I saw a vacant lot between two of them. I walked into the lot and turned my ankle in a hole, right off. I laughed. The lot sloped downwards. Then I tripped over a hard brush branch which would not give. When I got up again my right palm had been cut by the edge of a piece of green glass. Winebottle. I pulled the glass out. The blood came through the dirt. I brushed the dirt off and sucked against the wound. When I fell the next time, I rolled over on my back, screamed once with pain, then looked up into the morning sky. I was back in my hometown, Los Angeles. Small gnats whirled about my face. I closed my eyes.
A DOLLAR AND 20 CENTS
he liked the end of Summer best, no Fall, maybe it was Fall, anyhow, it got cold down at the beach and he liked to walk along the water right after sundown, no people around and the water looked dirty, the water looked deathly, and the seagulls didn’t want to sleep, hated to sleep. the seagulls came down, flew down wanting his eyes, his soul, what was left of his soul.
if you don’t have much soul left and you know it, you still got soul.
then he’d sit down and look across the water and when you looked across the water, everything was hard to believe. say like there was a nation like China or the U.S. or someplace like Vietnam. or that he’d once been a child. no, come to think of it, that wasn’t so hard to believe; he’d had a hell of a childhood, he couldn’t forget that. and the manhood: all the jobs and all the women, and then no woman, and now no job. a bum at 60. finished. nothing. he had a dollar and 20 cents in cash. a week’s rent paid. the ocean .... he thought back over the women. some of them had been good to him. others had simply been shrews, scratchers, a little crazy and terribly hard. rooms and beds and houses and Christmases and jobs and singing and hospitals, and dullness, dull days and nights and no meaning, no chance.
now 60 years worth: a dollar and 20 cents.
then he heard them behind him laughing. they had blankets and bottles and cans of beer, coffee and sandwiches. they laughed, they laughed. 2 young boys, 2 young girls. slim, pliable bodies. not a care. then one of them saw him.
“Hey, what’s THAT?”
“Jesus, I dunno!”
he didn’t move.
“is it human?”
“does it breathe? does it screw?”
“screw WHAT?”
they all laughed.
he lifted his wine bottle. there was something left. it was a good time for it.
“it MOVES! look, it MOVES!”
he stood up, brushed the sand from his pants.
“it has arms, legs! it has a face!”
“a FACE?”
they laughed again. he could not understand. kids were not this way. kids were not bad. what were these?
he walked up to them.
“there’s no shame in old age.”
one of the young boys was finishing off a beercan. he threw it to one side.
“there’s a shame in wasted years, pops. you look like waste to me.”
“I’m still a good man, son.”
“supposin’ one of these girls put some pussy on you, pops, what would you do?”
“Rod, don’t TALK that way!”
a young girl with long red hair spoke. she was arranging her hair in the wind, she seemed to sway in the wind, her toes hooked into the sand.
“how about it, pops? what would you do? huh? what would you do if one of these girls laid it on you?”
he started to walk, he walked around their blanket up the sand toward the boardwalk.
“Rod, why’d you talk to that poor old man that way? sometimes I HATE you!”
“COM’ERE, baby!”
“NO!”
he turned around and saw Rod chasing the girl. the girl screamed, then laughed. then Rod caught her and they fell in the sand, wrestling and laughing. he saw the other couple standing upright, kissing.
he made the boardwalk, sat on a bench and brushed the sand from his feet. then he put on his shoes. ten minutes later he was back in his room. he took off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. he didn’t turn on the light.
there was a knock on the door.
“Mr. Sneed?”
“yes?”
the door opened. it was the landlady, Mrs. Co
nners. Mrs. Conners was 65, he couldn’t see her face in the dark. he was glad he couldn’t see her face in the dark.
“Mr. Sneed?”
“yes?”
“I made some soup. I made some nice soup. Can I bring you a bowl of soup?”
“no, I don’t want any.”
“oh, come on, Mr. Sneed, it’s nice soup, real nice soup! let me bring you a bowl!”
“oh, all right.”
he got up and sat in a chair and waited. she had left the door open and the light came in from the hall. a shot of light, a beam of it across his legs and lap. and that’s where she sat the soup. a bowl of soup and a spoon.
“you’re gonna like it, Mr. Sneed. I make good soup.”
“thank you,” he said.
he sat there looking at the soup. it was piss-yellow. it was chicken soup. without meat. he sat looking at the little bubbles of grease in the soup. he sat for some time. then he took the spoon out and put it on the dresser. then he took the soup to the window, unhooked the screen and quietly spilled the soup onto the ground. there was a small rise of steam. then it was gone. he put the bowl back on the dresser, closed the door and got back on the bed. it was darker than ever, he liked the dark, the dark made sense.
by listening very carefully he heard the ocean. he listened to the ocean for some time. then he sighed, he sighed one large sigh and died.
NO STOCKINGS
Barney got her in the ass while she sucked me off; Barney finished first, put his toe in her ass, wiggled it, asked, “how ya like that?” she couldn’t answer right then. she finished me off. then we drank an hour or so. then I switched to the bunghole. Barney took the mouth. after that, he went to his place. I went to mine. I drank myself to sleep.
it must have been 4:30 in the afternoon, the doorbell rang. it was Dan. it was always Dan when I was sick or needed sleep. Dan was kind of a commie intellectual who ran a poetry workshop, had a knowledge of classical music; he had a snip of a beard and always came up with these drab little quips throughout his conversation, and worse than that – he wrote rhyming poetry.
Tales of Ordinary Madness Page 13