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lovely young ladies were making the fat million- aires happy. I reached
over, got one of my own cigars, took off the paper, took off the cigar band,
jammed the thing into my screwed- up and complex face, then lit it, the
cigar. bad writing's like bad women: there's just not much you can do about
it.
===
**THE GREAT ZEN WEDDING**
I was in the rear, stuck in with the Rumanian bread, liverwurst, beer,
soft drink; wearing a green necktie, first necktie since the death of my
father a decade ago. Now I was to be best man at a Zen wedding, Hollis
driving 85 m.p.h., Roy's four-foot beard flowing into my face. It was my '62
Comet, only I couldn't drive--- no insurance, two drunk-driving raps, and
already getting drunk. Hollis and Roy had lived unmarried for three years,
Hollis support- ing Roy. I sat in the back and sucked at my beer. Roy was
explain- ing Hollis' family to me one by one. Roy was better with the intel-
lectual shit. Or the tongue. The walls of their place were covered with
these many photos of guys bending into the muff and chewing.
Also a snap of Roy reaching climax while jacking off. Roy had done it
alone. I mean, tripped the camera. Himself. String. Wire. Some arrangement.
Roy claimed he had to jackoff six times in order to get the perfect snap. A
whole day's work: there it was: this milky glob: a work of art. Hollis
turned off the freeway. It wasn't too far. Some of the rich have driveways a
mile long. This one wasn't too bad: a quarter of a mile. We got out.
Tropical gardens. Four or five dogs. Big black woolly stupid slobbering-at-
the-mouth beasts. We never reached the door---there he was, the rich one,
standing on the veranda, looking down, drink in hand. And Roy yelled, "Oh,
Har- vey, you bastard, so good to see you!"
Harvey smiled the little smile: "Good to see you too, Roy."
One of the big black woollies was gobbling at my left leg. "Call your
dog off, Harvey, bastard, good to see you!" I screamed.
"Aristotle, now STOP that!"
Aristotle left off, just in time.
And.
We went up and down the steps with the salami, the Hungarian pickled
catfish, the shrimp. Lobstertails. Bagels. Minced dove ass- holes.
Then we had it all in there. I sat down and grabbed a beer. I was the
only one with a necktie. I was also the only one who had bought a wedding
gift. I hid it between the wall and the Aristotle- chewed leg.
"Charles Bukowski-"
I stood up.
"Oh, Charles Bukowski!"
"Uh huh."
Then:
"This is Marty."
"Hello, Marty."
"And this is Elsie."
"Hello, Elsie."
"Do you really, she asked, "break up furniture and windows, slash your
hands, all that, when you're drunk?"
"Uh huh."
"You're a little old for that."
"Now listen, Elsie, don't give me any shit-"
"And this is Tina."
"Hello, Tina."
I sat down.
Names! I had been married to my first wife for two-and-one- half years.
One night some people came in. I had told my wife: "This is Louie the half-
ass and this is Marie, Queen of the Quick Suck, and this is Nick, the half-
hobble." Then I had turned to them and said, "This is my wife- this is my
wife-this is-" I finally had to look at her and ask: "WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR
NAME ANYHOW?"
"Barbara."
"This is Barbara," I had told them-
The Zen master hadn't arrived. I sat and sucked at my beer.
Then here came more people. On and on up the steps. All Hollis' family.
Roy didn't seem to have a family. Poor Roy. Never worked a day in his life.
I got another beer.
They kept coming up the steps: ex-cons, sharpies, cripples, Dealers in
various subterfuges, Family and friends. Dozens of them. No wedding
presents. No neckties.
I pushed further back into my corner.
One guy was pretty badly fucked-up. It took him 25 minutes to get up
the stairway. He had especially-made crutches, very power- ful looking
things with round bands for the arms. Special grips here and there. Aluminum
and rubber. No wood for that baby. I figured it: watered-down stuff or a bad
payoff. He had taken the slugs in the old barber chair with the hot and wet
shaving towel over his face. Only they'd missed a few vital spots.
There were others. Somebody taught class at UCLA. Some- body else ran
in shit through Chinese fishermen's boats via San Pedro Harbor.
I was introduced to the greatest killers and dealers of the century.
Me, I was between jobs.
Then Harvey walked up.
"Bukowski, care for a bit of scotch and water?"
"Sure, Harvey, sure."
We walked toward the kitchen.
"What's the necktie for?"
"The top of the zipper on my pants is broken. And my shorts are too
tight. End of necktie covers stinkhairs just above my cock."
I think that you are the modern living master of the short story.
Nobody touches you."
"Sure, Harvey. Where's the scotch.
"I always drink this kind since you always mention it in your short
stories."
"But I've switched brands now, Harv. I found some better stuff."
"What's the name of it?"
"Damned if I can remember."
I found a tall water glass, poured in half scotch, half water.
"For the nerves," I told him. "You know?"
"Sure, Bukowski."
I drank it straight down.
"How about a refill?"
"Sure."
I took the refill and walked to the front room, sat in my corner.
Meanwhile there was a new excitement: The Zen master had ARRIVED!
The Zen master had on this very fancy outfit and kept his eyes very
narrow. Or maybe that's the way they were.
The Zen master needed tables. Roy ran around looking for tables.
Meanwhile, the Zen master was very calm, very gracious. I downed my
drink, went in for a refill. Came back. A golden-haired kid ran in. About
eleven years old. "Bukowski, I've read some of your stories. I think that
you are the greatest writer I have ever read!"
Long blond curls. Glasses. Slim body.
"Okay, baby. You get old enough. We'll get married. Live off of your
money. I'm getting tired. You an just parade me around in a kind of glass
cage with little airholes in it. I'll let the young boys have you. I'll even
watch."
"Bukowski! Just because I have long hair, you think I'm a girl! My name
is Paul! We were introduced! Don't you remember?"
Paul's father, Harvey, was looking at me. I saw his eyes. Then I knew
that he had decided that I was not such a good writer after all. maybe even
a bad writer. Well, no man can hide forever.
But the little boy was all right: "That's okay, Bukowski! You are still
the greatest writer I have ever read! Daddy has let me read some of your
stories-"
Then all the lights went out. That's what the kid deserved for his big
mouth-
But there were candles everywhere. Everybody was finding candles,
walking around finding candles and lighting them.
"Shit, it's just a fuse. Replace the fuse," I said.
Somebody said it wasn't the fuse, it was something else, so I gave up
and while all the candle-lighting went on I walked into the kitchen for more
scotch. Shit, there was Harvey standing there.
"Ya got a beautiful son, Harvey. Your boy, Peter-"
"Paul."
"Sorry. The Biblical."
"I understand."
(The rich understand; they just don't do anything about it.)
Harvey uncorked a new fifth. We talked about Kafka. Dos. Turgenev,
Gogel. All that dull shit. Then there were candles every-where. The Zen
master wanted to get on with it. Roy had given me the two rings. I felt.
They were still there. Everybody was waiting on us. I was waiting for Harvey
to drop to the floor from drinking all that scotch. It wasn't any good. He
had matched me one drink for two and was still standing. That isn't done too
often. We had knocked off half a fifth in the ten minutes of candle-
lighting. We went out to the crowd. I dumped the rings on Roy. Roy had com-
municated, days earlier, to the Zen master that I was a drunk --- unreliable
--- either faint-hearted or vicious ---therefore, during the ceremony, don't
ask Bukowski for the rings because Bukowski might not be there. Or he might
lose the rings, or vomit, or lose Bukowski.
So here it was, finally. The Zen master began playing with his little
black book. It didn't look too thick. Around 150 pages, I'd say.
"I ask," said the Zen, "no drinking or smoking during the ceremony."
I drained my drink. I stood to Roy's right. Drinks were being drained
all over the place.
Then the Zen master gave a little chickenshit smile. I knew Christian
wedding ceremonies by the sad note of experience. And the Zen ceremony
actually resembled the Christian, with a small amount of horseshit thrown
in. Somewhere along the way, three small sticks were lit. Zen had a whole
box of the things --- two or three hundred. After the lighting, one stick
was places in the center of a jar of sand. That was the Zen stick. Then Roy
was asked to place his burning stick upon one side of the Zen stick, Hollis
asked to place hers on the other.
But the sticks weren't quite right. The Zen master, smiling a bit, had
to reach forward and adjust the sticks to new depths and elevations.
Then the Zen master dug out a circle of brown beads.
He handed the circle of beads to Roy.
"Now?" asked Roy.
Damn, I thought, Roy always read up on everything else. Why not his own
wedding?
Zen reached forward, placed Hollis' right hand within Roy's left. And
the beads encircled both hands that way.
"Do you-"
"I do-"
(This was Zen? I thought.)
"And do you, Hollis-"
"I do-"
Meanwhile, in the candlelight, there was some asshole taking hundreds
of photos of the ceremony. It made me nervous. It could have been the F.B.I.
"Plick! Plick! Plick!"
Of course, we were all clean. But it was irritating because it was
careless.
Then I noticed the Zen master's ears in the candlelight. The
candlelight shone through them as if they were made of the thinnest of
toilet paper.
The Zen master had the thinnest ears of any man I had ever seen. That
was what made him holy! I had to have those ears! For my wallet or my tomcat
or my memory. Or for under the pillow.
Of course, I knew that it was all the scotch and water and all the beer
talking to me, and then, in another way, I didn't know that at all.
I kept staring at the Zen master's ears.
And there were more words.
"-and you Roy, promise not to take any drugs while in your relationship
with Hollis?"
There seemed to be an embarrassing pause. Then, their hands locked
together in the brown beads: "I promise," said Roy, "not to-"
Soon it was over. Or seemed over. The Zen master stood straight up,
smiling just a touch of a smile.
I touched Roy upon a shoulder: "Congratulations." Then I leaned over.
Took hold of Hollis' head, kissed her beautiful lips.
Still everybody sat there. A nation of subnormals.
Nobody moved. The candles glowed like subnormal candles.
I walked over to the Zen master. Shook his hand: "Thank you. you did
the ceremony quite well."
He seemed really pleased, which made me feel a little better. but the
rest of those gangsters --- old Tammany Hall and the Mafia: they were too
proud and stupid to shake hands with an Oriental. Only one other kissed
Hollis. Only one other shook the hand of the Zen master. It could have been
a shotgun wedding. All that family! Well, I'd be the last to know or the
last to be told.
Now that the wedding was over, it seemed very cold in there. They just
sat and stared at each other. I could never comprehend the human race, but
somebody had to play clown. I ripped off my green necktie, flipped it into
the air:
"HEY! YOU COCKSUCKERS! ISN'T ANYBODY HUN- GRY?"
I walked over and started grabbing at cheese, pickled-pigs' feet and
chicken cunt. A few stiffly warmed up, walked over and grabbed at the food,
not knowing what else to do.
I got them to nibbling. Then I left and hit for the scotch and water.
As I was in the kitchen, refilling, I heard the Zen master say, "I must
leave now."
"Oooh, don't leave-" I heard an old, squeaky and female voice from
among the greatest gangland gathering in three years. And even she didn't
sound as if she meant it. What was I doing in with these? Or the UCLA prof?
No, the UCLA prof belonged there.
There must be a repentance. Or something. Some action to humanize the
proceedings.
As soon as I heard the Zen master close the front door, I drained my
waterglass full of scotch. Then I ran out through the candlelit room of
jabbering bastards, found the door (that was a job, for a moment), and I
opened the door, closed it, and there I was- about 15 steps behind Mr. Zen.
We still had 45 or 50 steps to go to get down to the parking lot.
I gained upon him, lurching, two steps to his one.
I screamed: "Hey, Masta!"
Zen turned. "Yes, old man?"
Old man?
We both stopped and looked at each other on that winding stairway there
in the moonlit tropical garden. It seemed like a time for a closer
relationship.
Then I told him: "I either want bother your motherfucking ears or your
motherfucking outfit --- that neon-lighted bathrobe you're wearing!"
"old man, you are crazy!"
"I thought Zen had more moxie than to make unmitigated and offhand
statements. You disappoint me, Masta!"
Zen placed his palms together and looked upward.
I told him, "I either want you motherfucking outfit or your
motherfucking ears!"
He kept his palms together, while looking upward.
I plunged down the steps, missing a few but still flying for- ward,
which kept me from cracking my head open, and as I fell downward toward him,
I tried to swing, but I was all momentum, like something cut loose without
direction. Zen caught me and straightened me.
"My son, my son-"
We were in close. I swung. Caught a good part of him. I heard him hiss.
He stepped one step back. I swung again. Missed. Went way wide left. Fell
into some imported plants from hell. I got up. Moved toward him again. And
in the moonlight, I saw the front of my own pants --- splattered with blood,
candle-drippings and puke.
"You've met you master, bastard!" I notified him as I moved toward him.
He waited. The years of working as a factotum had not left muscles entirely
lax. I gave him one deeply into the gut, all 230 pounds of my body behind
it.
Zen let out a short gasp, once again supplicated the sky, said
something in the Oriental, gave me a short karate chop, kindly, and left me
wrapped within a series of senseless Mexican cacti and what appeared to be,
from my eye, man-eating plants from the inner Brazilian jungles. I relaxed
in the moonlight until this purple flower seemed to gather toward my nose
and began to delicately pinch out my breathing.
Shit, it took at least 150 years to break into the Harvard Classics.
There wasn't any choice: I broke loose from the thing and started crawling
up the stairway again. Near the top, I mounted to my feet, opened the door
and entered. Nobody noticed me. They were still talking shit. I flopped into
my corner. The karate shot had opened a cut over my left eyebrow. I found my
handkerchief.
"Shit! I need a drink!" I hollered.
Harvey came up with one. All scotch. I drained it. Why was it that the
buzz of human beings talking could be so senseless? I no- ticed the woman
who had been introduced to me as the bride's mother was now showing plenty
of leg, and it didn't look bad, all that long nylon with the expensive
stiletto heels, plus the little jewel tips down near the toes. It could give
an idiot the hots, and I was only half-idiot.
I got up, walked over to the bride's mother, ripped her skirt back to
her thighs, kissed her quickly upon her pretty knees and began to kiss my
way upward.
The candlelight helped. Everything.
"Hey!" she awakened suddenly, "whatcha think you're do- ing?"
"I'm going to fuck the shit out of you, I am going to fuck you until
the shit falls outa your ass! Whatch thinka that?"
She pushed and I fell backwards upon the rug. Then I was flat upon my
back, thrashing, trying to get up.
"Damned Amazon!" I screamed at her.
Finally, three or four minutes later I managed to get to my feet.
Somebody laughed. The, finding my feet flat upon the floor again, I made for
the kitchen. Poured a drink, drained it. Then poured a refill and walked
out.
There they were: all the goddamned relatives.
"Roy or Hollis?" I asked. "Why don't you open your wedding gift?"
"Sure," said Roy, "why not?"
The gift was wrapped in 45 yards of tinfoil. Roy just kept unrolling
the foil Finally, he got it all undone.
"Happy marriage!" I shouted.
They all saw it. The room was very quiet.
It was a little handcrafted coffin done by the best artisans in Spain.
It even had the pinkish-red felt bottom. It was the exact replica of a
larger coffin, except perhaps it was done with more love.
Roy gave me his killer's look, ripped off the tag of instructions on
how to keep the wood polished, threw it inside the coffin and closed the
lid.
It was very quiet. The only gift hadn't gone over. But they soon
gathered themselves and began talking shit again.
I became silent. I had really been proud of my little casket. I had
looked for hours for a gift. I had almost gone crazy. Then I had seen it on
the shelf, all alone. Touched the outsides, turned it up- side-down, then
looked inside. The price was height but I was paying for the perfect
craftsmanship. The wood. The little hinges. All. At the same time, I needed
some ant-killer spray. I found some Black Flag in the back of the store. The
ants had built a nest under my front door. I took the stuff to the counter.
There was a young girl there, I set the stuff in front of her. I pointed to
the casket.
"You know what that is?"
"What?"
"That's a casket!"
I opened it up and showed it to her.
"These ants are driving me crazy. Ya know what I'm going to do?"
"What?"
"I'm going to kill all those ants and put them in this casket and bury
them!"
She laughed. "You've saved my whole day!"
You can't put it past the young ones anymore; they are an entirely
superior breed. I paid and got out of there-
But now, at the wedding, nobody laughed. A pressure cooker done up with
a red ribbon would have left them happy. Or would it have? Harvey, the rich
one, finally, was kindest of all. Maybe because he could afford to be kind?
Then I remembered something out of my readings, something from the ancient
Chinese:
"Would you rather be rich or an artist?"
"I'd rather be rich, for it seems that the artist is always sitting on
the doorsteps of the rich."
I sucked at the fifth and didn't care anymore. Somehow, the next thing
I knew, it was over. I was in the back seat of my own car, Hollis driving
again, the beard of Roy flowing into my face again. I sucked at my fifth.
"Look, did you guys throw my little casket away? I love you both, you
know that! Why did you throw my little casket away?"
"Look, Bukowski! Here's your casket!"
Roy held it up to me, showed it to me.
"Ah, fine!"
"You want it back?"
"No! No! My gift to you! Your only gift! Keep it! Please!"
"All right."
The remainder of the drive was fairly quiet. I lived in a front court
near Hollywood (of course). Parking was mean. Then they found a space about
a half a block from where I lived. They parked my car, handed me the keys.
Then I saw them walk across the street toward their own car. I watched them,
turned to walk toward my place, and while still watching them and holding to
the remainder of Harvey's fifth, I tripped one shoe into a pantscuff and
went down. As I fell backwards, my first instinct was to protect the
remainder of that good fifth from smashing against the cement (mother with
baby), and as I fell backwards I tried to hit with my shoulders, holding
both head and bottle up. I saved the bottle but the head flipped back into
the sidewalk, BASH!
They both stood and watched me fall. I was stunned almost into
insensibility but managed to scream across the street at them: "Roy! Hollis!
Help me to my front door, please I'm hurt!"
They stood a moment, looking at me. Then they got into their car,
started the engine, leaned back and neatly drove off.
I was being repaid for something. The casket? Whatever it had been ---
the use of my car, or me as clown and/or best man-my use had been outworn.
The human race had always disgusted me. essentially, what made them
disgusting was the family-relationship illness, which included marriage,
exchange of power and aid, which neighborhood, your district, your city,
your county, your state, your nation-everybody grabbing each other's
assholes in the Honeycomb of survival out of a fear-animalistic stupidity.
I got it all there, I understood it as they left me there, pleading.
Five more minutes, I thought. If I can lay here five more minutes
without being bothered I'll get up and make it toward my place, get inside.
I was the last of the outlaws. Billy the Kid had nothing on me. Five more
minutes. Just let me get to my cave. I'll mend. Next time I'm asked to one
of their functions, I'll tell them where to put it. Five minutes. That's all
I need.
Two women walked by. They turned and looked at me.
"Oh, look at him. What's wrong?"
"He's drunk."
"He's not sick, is he?"
"No, look how he holds to that bottle. Like a little baby."
Oh shit. I screamed up at them:
"I'LL SUCK BOTH YOUR SNATCHES! I'LL SUCK BOTH YOUR SNATCHES DRY, YOU
CUNTS!"
"Ooooooh!"
They both ran into the high-rise glass apartment. Through the glass
door. And I was outside unable to get up, best man to some- thing. All I had
to do was make it to my place --- 30 yards away, as close as three million
light years. Thirty yards from a rented front door. Tow more minutes and I
could get up. Each time I tried it, I got stronger. An old drunk would
always make it, given enough time. One minute. One minute more. I could have
made it.
Then there they were. Part of the insane family structure of the World.
Madmen, really, hardly questioning what made them do what they did. They
left their double-red light burning as they parked. Then got out. One had a
flashlight.
"Bukowski," said the one with the flashlight, "you just can't seem to
keep out of trouble, can you?"
He knew my name from somewhere, other times.
"Look," I said, "I just stumbled. Hit my head. I never lose my sense of
my coherence. I'm not dangerous. Why don't you guys help me to my doorway?
It's 30 yards away. Just let me fall upon my bed and sleep it off. Don't you
think, really, that would be the really decent thing to do?"
"Sir, two ladies reported you as trying to rape them."
"Gentlemen, I would never attempt to rape two ladies at the same time."
The one cop kept flashing his stupid flashlight into my face. It gave
him a great feeling of superiority.
"Just 30 yards to Freedom! Can't you guys understand that?"
"You're the funniest show in town, Bukowski! Give us a better alibi
than that."
"Well, let's see - this thing you see sprawled here on the pavement is
the end-product of a wedding, a Zen wedding."
"You mean some woman really tried to marry you?"
"Not me, you asshole-"
The cop with the flashlight brought it down across my nose.
"We ask respect toward officers of the law."
"Sorry. For a moment I forgot."
The blood ran down along my throat and then toward and upon my shirt. I
was very tired - of everything.
"Bukowski," asked the one who had just used the flashlight, "why can't
you stay out of trouble?"
"Just forget the horseshit," I said, "let's go off to jail."
They put on the cuffs and threw me into the back seat. Same sad old
scene.
They drove along slowly, speaking of various possible and in- sane
things - like, about having the front porch widened, or a pool, or an extra
room in the back for Granny. And when it came to sports - these were real
men - the Dodgers still had a chance, even with the two or three other teams
right in there with them. Back to the family - if the Dodgers won, they won.
If a man landed on the moon, they landed on the moon. But let a starving man
ask them a dime - no identification, fuck you, shithead. I mean, when they
were in civvies. There hasn't been a starving man yet who ever asked a cop
for a dime. Our record is clear.
Then I was, once again, in this type of long line of the some- how
guilty. The young guys didn't know what was coming. They were mixed up with
this thing called THE CONSTITUTION and their RIGHTS. The young cops, both in
the city tank and the coun- ty tank, got their training on the drunks. They
had to show they had it. While I was watching they took one guy in an
elevator and rode him up and down, up and down, and when he got out, you
hardly knew who he was, or what he had been - a black screaming about Human
Rights. Then they got a white guy, screaming something about CONSTITUTIONAL
RIGHTS; four or five of them got him, and they rushed him off his feet so
fast he couldn't walk, and when they brought him back they leaned him
against a wall, and he just stood there trembling, these red welts all over
his body, he stood there trembling and shivering.
I got my photo taken all over again. Fingerprinted all over again.
They took me down to the drunk tank, opened that door. After that, it
was just a matter of looking for floorspace among the 150 men in the room.
One shitpot. Vomit and piss everywhere. I found a spot among my fellow men.
I was Charles Bukowski, fea- tured in the literary archives of the
University of California at Santa Barbara. Somebdy there thought I was a
genius. I stretched out on the boards. Heard a young voice. A boy's voice.
"Mista, I'll suck your dick for a quarter!"
They were supposed to take all your change, bills, ident, keys, knives,
so forth, plus cigarettes, and then you had the property slip. Which you
either lost or sold or had stolen from you. But there was always still money
and cigarettes about.
"Sorry, lad," I told him, "They took my last penny."
Four hours later I managed to sleep.
There.
Best man at a Zen wedding, and I'd bet they, the bride and groom,
hadn't even fucked that night. But somebody had been.
===
**AN EVIL TOWN**
Frank walked down the steps. He didn't like elevators. He didn't like
many things. He disliked steps less than he disliked elevators.
The desk clerk called to him: "Mr. Evans! Would you step over here,
please?"
The desk clerk's face looked like cornmeal mush. It was all Frank could
do to keep from hitting him. The desk clerk looked about the lobby, then
leaned very close.
"Mr. Evans, we've been watching you."
The desk clerk again looked about the lobby, saw that there wasn't
anybody near, then leaned forward again.
"Mr. Evans, we've been watching you and we believe that you're losing
your mind."
The desk clerk leaned back then and looked right at Frank.
"I feel like going to a movie," said Frank. "You know of any good
movies in town?
"Let's stick to the subject, Mr. Evans."
"O.k., I'm losing my mind. Anything else?"
The clerk reached under the counter and came up with some- thing
wrapped in cellophane.
"Here it is, Mr. Evans."
Frank dropped it in his coat pocket and walked outside. It was a cool
autumn night and he walked down the street, west. He stopped at the first
alley, stepped in. He reached into his coat and got the wrapped-up thing,
peeled the cellophane off. It looked like cheese. It smelled like cheese. He
took a bite. It tasted like cheese. He ate it all, then stepped out of the
alley and walked down the street again.
He turned into the first movie house he saw, bought his ticket and
walked into the darkness. He took a seat in the back. There weren't many
people in there. The whole place smelled like urine. The women on the screen
dressed as they did in the '20's and the men wore vaseline on their hair,
combed it back hard and straight. Their noses seemed very long and the men
also seemed to have mascara under their eyes. It wasn't even a talkie. Words
showed under the film: BLANCHE WAS NEW IN THE BIG CITY. A guy with straight
greasy hair was making Blanche drink from a bottle of gin. Blanche appeared
to be getting drunk. BLANCHE GREW DIZZY. SUDDENLY HE KISSED HER.
Frank looked around. Everywhere heads seemed to be bob- bing. There
weren't any women in the place. The guys seemed to be sucking each other
off. They went at it and at it. They never seemed to get tired. The men
sitting alone seemed to be jacking-off. The cheese had been good. He wished
the clerk had given him more cheese.
HE BEGAN TO DISROBE BLANCHE.
And every time he looked around this guy was getting nearer to him.
Then when Frank looked back at the movie the guy would move 2 or 3 seats
nearer to him.
HE MADE LOVE TO BLANCHE WHILE SHE WAS HELP- LESSLY INTOXICATED.
He looked again. The guy was 3 seats away. Breathing heavily. Then the
guy was in the seat next to him.
"Oh shit," the guy said, "O, mys shit, ooo,ooo,oooo. ah, ah! eeeyew!
oh!"
WHEN BLANCHE AWAKENED THE NEXT MORNING SHE REALIZED THAT SHE HAD BEEN
RAVISHED.
The guy smelled as if he had never wiped his ass. The guy was leaning
toward him, bits of spit drooling from the sides of his mouth.
Frank hit the button of the switchblade:
"Careful!" he told the guy. "You get any closer you might hurt yourself
on this!"
"Oh, my god!" said the guy. He got up and ran down the row of seats to
the aisle, then walked quickly down the aisle to the front row. Two guys
were at it. One guy was jacking-off the other guy as the guy went down on
him. The guy who had been bothering Frank sat there and watched them.
SOON AFTER, BLANCHE WAS IN A HOUSE OF PROSTI- TUTION.
Then Frank had to urinate. He got up and walked toward the sign: MEN.
He went in. It really stank in there. He gagged, opened the toilet door,
went in. He took out his penis and started to piss. Then he heard some
sounds.
"Ooooh ooooh, you filthy fuck!" said the guy. "ooh you beasly fiendish
piece of shit!"
He heard the guy ripping off toilet paper and wiping his face. Then the
guy began to cry. Frank stepped out of the toilet, washed his hands. He
didn't want to see any more of the movie. Then he was out on the street,
walking back toward his hotel. Then he was in the lobby. The desk clerk
nodded him over.
"Yeah?" asked Frank.
"Look, Mr. Evans, I'm sorry. I was just kidding you."
"About what?"
"You know."
"No, I don't know."
"Well, about losing your mind. I've been drinking, you know. Don't tell
anybody or I'll lose my job. But I've been drinking. I know that you're not
losing your mind. I was just joking."
"But I am losing my mind," said Frank, "and thanks for the cheese."
Then he turned and walked up the stairway. When he got to his room he
sat down at the writing desk. He took out the switch- blade, hit the button,
looked at the knifeblade. It was well sharp- ened down one entire side. It
could stab or slice. He hit the button and put the knife back in his pocket.
Then Frank found pen and paper and began to write:
"Dear Mother:
This is an evil town. The Devil is in control. Sex is everywhere and it
is not being used as an instrument of Beauty as God meant it to be, but as
an instrument of Evil. Yes, it has most certainly fallen into the devil's
hands, into Evil hands. Young girls are forced to drink gin, then they are
deflowered by these beasts and forced into houses of prostitution. It is
terrible. It is unbelievable. My heart is torn.
I walked along the shore yesterday. Not along the shore, real- ly, but
up along on top of cliffs and then I stopped and sat there while breathing
in the Beauty. The sea, the sky, the sand. Life be- came the Eternal Bliss.
Then a most miraculous thing happened. 3 small squirrels saw me from way
down below and they began to climb the cliffs. I saw their little faces
peeking at me from behind rocks and crevices in the cliffs as they climbed
toward me. Finally they were at my feet. Their eyes looked at me. Never,
Mother, have I seen more beautiful eyes - undiluted by Sin: the whole sky,
the whole sea, Eternity was in those eyes. Finally I moved and they-"
There was a knock on the door. Frank got up, walked over, opened it. It
was the desk clerk.
"Mr. Evans, please, I must speak to you."
"All right, come in."
The desk clerk closed the door and stood in front of Frank. The desk
clerk smelled like wine.
"Mr. Evans, please don't tell management about our misunder- standing."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're a great guy, Mr. Evans. You know, I've been drink- ing."
"You are forgiven. Now go."
"Mr. Evans, there's something I've got to tell you."
"Very well. What is it?"
"I'm in love with you, Mr. Evans."
"Oh, you mean my spirit, eh, my boy?"
"No, your body, Mr. Evans."
"What?"
"Your body, Mr. Evans. Please don't be offended, but I want you to ream
me!"
"REAM ME, Mr. Evans! I've been reamed by half the United States Navy!
Those boys know what's good, Mr. Evans. There's nothing like a bit of clean
round-eye!"
"You will leave my room immediately!"
The desk clerk threw his arms about Frank's neck, then his mouth was on
Frank's mouth. The desk clerk's mouth was very wet and cold, it stank. Frank
pushed him away.
"You rotten bastard! YOU KISSED ME!"
"I love you, Mr. Evans!"
"You filthy swine!"
Frank had the knife, hit the button, the blade jumped out and he stuck
it into the desk clerk's stomach. Then pulled it out.
"Mr. Evans- my god-"
The clerk fell to the floor. He was holding both hands over the wound
trying to stop the blood.
"You bastard! YOU KISSED ME!"
Frank reached down and unzipped the desk clerk's fly. Then he got the
clerk's penis, pulled it straight up toward him and sliced it off three-
quarters of the way down.
"Oh, my god my god my god my god-" said the clerk.
Frank walked to the bathroom, took the thing and threw it into the
toilet. Then he flushed the toilet. Then he washed his hands very well with
soap and water. He came out, sat down to the disk again. He picked up the
pen.
"-ran away but I had seen Eternity.
Mother, I must move from this city, from this hotel - the Devil is in
control of almost all the bodies. I will write you again from the next city
- perhaps San Francisco, Portland or Seattle. I feel like moving north. I
think of you continually and hope that you are happy and in good health, and
may the Lord be with you always.
love,
your son,
Frank"
He wrote the address on the envelope, sealed it, added stamp and then
walked over and put it in the inside pocket of his coat which was hanging in
the closet. Then he took a suitcase from the closet, put it on the bed,
opened it and began to pack.
===
TWELVE FLYING MONKEYS WHO WON'T COPULATE PROPERLY
The bell rings and I open the side window by the door. It is
night. "Who is it?" I ask.
Somebody walks up to the window but I can't see the face. I
have two lights over the typewriter. I slam the window but there is
talking out there. I sit down to the typewriter but there is still
talking out there. I get up and rip open the door and scream:
"I TOLD YOU COCKSUCKERS NOT TO BOTHER ME!"
I look around and there is one guy standing on the bottom of
the steps and another guy standing on the porch, pissing; He is
pissing into a bush to the left of the porch, standing on the edge of
the porch, his piss arching in a heavy swath, upward and then down
into the bush.
"Hey, this guy is pissing into my bush," I say.
the guy laughs and keeps pissing. I grab him by the pants, pick
him up and throw him, still pissing, over the top of the bush and
into the night. He doesn't return. The other guy says, "What did you
do that for?"
"I felt like it."
"Drunk?" I ask.
He walks around the corner and is gone. I close the door and sit
down to the typer again. All right, I have this mad scientist, he's
taught monkeys to fly, he's got eleven monkey's with these wings.
The monkeys are very good. The scientist has even taught them to
race. Race around these pylons, yes. Now let's see. Gotta make it
good. To get rid of a story you gotta have fucking, lots of it, if
possible. Better make it twelve monkeys, six male and six of the
other kind. All right now. Here they go. There they go around the first
pylon. How am I going to get them to fucking? I
haven't sold a story in two months. I should have stayed in the
goddamned post office. All right. There they go. Around the first
pylon. Maybe they just fly off. Suddenly. How about that? They fly
to Washington, D.C. and hang around the Capitol dropping turds on
the public, pissing on them, smearing their turds across the White
House. Can I have one drop a turd on the President? No, that's
asking too much. Okay, make it a turd on the Secretary of State.
Orders are given to shoot them out of the sky. That's tragic, isn't it?
But what about the fucking? All right. All right. Work it in. Let's
see. Okay, ten of them are shot out of the sky, poor little things.
There are only two others. A male and one other kind. They can't
seem to be found. Then a cop is walking through the park one night,
and there they are, the last two of them, wings strapped on, fucking
like the devil. The cop walks up. The male hears, turns his head,
looks up, gives a silly little monkey-grin, never missing a stroke,
then
turns his head and goes back to banging. The cop blows his head off.
The monkey's head, that is. The female flips the male off in disgust
and stands up. For a monkey, she is a pretty little thing. For a
moment the cop thinks of, thinks of - But no, it would be too tight,
maybe, and she might bite, maybe. While he's thinking this, the
bullet, she falls. He runs up. She is wounded but not dead. The cop
looks around, lifts her up, takes it out, tries to work it in. No good.
Just room for the head. Shit. He drops her to the ground, puts his
gun to her brain and B A M! it's over.
The bell rings again.
I open the door.
Three guys walk in. Always these guys. A woman never pisses
on my porch, a woman hardly ever comes by. How am I going to get
any sex ideas? I have almost forgotten how to do it. But they say it's
like riding a bicycle, you never forget. It's better than riding a bi-
cycle.
It's Crazy Jack and two guys I don't know.
"Look, Jack," I say, "I thought I was rid of you."
Jack just sits down. The other two guys sit down. Jack has
promised me never to come by again but he is on the wine most of
the time, so promises don't mean much. He lives with his mother
and pretends to be a painter. I know four or five guys living with or
supported by their mother, and the guys pretend to genius. And all
the mothers are alike: "Oh, Nelson has a painting hanging at the
Warner-Finch Galleries this week. His genius is being recognized at
last! He's asking $4,000 for the work. Do you think that's too
much?" Nelson, Jack, Biddy, Norman, Jimmy and Ketya, Fuck.
Jack has on blue jeans, is barefooted, no shirt, undershirt, just
a brown shawl thrown over him. One guy has a beard and grins and
blushes continually. The other guy is just fat. Some kind of leech.
"Have you seen Borst lately?" Jack asks.
"No."
"Let me have one of your beers."
"No. You guys come around, drink all my shit, split and leave
me on a dry shore."
"All right."
He leaps up, runs out and gets his wine bottle which he has
hidden under the cushion on the porch chair. He comes back, takes
off the lid, takes a suck.
"I was down at Venice with this chick and one hundred rain-
bows. I thought I spotted the heat and I ran up to Borst's place with
this chick and the hundred rainbows. I knocked on the door and
told him, "Quick, let me in! I've got one hundred rainbows and the
heat is right behind me!" Borst closed the door, I kicked it in and ran
in with the chick. Borst was on the floor, jacking off some guy. I ran
into the bathroom with the chick and locked the door. Borst
knocked. I said, "Don't you dare come in here!" I stayed in there
with the chick for about an hour. We knocked off two pieces of ass
to amuse ourselves. Then we came out."
"Did you dump the rainbows?"
"Hell no, it was a false alarm. But Borst was very angry."
"Shit," I say, "Borst hasn't written a decent poem since 1955.
His mother supports him. Pardon me. But I mean, all he does is look
at TV, eat these delicate little celeries and greens and jog along the
beach in his dirty underwear. He used to be a fine poet when he was
living with those young boys in Arabia. But I can't sympathize. A
winner goes wire to wire. It's like Huxley said, Aldous, that is, 'Any
man can be a-'"
"How you doing?" Jack asks.
"Nothing but rejects," I say.
The one guy begins playing the flute. The leech just sits there
Jack lifts his wine bottle. It is a beautiful night in Hollywood, Cali-
fornia. Then the guy who lives in the court behind me falls out of
bed, drunk. It makes quite a sound. I'm used to it. I'm used to the
whole court. All of them sit in their places, shades drawn. They get
up at noon. Their cars sit out front dust-covered, tires going down,
batteries weakening. They mix drink with dope and have no visible
means of support. I like them. They don't bother me.
The guy gets into bed again, falls out.
"You silly damn fool," you hear him say, "get back into that
bed."
"What's all that noise?" Jack asks.
"Guy behind me. He's very lonely. Drinks a beer now and
then. His mother died last year and left him twenty grand. He sits
around and masturbates and looks at baseball games and cowboy
shootums on TV. Used to be a gas station attendant.
"We've got to split." says Jack, "want to come with us?"
"No," I say.
They explain that it is something to do with the House of
Seven Gables. They are going to see somebody who had something
to do with the House of Seven Gables. It isn't the writer, the produc-
er, the actors, it is somebody else.
"Well, no," I say, and they all run out. It is a beautiful sight.
Then I sit down to the monkeys again. Maybe I can juggle
those monkeys up. If I can get all twelve of them fucking at once!
That's it! But how? And why? Check the Royal Ballet of London.
But why? I'm going crazy. Okay, the Royal Ballet of London has
this idea. Twelve monkeys flying while they ballet. Only before the
performance somebody gives them all the Spanish Fly. Not the bal-
let. The monkeys. But the Spanish Fly is a myth, isn't it? Okay,
enter another mad scientist with a real Spanish Fly! No, no, oh my
God, I just can't get it right!
The phone rings. I pick it up. It's Borst:
"Hello, Hank?"
"Yeah?"
"I have to keep it short. I'm broke."
"Yes, Jerry."
"Well, I lost my two sponsors. The stock market and the tight
dollar."
"Uh huh."
"Well, I always knew it was going to happen. So I'm getting
out of Venice. I can't make it here. I'm going to New York City."
"What?"
"I thought that's what you said."
"Well, I'm broke you see, and I think I can really make it
there."
"Sure, Jerry."
"Losing my sponsors is the best thing that ever happened to
me."
"Really?"
"Now I feel like fighting again. You've heard about people
rotting along the beach. Well, that's what I've been doing down here:
rotting. I've got to get out of here. And I'm not worried. Except for
the trunks."
"I can't seem to get them packed. So my mother's coming
back here."
"All right, Jerry."
"But before I go to New York I'm going to stop off at Switzer-
land and perhaps Greece. Then I'm coming back to New York."
"All right, Jerry, keep in touch. Always good to hear."
Then I am back to the monkeys again. Twelve monkeys who
can fly, fucking. How can it be done? Twelve bottles of beer are
gone. I find my reserve half-pint of scotch in the refrigerator. I mix
one-third glass scotch with two-thirds water. I should have stayed in
over, got one of my own cigars, took off the paper, took off the cigar band,
jammed the thing into my screwed- up and complex face, then lit it, the
cigar. bad writing's like bad women: there's just not much you can do about
it.
===
**THE GREAT ZEN WEDDING**
I was in the rear, stuck in with the Rumanian bread, liverwurst, beer,
soft drink; wearing a green necktie, first necktie since the death of my
father a decade ago. Now I was to be best man at a Zen wedding, Hollis
driving 85 m.p.h., Roy's four-foot beard flowing into my face. It was my '62
Comet, only I couldn't drive--- no insurance, two drunk-driving raps, and
already getting drunk. Hollis and Roy had lived unmarried for three years,
Hollis support- ing Roy. I sat in the back and sucked at my beer. Roy was
explain- ing Hollis' family to me one by one. Roy was better with the intel-
lectual shit. Or the tongue. The walls of their place were covered with
these many photos of guys bending into the muff and chewing.
Also a snap of Roy reaching climax while jacking off. Roy had done it
alone. I mean, tripped the camera. Himself. String. Wire. Some arrangement.
Roy claimed he had to jackoff six times in order to get the perfect snap. A
whole day's work: there it was: this milky glob: a work of art. Hollis
turned off the freeway. It wasn't too far. Some of the rich have driveways a
mile long. This one wasn't too bad: a quarter of a mile. We got out.
Tropical gardens. Four or five dogs. Big black woolly stupid slobbering-at-
the-mouth beasts. We never reached the door---there he was, the rich one,
standing on the veranda, looking down, drink in hand. And Roy yelled, "Oh,
Har- vey, you bastard, so good to see you!"
Harvey smiled the little smile: "Good to see you too, Roy."
One of the big black woollies was gobbling at my left leg. "Call your
dog off, Harvey, bastard, good to see you!" I screamed.
"Aristotle, now STOP that!"
Aristotle left off, just in time.
And.
We went up and down the steps with the salami, the Hungarian pickled
catfish, the shrimp. Lobstertails. Bagels. Minced dove ass- holes.
Then we had it all in there. I sat down and grabbed a beer. I was the
only one with a necktie. I was also the only one who had bought a wedding
gift. I hid it between the wall and the Aristotle- chewed leg.
"Charles Bukowski-"
I stood up.
"Oh, Charles Bukowski!"
"Uh huh."
Then:
"This is Marty."
"Hello, Marty."
"And this is Elsie."
"Hello, Elsie."
"Do you really, she asked, "break up furniture and windows, slash your
hands, all that, when you're drunk?"
"Uh huh."
"You're a little old for that."
"Now listen, Elsie, don't give me any shit-"
"And this is Tina."
"Hello, Tina."
I sat down.
Names! I had been married to my first wife for two-and-one- half years.
One night some people came in. I had told my wife: "This is Louie the half-
ass and this is Marie, Queen of the Quick Suck, and this is Nick, the half-
hobble." Then I had turned to them and said, "This is my wife- this is my
wife-this is-" I finally had to look at her and ask: "WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR
NAME ANYHOW?"
"Barbara."
"This is Barbara," I had told them-
The Zen master hadn't arrived. I sat and sucked at my beer.
Then here came more people. On and on up the steps. All Hollis' family.
Roy didn't seem to have a family. Poor Roy. Never worked a day in his life.
I got another beer.
They kept coming up the steps: ex-cons, sharpies, cripples, Dealers in
various subterfuges, Family and friends. Dozens of them. No wedding
presents. No neckties.
I pushed further back into my corner.
One guy was pretty badly fucked-up. It took him 25 minutes to get up
the stairway. He had especially-made crutches, very power- ful looking
things with round bands for the arms. Special grips here and there. Aluminum
and rubber. No wood for that baby. I figured it: watered-down stuff or a bad
payoff. He had taken the slugs in the old barber chair with the hot and wet
shaving towel over his face. Only they'd missed a few vital spots.
There were others. Somebody taught class at UCLA. Some- body else ran
in shit through Chinese fishermen's boats via San Pedro Harbor.
I was introduced to the greatest killers and dealers of the century.
Me, I was between jobs.
Then Harvey walked up.
"Bukowski, care for a bit of scotch and water?"
"Sure, Harvey, sure."
We walked toward the kitchen.
"What's the necktie for?"
"The top of the zipper on my pants is broken. And my shorts are too
tight. End of necktie covers stinkhairs just above my cock."
I think that you are the modern living master of the short story.
Nobody touches you."
"Sure, Harvey. Where's the scotch.
"I always drink this kind since you always mention it in your short
stories."
"But I've switched brands now, Harv. I found some better stuff."
"What's the name of it?"
"Damned if I can remember."
I found a tall water glass, poured in half scotch, half water.
"For the nerves," I told him. "You know?"
"Sure, Bukowski."
I drank it straight down.
"How about a refill?"
"Sure."
I took the refill and walked to the front room, sat in my corner.
Meanwhile there was a new excitement: The Zen master had ARRIVED!
The Zen master had on this very fancy outfit and kept his eyes very
narrow. Or maybe that's the way they were.
The Zen master needed tables. Roy ran around looking for tables.
Meanwhile, the Zen master was very calm, very gracious. I downed my
drink, went in for a refill. Came back. A golden-haired kid ran in. About
eleven years old. "Bukowski, I've read some of your stories. I think that
you are the greatest writer I have ever read!"
Long blond curls. Glasses. Slim body.
"Okay, baby. You get old enough. We'll get married. Live off of your
money. I'm getting tired. You an just parade me around in a kind of glass
cage with little airholes in it. I'll let the young boys have you. I'll even
watch."
"Bukowski! Just because I have long hair, you think I'm a girl! My name
is Paul! We were introduced! Don't you remember?"
Paul's father, Harvey, was looking at me. I saw his eyes. Then I knew
that he had decided that I was not such a good writer after all. maybe even
a bad writer. Well, no man can hide forever.
But the little boy was all right: "That's okay, Bukowski! You are still
the greatest writer I have ever read! Daddy has let me read some of your
stories-"
Then all the lights went out. That's what the kid deserved for his big
mouth-
But there were candles everywhere. Everybody was finding candles,
walking around finding candles and lighting them.
"Shit, it's just a fuse. Replace the fuse," I said.
Somebody said it wasn't the fuse, it was something else, so I gave up
and while all the candle-lighting went on I walked into the kitchen for more
scotch. Shit, there was Harvey standing there.
"Ya got a beautiful son, Harvey. Your boy, Peter-"
"Paul."
"Sorry. The Biblical."
"I understand."
(The rich understand; they just don't do anything about it.)
Harvey uncorked a new fifth. We talked about Kafka. Dos. Turgenev,
Gogel. All that dull shit. Then there were candles every-where. The Zen
master wanted to get on with it. Roy had given me the two rings. I felt.
They were still there. Everybody was waiting on us. I was waiting for Harvey
to drop to the floor from drinking all that scotch. It wasn't any good. He
had matched me one drink for two and was still standing. That isn't done too
often. We had knocked off half a fifth in the ten minutes of candle-
lighting. We went out to the crowd. I dumped the rings on Roy. Roy had com-
municated, days earlier, to the Zen master that I was a drunk --- unreliable
--- either faint-hearted or vicious ---therefore, during the ceremony, don't
ask Bukowski for the rings because Bukowski might not be there. Or he might
lose the rings, or vomit, or lose Bukowski.
So here it was, finally. The Zen master began playing with his little
black book. It didn't look too thick. Around 150 pages, I'd say.
"I ask," said the Zen, "no drinking or smoking during the ceremony."
I drained my drink. I stood to Roy's right. Drinks were being drained
all over the place.
Then the Zen master gave a little chickenshit smile. I knew Christian
wedding ceremonies by the sad note of experience. And the Zen ceremony
actually resembled the Christian, with a small amount of horseshit thrown
in. Somewhere along the way, three small sticks were lit. Zen had a whole
box of the things --- two or three hundred. After the lighting, one stick
was places in the center of a jar of sand. That was the Zen stick. Then Roy
was asked to place his burning stick upon one side of the Zen stick, Hollis
asked to place hers on the other.
But the sticks weren't quite right. The Zen master, smiling a bit, had
to reach forward and adjust the sticks to new depths and elevations.
Then the Zen master dug out a circle of brown beads.
He handed the circle of beads to Roy.
"Now?" asked Roy.
Damn, I thought, Roy always read up on everything else. Why not his own
wedding?
Zen reached forward, placed Hollis' right hand within Roy's left. And
the beads encircled both hands that way.
"Do you-"
"I do-"
(This was Zen? I thought.)
"And do you, Hollis-"
"I do-"
Meanwhile, in the candlelight, there was some asshole taking hundreds
of photos of the ceremony. It made me nervous. It could have been the F.B.I.
"Plick! Plick! Plick!"
Of course, we were all clean. But it was irritating because it was
careless.
Then I noticed the Zen master's ears in the candlelight. The
candlelight shone through them as if they were made of the thinnest of
toilet paper.
The Zen master had the thinnest ears of any man I had ever seen. That
was what made him holy! I had to have those ears! For my wallet or my tomcat
or my memory. Or for under the pillow.
Of course, I knew that it was all the scotch and water and all the beer
talking to me, and then, in another way, I didn't know that at all.
I kept staring at the Zen master's ears.
And there were more words.
"-and you Roy, promise not to take any drugs while in your relationship
with Hollis?"
There seemed to be an embarrassing pause. Then, their hands locked
together in the brown beads: "I promise," said Roy, "not to-"
Soon it was over. Or seemed over. The Zen master stood straight up,
smiling just a touch of a smile.
I touched Roy upon a shoulder: "Congratulations." Then I leaned over.
Took hold of Hollis' head, kissed her beautiful lips.
Still everybody sat there. A nation of subnormals.
Nobody moved. The candles glowed like subnormal candles.
I walked over to the Zen master. Shook his hand: "Thank you. you did
the ceremony quite well."
He seemed really pleased, which made me feel a little better. but the
rest of those gangsters --- old Tammany Hall and the Mafia: they were too
proud and stupid to shake hands with an Oriental. Only one other kissed
Hollis. Only one other shook the hand of the Zen master. It could have been
a shotgun wedding. All that family! Well, I'd be the last to know or the
last to be told.
Now that the wedding was over, it seemed very cold in there. They just
sat and stared at each other. I could never comprehend the human race, but
somebody had to play clown. I ripped off my green necktie, flipped it into
the air:
"HEY! YOU COCKSUCKERS! ISN'T ANYBODY HUN- GRY?"
I walked over and started grabbing at cheese, pickled-pigs' feet and
chicken cunt. A few stiffly warmed up, walked over and grabbed at the food,
not knowing what else to do.
I got them to nibbling. Then I left and hit for the scotch and water.
As I was in the kitchen, refilling, I heard the Zen master say, "I must
leave now."
"Oooh, don't leave-" I heard an old, squeaky and female voice from
among the greatest gangland gathering in three years. And even she didn't
sound as if she meant it. What was I doing in with these? Or the UCLA prof?
No, the UCLA prof belonged there.
There must be a repentance. Or something. Some action to humanize the
proceedings.
As soon as I heard the Zen master close the front door, I drained my
waterglass full of scotch. Then I ran out through the candlelit room of
jabbering bastards, found the door (that was a job, for a moment), and I
opened the door, closed it, and there I was- about 15 steps behind Mr. Zen.
We still had 45 or 50 steps to go to get down to the parking lot.
I gained upon him, lurching, two steps to his one.
I screamed: "Hey, Masta!"
Zen turned. "Yes, old man?"
Old man?
We both stopped and looked at each other on that winding stairway there
in the moonlit tropical garden. It seemed like a time for a closer
relationship.
Then I told him: "I either want bother your motherfucking ears or your
motherfucking outfit --- that neon-lighted bathrobe you're wearing!"
"old man, you are crazy!"
"I thought Zen had more moxie than to make unmitigated and offhand
statements. You disappoint me, Masta!"
Zen placed his palms together and looked upward.
I told him, "I either want you motherfucking outfit or your
motherfucking ears!"
He kept his palms together, while looking upward.
I plunged down the steps, missing a few but still flying for- ward,
which kept me from cracking my head open, and as I fell downward toward him,
I tried to swing, but I was all momentum, like something cut loose without
direction. Zen caught me and straightened me.
"My son, my son-"
We were in close. I swung. Caught a good part of him. I heard him hiss.
He stepped one step back. I swung again. Missed. Went way wide left. Fell
into some imported plants from hell. I got up. Moved toward him again. And
in the moonlight, I saw the front of my own pants --- splattered with blood,
candle-drippings and puke.
"You've met you master, bastard!" I notified him as I moved toward him.
He waited. The years of working as a factotum had not left muscles entirely
lax. I gave him one deeply into the gut, all 230 pounds of my body behind
it.
Zen let out a short gasp, once again supplicated the sky, said
something in the Oriental, gave me a short karate chop, kindly, and left me
wrapped within a series of senseless Mexican cacti and what appeared to be,
from my eye, man-eating plants from the inner Brazilian jungles. I relaxed
in the moonlight until this purple flower seemed to gather toward my nose
and began to delicately pinch out my breathing.
Shit, it took at least 150 years to break into the Harvard Classics.
There wasn't any choice: I broke loose from the thing and started crawling
up the stairway again. Near the top, I mounted to my feet, opened the door
and entered. Nobody noticed me. They were still talking shit. I flopped into
my corner. The karate shot had opened a cut over my left eyebrow. I found my
handkerchief.
"Shit! I need a drink!" I hollered.
Harvey came up with one. All scotch. I drained it. Why was it that the
buzz of human beings talking could be so senseless? I no- ticed the woman
who had been introduced to me as the bride's mother was now showing plenty
of leg, and it didn't look bad, all that long nylon with the expensive
stiletto heels, plus the little jewel tips down near the toes. It could give
an idiot the hots, and I was only half-idiot.
I got up, walked over to the bride's mother, ripped her skirt back to
her thighs, kissed her quickly upon her pretty knees and began to kiss my
way upward.
The candlelight helped. Everything.
"Hey!" she awakened suddenly, "whatcha think you're do- ing?"
"I'm going to fuck the shit out of you, I am going to fuck you until
the shit falls outa your ass! Whatch thinka that?"
She pushed and I fell backwards upon the rug. Then I was flat upon my
back, thrashing, trying to get up.
"Damned Amazon!" I screamed at her.
Finally, three or four minutes later I managed to get to my feet.
Somebody laughed. The, finding my feet flat upon the floor again, I made for
the kitchen. Poured a drink, drained it. Then poured a refill and walked
out.
There they were: all the goddamned relatives.
"Roy or Hollis?" I asked. "Why don't you open your wedding gift?"
"Sure," said Roy, "why not?"
The gift was wrapped in 45 yards of tinfoil. Roy just kept unrolling
the foil Finally, he got it all undone.
"Happy marriage!" I shouted.
They all saw it. The room was very quiet.
It was a little handcrafted coffin done by the best artisans in Spain.
It even had the pinkish-red felt bottom. It was the exact replica of a
larger coffin, except perhaps it was done with more love.
Roy gave me his killer's look, ripped off the tag of instructions on
how to keep the wood polished, threw it inside the coffin and closed the
lid.
It was very quiet. The only gift hadn't gone over. But they soon
gathered themselves and began talking shit again.
I became silent. I had really been proud of my little casket. I had
looked for hours for a gift. I had almost gone crazy. Then I had seen it on
the shelf, all alone. Touched the outsides, turned it up- side-down, then
looked inside. The price was height but I was paying for the perfect
craftsmanship. The wood. The little hinges. All. At the same time, I needed
some ant-killer spray. I found some Black Flag in the back of the store. The
ants had built a nest under my front door. I took the stuff to the counter.
There was a young girl there, I set the stuff in front of her. I pointed to
the casket.
"You know what that is?"
"What?"
"That's a casket!"
I opened it up and showed it to her.
"These ants are driving me crazy. Ya know what I'm going to do?"
"What?"
"I'm going to kill all those ants and put them in this casket and bury
them!"
She laughed. "You've saved my whole day!"
You can't put it past the young ones anymore; they are an entirely
superior breed. I paid and got out of there-
But now, at the wedding, nobody laughed. A pressure cooker done up with
a red ribbon would have left them happy. Or would it have? Harvey, the rich
one, finally, was kindest of all. Maybe because he could afford to be kind?
Then I remembered something out of my readings, something from the ancient
Chinese:
"Would you rather be rich or an artist?"
"I'd rather be rich, for it seems that the artist is always sitting on
the doorsteps of the rich."
I sucked at the fifth and didn't care anymore. Somehow, the next thing
I knew, it was over. I was in the back seat of my own car, Hollis driving
again, the beard of Roy flowing into my face again. I sucked at my fifth.
"Look, did you guys throw my little casket away? I love you both, you
know that! Why did you throw my little casket away?"
"Look, Bukowski! Here's your casket!"
Roy held it up to me, showed it to me.
"Ah, fine!"
"You want it back?"
"No! No! My gift to you! Your only gift! Keep it! Please!"
"All right."
The remainder of the drive was fairly quiet. I lived in a front court
near Hollywood (of course). Parking was mean. Then they found a space about
a half a block from where I lived. They parked my car, handed me the keys.
Then I saw them walk across the street toward their own car. I watched them,
turned to walk toward my place, and while still watching them and holding to
the remainder of Harvey's fifth, I tripped one shoe into a pantscuff and
went down. As I fell backwards, my first instinct was to protect the
remainder of that good fifth from smashing against the cement (mother with
baby), and as I fell backwards I tried to hit with my shoulders, holding
both head and bottle up. I saved the bottle but the head flipped back into
the sidewalk, BASH!
They both stood and watched me fall. I was stunned almost into
insensibility but managed to scream across the street at them: "Roy! Hollis!
Help me to my front door, please I'm hurt!"
They stood a moment, looking at me. Then they got into their car,
started the engine, leaned back and neatly drove off.
I was being repaid for something. The casket? Whatever it had been ---
the use of my car, or me as clown and/or best man-my use had been outworn.
The human race had always disgusted me. essentially, what made them
disgusting was the family-relationship illness, which included marriage,
exchange of power and aid, which neighborhood, your district, your city,
your county, your state, your nation-everybody grabbing each other's
assholes in the Honeycomb of survival out of a fear-animalistic stupidity.
I got it all there, I understood it as they left me there, pleading.
Five more minutes, I thought. If I can lay here five more minutes
without being bothered I'll get up and make it toward my place, get inside.
I was the last of the outlaws. Billy the Kid had nothing on me. Five more
minutes. Just let me get to my cave. I'll mend. Next time I'm asked to one
of their functions, I'll tell them where to put it. Five minutes. That's all
I need.
Two women walked by. They turned and looked at me.
"Oh, look at him. What's wrong?"
"He's drunk."
"He's not sick, is he?"
"No, look how he holds to that bottle. Like a little baby."
Oh shit. I screamed up at them:
"I'LL SUCK BOTH YOUR SNATCHES! I'LL SUCK BOTH YOUR SNATCHES DRY, YOU
CUNTS!"
"Ooooooh!"
They both ran into the high-rise glass apartment. Through the glass
door. And I was outside unable to get up, best man to some- thing. All I had
to do was make it to my place --- 30 yards away, as close as three million
light years. Thirty yards from a rented front door. Tow more minutes and I
could get up. Each time I tried it, I got stronger. An old drunk would
always make it, given enough time. One minute. One minute more. I could have
made it.
Then there they were. Part of the insane family structure of the World.
Madmen, really, hardly questioning what made them do what they did. They
left their double-red light burning as they parked. Then got out. One had a
flashlight.
"Bukowski," said the one with the flashlight, "you just can't seem to
keep out of trouble, can you?"
He knew my name from somewhere, other times.
"Look," I said, "I just stumbled. Hit my head. I never lose my sense of
my coherence. I'm not dangerous. Why don't you guys help me to my doorway?
It's 30 yards away. Just let me fall upon my bed and sleep it off. Don't you
think, really, that would be the really decent thing to do?"
"Sir, two ladies reported you as trying to rape them."
"Gentlemen, I would never attempt to rape two ladies at the same time."
The one cop kept flashing his stupid flashlight into my face. It gave
him a great feeling of superiority.
"Just 30 yards to Freedom! Can't you guys understand that?"
"You're the funniest show in town, Bukowski! Give us a better alibi
than that."
"Well, let's see - this thing you see sprawled here on the pavement is
the end-product of a wedding, a Zen wedding."
"You mean some woman really tried to marry you?"
"Not me, you asshole-"
The cop with the flashlight brought it down across my nose.
"We ask respect toward officers of the law."
"Sorry. For a moment I forgot."
The blood ran down along my throat and then toward and upon my shirt. I
was very tired - of everything.
"Bukowski," asked the one who had just used the flashlight, "why can't
you stay out of trouble?"
"Just forget the horseshit," I said, "let's go off to jail."
They put on the cuffs and threw me into the back seat. Same sad old
scene.
They drove along slowly, speaking of various possible and in- sane
things - like, about having the front porch widened, or a pool, or an extra
room in the back for Granny. And when it came to sports - these were real
men - the Dodgers still had a chance, even with the two or three other teams
right in there with them. Back to the family - if the Dodgers won, they won.
If a man landed on the moon, they landed on the moon. But let a starving man
ask them a dime - no identification, fuck you, shithead. I mean, when they
were in civvies. There hasn't been a starving man yet who ever asked a cop
for a dime. Our record is clear.
Then I was, once again, in this type of long line of the some- how
guilty. The young guys didn't know what was coming. They were mixed up with
this thing called THE CONSTITUTION and their RIGHTS. The young cops, both in
the city tank and the coun- ty tank, got their training on the drunks. They
had to show they had it. While I was watching they took one guy in an
elevator and rode him up and down, up and down, and when he got out, you
hardly knew who he was, or what he had been - a black screaming about Human
Rights. Then they got a white guy, screaming something about CONSTITUTIONAL
RIGHTS; four or five of them got him, and they rushed him off his feet so
fast he couldn't walk, and when they brought him back they leaned him
against a wall, and he just stood there trembling, these red welts all over
his body, he stood there trembling and shivering.
I got my photo taken all over again. Fingerprinted all over again.
They took me down to the drunk tank, opened that door. After that, it
was just a matter of looking for floorspace among the 150 men in the room.
One shitpot. Vomit and piss everywhere. I found a spot among my fellow men.
I was Charles Bukowski, fea- tured in the literary archives of the
University of California at Santa Barbara. Somebdy there thought I was a
genius. I stretched out on the boards. Heard a young voice. A boy's voice.
"Mista, I'll suck your dick for a quarter!"
They were supposed to take all your change, bills, ident, keys, knives,
so forth, plus cigarettes, and then you had the property slip. Which you
either lost or sold or had stolen from you. But there was always still money
and cigarettes about.
"Sorry, lad," I told him, "They took my last penny."
Four hours later I managed to sleep.
There.
Best man at a Zen wedding, and I'd bet they, the bride and groom,
hadn't even fucked that night. But somebody had been.
===
**AN EVIL TOWN**
Frank walked down the steps. He didn't like elevators. He didn't like
many things. He disliked steps less than he disliked elevators.
The desk clerk called to him: "Mr. Evans! Would you step over here,
please?"
The desk clerk's face looked like cornmeal mush. It was all Frank could
do to keep from hitting him. The desk clerk looked about the lobby, then
leaned very close.
"Mr. Evans, we've been watching you."
The desk clerk again looked about the lobby, saw that there wasn't
anybody near, then leaned forward again.
"Mr. Evans, we've been watching you and we believe that you're losing
your mind."
The desk clerk leaned back then and looked right at Frank.
"I feel like going to a movie," said Frank. "You know of any good
movies in town?
"Let's stick to the subject, Mr. Evans."
"O.k., I'm losing my mind. Anything else?"
The clerk reached under the counter and came up with some- thing
wrapped in cellophane.
"Here it is, Mr. Evans."
Frank dropped it in his coat pocket and walked outside. It was a cool
autumn night and he walked down the street, west. He stopped at the first
alley, stepped in. He reached into his coat and got the wrapped-up thing,
peeled the cellophane off. It looked like cheese. It smelled like cheese. He
took a bite. It tasted like cheese. He ate it all, then stepped out of the
alley and walked down the street again.
He turned into the first movie house he saw, bought his ticket and
walked into the darkness. He took a seat in the back. There weren't many
people in there. The whole place smelled like urine. The women on the screen
dressed as they did in the '20's and the men wore vaseline on their hair,
combed it back hard and straight. Their noses seemed very long and the men
also seemed to have mascara under their eyes. It wasn't even a talkie. Words
showed under the film: BLANCHE WAS NEW IN THE BIG CITY. A guy with straight
greasy hair was making Blanche drink from a bottle of gin. Blanche appeared
to be getting drunk. BLANCHE GREW DIZZY. SUDDENLY HE KISSED HER.
Frank looked around. Everywhere heads seemed to be bob- bing. There
weren't any women in the place. The guys seemed to be sucking each other
off. They went at it and at it. They never seemed to get tired. The men
sitting alone seemed to be jacking-off. The cheese had been good. He wished
the clerk had given him more cheese.
HE BEGAN TO DISROBE BLANCHE.
And every time he looked around this guy was getting nearer to him.
Then when Frank looked back at the movie the guy would move 2 or 3 seats
nearer to him.
HE MADE LOVE TO BLANCHE WHILE SHE WAS HELP- LESSLY INTOXICATED.
He looked again. The guy was 3 seats away. Breathing heavily. Then the
guy was in the seat next to him.
"Oh shit," the guy said, "O, mys shit, ooo,ooo,oooo. ah, ah! eeeyew!
oh!"
WHEN BLANCHE AWAKENED THE NEXT MORNING SHE REALIZED THAT SHE HAD BEEN
RAVISHED.
The guy smelled as if he had never wiped his ass. The guy was leaning
toward him, bits of spit drooling from the sides of his mouth.
Frank hit the button of the switchblade:
"Careful!" he told the guy. "You get any closer you might hurt yourself
on this!"
"Oh, my god!" said the guy. He got up and ran down the row of seats to
the aisle, then walked quickly down the aisle to the front row. Two guys
were at it. One guy was jacking-off the other guy as the guy went down on
him. The guy who had been bothering Frank sat there and watched them.
SOON AFTER, BLANCHE WAS IN A HOUSE OF PROSTI- TUTION.
Then Frank had to urinate. He got up and walked toward the sign: MEN.
He went in. It really stank in there. He gagged, opened the toilet door,
went in. He took out his penis and started to piss. Then he heard some
sounds.
"Ooooh ooooh, you filthy fuck!" said the guy. "ooh you beasly fiendish
piece of shit!"
He heard the guy ripping off toilet paper and wiping his face. Then the
guy began to cry. Frank stepped out of the toilet, washed his hands. He
didn't want to see any more of the movie. Then he was out on the street,
walking back toward his hotel. Then he was in the lobby. The desk clerk
nodded him over.
"Yeah?" asked Frank.
"Look, Mr. Evans, I'm sorry. I was just kidding you."
"About what?"
"You know."
"No, I don't know."
"Well, about losing your mind. I've been drinking, you know. Don't tell
anybody or I'll lose my job. But I've been drinking. I know that you're not
losing your mind. I was just joking."
"But I am losing my mind," said Frank, "and thanks for the cheese."
Then he turned and walked up the stairway. When he got to his room he
sat down at the writing desk. He took out the switch- blade, hit the button,
looked at the knifeblade. It was well sharp- ened down one entire side. It
could stab or slice. He hit the button and put the knife back in his pocket.
Then Frank found pen and paper and began to write:
"Dear Mother:
This is an evil town. The Devil is in control. Sex is everywhere and it
is not being used as an instrument of Beauty as God meant it to be, but as
an instrument of Evil. Yes, it has most certainly fallen into the devil's
hands, into Evil hands. Young girls are forced to drink gin, then they are
deflowered by these beasts and forced into houses of prostitution. It is
terrible. It is unbelievable. My heart is torn.
I walked along the shore yesterday. Not along the shore, real- ly, but
up along on top of cliffs and then I stopped and sat there while breathing
in the Beauty. The sea, the sky, the sand. Life be- came the Eternal Bliss.
Then a most miraculous thing happened. 3 small squirrels saw me from way
down below and they began to climb the cliffs. I saw their little faces
peeking at me from behind rocks and crevices in the cliffs as they climbed
toward me. Finally they were at my feet. Their eyes looked at me. Never,
Mother, have I seen more beautiful eyes - undiluted by Sin: the whole sky,
the whole sea, Eternity was in those eyes. Finally I moved and they-"
There was a knock on the door. Frank got up, walked over, opened it. It
was the desk clerk.
"Mr. Evans, please, I must speak to you."
"All right, come in."
The desk clerk closed the door and stood in front of Frank. The desk
clerk smelled like wine.
"Mr. Evans, please don't tell management about our misunder- standing."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're a great guy, Mr. Evans. You know, I've been drink- ing."
"You are forgiven. Now go."
"Mr. Evans, there's something I've got to tell you."
"Very well. What is it?"
"I'm in love with you, Mr. Evans."
"Oh, you mean my spirit, eh, my boy?"
"No, your body, Mr. Evans."
"What?"
"Your body, Mr. Evans. Please don't be offended, but I want you to ream
me!"
"REAM ME, Mr. Evans! I've been reamed by half the United States Navy!
Those boys know what's good, Mr. Evans. There's nothing like a bit of clean
round-eye!"
"You will leave my room immediately!"
The desk clerk threw his arms about Frank's neck, then his mouth was on
Frank's mouth. The desk clerk's mouth was very wet and cold, it stank. Frank
pushed him away.
"You rotten bastard! YOU KISSED ME!"
"I love you, Mr. Evans!"
"You filthy swine!"
Frank had the knife, hit the button, the blade jumped out and he stuck
it into the desk clerk's stomach. Then pulled it out.
"Mr. Evans- my god-"
The clerk fell to the floor. He was holding both hands over the wound
trying to stop the blood.
"You bastard! YOU KISSED ME!"
Frank reached down and unzipped the desk clerk's fly. Then he got the
clerk's penis, pulled it straight up toward him and sliced it off three-
quarters of the way down.
"Oh, my god my god my god my god-" said the clerk.
Frank walked to the bathroom, took the thing and threw it into the
toilet. Then he flushed the toilet. Then he washed his hands very well with
soap and water. He came out, sat down to the disk again. He picked up the
pen.
"-ran away but I had seen Eternity.
Mother, I must move from this city, from this hotel - the Devil is in
control of almost all the bodies. I will write you again from the next city
- perhaps San Francisco, Portland or Seattle. I feel like moving north. I
think of you continually and hope that you are happy and in good health, and
may the Lord be with you always.
love,
your son,
Frank"
He wrote the address on the envelope, sealed it, added stamp and then
walked over and put it in the inside pocket of his coat which was hanging in
the closet. Then he took a suitcase from the closet, put it on the bed,
opened it and began to pack.
===
TWELVE FLYING MONKEYS WHO WON'T COPULATE PROPERLY
The bell rings and I open the side window by the door. It is
night. "Who is it?" I ask.
Somebody walks up to the window but I can't see the face. I
have two lights over the typewriter. I slam the window but there is
talking out there. I sit down to the typewriter but there is still
talking out there. I get up and rip open the door and scream:
"I TOLD YOU COCKSUCKERS NOT TO BOTHER ME!"
I look around and there is one guy standing on the bottom of
the steps and another guy standing on the porch, pissing; He is
pissing into a bush to the left of the porch, standing on the edge of
the porch, his piss arching in a heavy swath, upward and then down
into the bush.
"Hey, this guy is pissing into my bush," I say.
the guy laughs and keeps pissing. I grab him by the pants, pick
him up and throw him, still pissing, over the top of the bush and
into the night. He doesn't return. The other guy says, "What did you
do that for?"
"I felt like it."
"Drunk?" I ask.
He walks around the corner and is gone. I close the door and sit
down to the typer again. All right, I have this mad scientist, he's
taught monkeys to fly, he's got eleven monkey's with these wings.
The monkeys are very good. The scientist has even taught them to
race. Race around these pylons, yes. Now let's see. Gotta make it
good. To get rid of a story you gotta have fucking, lots of it, if
possible. Better make it twelve monkeys, six male and six of the
other kind. All right now. Here they go. There they go around the first
pylon. How am I going to get them to fucking? I
haven't sold a story in two months. I should have stayed in the
goddamned post office. All right. There they go. Around the first
pylon. Maybe they just fly off. Suddenly. How about that? They fly
to Washington, D.C. and hang around the Capitol dropping turds on
the public, pissing on them, smearing their turds across the White
House. Can I have one drop a turd on the President? No, that's
asking too much. Okay, make it a turd on the Secretary of State.
Orders are given to shoot them out of the sky. That's tragic, isn't it?
But what about the fucking? All right. All right. Work it in. Let's
see. Okay, ten of them are shot out of the sky, poor little things.
There are only two others. A male and one other kind. They can't
seem to be found. Then a cop is walking through the park one night,
and there they are, the last two of them, wings strapped on, fucking
like the devil. The cop walks up. The male hears, turns his head,
looks up, gives a silly little monkey-grin, never missing a stroke,
then
turns his head and goes back to banging. The cop blows his head off.
The monkey's head, that is. The female flips the male off in disgust
and stands up. For a monkey, she is a pretty little thing. For a
moment the cop thinks of, thinks of - But no, it would be too tight,
maybe, and she might bite, maybe. While he's thinking this, the
bullet, she falls. He runs up. She is wounded but not dead. The cop
looks around, lifts her up, takes it out, tries to work it in. No good.
Just room for the head. Shit. He drops her to the ground, puts his
gun to her brain and B A M! it's over.
The bell rings again.
I open the door.
Three guys walk in. Always these guys. A woman never pisses
on my porch, a woman hardly ever comes by. How am I going to get
any sex ideas? I have almost forgotten how to do it. But they say it's
like riding a bicycle, you never forget. It's better than riding a bi-
cycle.
It's Crazy Jack and two guys I don't know.
"Look, Jack," I say, "I thought I was rid of you."
Jack just sits down. The other two guys sit down. Jack has
promised me never to come by again but he is on the wine most of
the time, so promises don't mean much. He lives with his mother
and pretends to be a painter. I know four or five guys living with or
supported by their mother, and the guys pretend to genius. And all
the mothers are alike: "Oh, Nelson has a painting hanging at the
Warner-Finch Galleries this week. His genius is being recognized at
last! He's asking $4,000 for the work. Do you think that's too
much?" Nelson, Jack, Biddy, Norman, Jimmy and Ketya, Fuck.
Jack has on blue jeans, is barefooted, no shirt, undershirt, just
a brown shawl thrown over him. One guy has a beard and grins and
blushes continually. The other guy is just fat. Some kind of leech.
"Have you seen Borst lately?" Jack asks.
"No."
"Let me have one of your beers."
"No. You guys come around, drink all my shit, split and leave
me on a dry shore."
"All right."
He leaps up, runs out and gets his wine bottle which he has
hidden under the cushion on the porch chair. He comes back, takes
off the lid, takes a suck.
"I was down at Venice with this chick and one hundred rain-
bows. I thought I spotted the heat and I ran up to Borst's place with
this chick and the hundred rainbows. I knocked on the door and
told him, "Quick, let me in! I've got one hundred rainbows and the
heat is right behind me!" Borst closed the door, I kicked it in and ran
in with the chick. Borst was on the floor, jacking off some guy. I ran
into the bathroom with the chick and locked the door. Borst
knocked. I said, "Don't you dare come in here!" I stayed in there
with the chick for about an hour. We knocked off two pieces of ass
to amuse ourselves. Then we came out."
"Did you dump the rainbows?"
"Hell no, it was a false alarm. But Borst was very angry."
"Shit," I say, "Borst hasn't written a decent poem since 1955.
His mother supports him. Pardon me. But I mean, all he does is look
at TV, eat these delicate little celeries and greens and jog along the
beach in his dirty underwear. He used to be a fine poet when he was
living with those young boys in Arabia. But I can't sympathize. A
winner goes wire to wire. It's like Huxley said, Aldous, that is, 'Any
man can be a-'"
"How you doing?" Jack asks.
"Nothing but rejects," I say.
The one guy begins playing the flute. The leech just sits there
Jack lifts his wine bottle. It is a beautiful night in Hollywood, Cali-
fornia. Then the guy who lives in the court behind me falls out of
bed, drunk. It makes quite a sound. I'm used to it. I'm used to the
whole court. All of them sit in their places, shades drawn. They get
up at noon. Their cars sit out front dust-covered, tires going down,
batteries weakening. They mix drink with dope and have no visible
means of support. I like them. They don't bother me.
The guy gets into bed again, falls out.
"You silly damn fool," you hear him say, "get back into that
bed."
"What's all that noise?" Jack asks.
"Guy behind me. He's very lonely. Drinks a beer now and
then. His mother died last year and left him twenty grand. He sits
around and masturbates and looks at baseball games and cowboy
shootums on TV. Used to be a gas station attendant.
"We've got to split." says Jack, "want to come with us?"
"No," I say.
They explain that it is something to do with the House of
Seven Gables. They are going to see somebody who had something
to do with the House of Seven Gables. It isn't the writer, the produc-
er, the actors, it is somebody else.
"Well, no," I say, and they all run out. It is a beautiful sight.
Then I sit down to the monkeys again. Maybe I can juggle
those monkeys up. If I can get all twelve of them fucking at once!
That's it! But how? And why? Check the Royal Ballet of London.
But why? I'm going crazy. Okay, the Royal Ballet of London has
this idea. Twelve monkeys flying while they ballet. Only before the
performance somebody gives them all the Spanish Fly. Not the bal-
let. The monkeys. But the Spanish Fly is a myth, isn't it? Okay,
enter another mad scientist with a real Spanish Fly! No, no, oh my
God, I just can't get it right!
The phone rings. I pick it up. It's Borst:
"Hello, Hank?"
"Yeah?"
"I have to keep it short. I'm broke."
"Yes, Jerry."
"Well, I lost my two sponsors. The stock market and the tight
dollar."
"Uh huh."
"Well, I always knew it was going to happen. So I'm getting
out of Venice. I can't make it here. I'm going to New York City."
"What?"
"I thought that's what you said."
"Well, I'm broke you see, and I think I can really make it
there."
"Sure, Jerry."
"Losing my sponsors is the best thing that ever happened to
me."
"Really?"
"Now I feel like fighting again. You've heard about people
rotting along the beach. Well, that's what I've been doing down here:
rotting. I've got to get out of here. And I'm not worried. Except for
the trunks."
"I can't seem to get them packed. So my mother's coming
back here."
"All right, Jerry."
"But before I go to New York I'm going to stop off at Switzer-
land and perhaps Greece. Then I'm coming back to New York."
"All right, Jerry, keep in touch. Always good to hear."
Then I am back to the monkeys again. Twelve monkeys who
can fly, fucking. How can it be done? Twelve bottles of beer are
gone. I find my reserve half-pint of scotch in the refrigerator. I mix
one-third glass scotch with two-thirds water. I should have stayed in