Charles Bukowski - Short Stories Collection Part 32

"Oh, come on, don't give me that s.h.i.t."

"That's right," said Duke, "we're gold prospectors."

"We've struck it. We're gonna be rich inside a week," said Harry.

Then Harry had to get up to p.i.s.s. The can was down the hall. When Harry left Ginny said, "I wanna f.u.c.k you first, Honey. I'm not too crazy about him."

"That's o.k.," said Duke.

He poured three more drinks. When Harry came back Duke told him.

"She's gonna lay me first."

"Says who?"

"Says us," said Duke.

"That's right," said Ginny.

"I think we ought to take her with us," said Duke.

"Let's see how she lays first," said Harry.

"I drive men crazy," said Ginny. "I make men scream. I've got the tightest p.u.s.s.y in the state of California!"

"All right," said Duke, "let's find out."

"Gimme another drink first," She said, draining her gla.s.s.

Duke gave her a refill. "I've got something too, baby, I'll probably rip you wide open!"

"Not unless you stick your foot in there," said Harry.

Ginny just smiled as she drank. She finished her drink.

"Come on," she said to Duke, "let's make it."

Ginny walked over to the bed and pulled her dress off. She had on blue panties and a faded pink bra.s.siere held together by a safety pin in the back. Duke had to undo the safety pin.

"Is he gonna watch?" she asked Duke.

"He can if he wants," said Duke, "what the h.e.l.l."

"O.k.," said Ginny.

They got into the sheets together. There were some minutes of warmup and maneuvering as Harry watched. The blanket was on the floor. All Harry could see was movement under a rather dirty sheet.

Then Duke mounted. Harry could see Duke's b.u.t.t bobbling under the sheet.

Then Duke said, "Oh s.h.i.t!

"What's the matter?" asked Ginny.

"I slipped out! I thought you said you had a tight box!"

"I'll put you in! I don't think you were in!"

"I was in somewhere!" said Duke.

Then Duke's b.u.t.t was bobbing again. I never should have told that son of a b.i.t.c.h about the gold, thought Harry. Now we've got this b.i.t.c.h on our hands. They might team against me. Of course, if he happened to get killed, she might like me better. Then Ginny moaned and started talking. "Oh, honey, honey! Oh, Jesus, honey, oh my gawd!"

What a bunch of bulls.h.i.t, thought Harry.

He got up and walked over to the back window. The back of the hotel was right near the Vermont turnoff on the Hollywood freeway. He watched the headlights and tail lights of the cars. It always amazed him that some people were in such a hurry to go in one direction while other people were in such a hurry to go in another. Somebody had to be wrong, or else it was just a dirty game. Then he heard Ginny's voice. "I'm gonna COME! O, my gawd I'm gonna COME! O, my gawd! I'm :"

Bulls.h.i.t, he thought and then turned to look at them. Duke was really working. Ginny's eyes did seem glazed; she stared straight up into the ceiling, straight up into an unshaded lightbulb; glazed, seemingly glazed she stared up past Duke's left ear: I might have to shoot him out on that artillery field, thought Harry. Especially if she's got a tight box.

gold, all that gold.

The Great Poet I went to see him. He was the great poet. He was the best narrative poet since Jeffers, still under 70 and famous throughout the world. Perhaps his two best-known books were My Grief Is Better Than Your Grief, Ha! and The Dead Chew Gum In Languor. He had taught at many universities, had won all the prizes, including the n.o.bel Prize. Bernard Stachman.

I climbed the steps of the YMCA. Mr. Stachman lived in Room 223. I knocked. "h.e.l.l, COME ON IN!" somebody screamed from inside. I opened the door and walked in. Bernard Stachman was in bed. The smell of vomit, wine, urine, s.h.i.t and decaying food was in the air. I began to gag. I ran to the bathroom, vomited, then came out.

"Mr. Stachman," I said, "why don't you open a window?"

"That's a good idea. And don't give me any of that *Mr. Stachman' s.h.i.t, I'm Barney."

He was crippled, and after a great effort he managed to pull himself out of the bed and into the chair at his side. "Now for a good talk," he said. "I've been waiting for this."

At his elbow, on a table, was a gallon jug of dago red filled with cigarette ashes and dead moths. I looked away, then looked back. He had the jug to his mouth but most of the wine ran right back out, down his shirt, down his pants. Bernard Stachman put the jug back. "Just what I needed."

"You ought to use a gla.s.s," I said. "It's easier."

"Yes, I believe you're right." He looked around. There were a few dirty gla.s.ses and I wondered which one he would choose. He chose the nearest one. The bottom of the gla.s.s was filled with a hardened yellow substance. It looked like the remains of chicken and noodles. He poured the wine. Then he lifted the gla.s.s and emptied it. "Yes, that's much better. I see you brought your camera. I guess you came to photograph me?"

"Yes," I said. I went over and opened the window and breathed in the fresh air. It had been raining for days and the air was fresh and clear.

"Listen," he said, "I been meaning to p.i.s.s for hours. Bring me an empty bottle." There were many empty bottles. I brought him one. He didn't have a zipper, just b.u.t.tons, with only the bottom b.u.t.ton fastened because he was so bloated. He reached in and got his p.e.n.i.s and rested the head on the lip of the bottle. The moment he began to urinate his p.e.n.i.s stiffened and waved about, spraying p.i.s.s all over - on his shirt, on his pants, in his face, and unbelievably, the last spurt went into his left ear.

"It's h.e.l.l being crippled," he said.

"How did it happen?" I asked.

"How did what happen?"

"Being crippled."

"My wife. She ran me over with her car."

"How? Why?"

"She said she couldn't stand me anymore."

I didn't say anything. I took a couple of photos.

"I got photos of my wife. Want to see some photos of my wife?"

"All right."

"The photo alb.u.m is there on top of the refrigerator."

I walked over and got it, sat down. There were just shots of highheeled shoes and a woman's trim ankles, nylon-covered legs with garter belts, a.s.sorted legs in panty hose. On some of the pages were pasted ads from the meat market: chuck roast, 89? a pound. I closed the alb.u.m. "When we divorced," he said, "she gave me these." Bernard reached under the pillow on his bed and pulled out a pair of highheeled shoes with long spike heels. He'd had them bronzed. He stood them on the night table. Then he poured another drink. "I sleep with those shoes," he said, "I make love to those shoes and then wash them out."

I took some more photos.

"Here, you want a photo? Here's a good photo." He unb.u.t.toned the lone b.u.t.ton on his pants. He didn't have on any underwear. He took the heel of the shoe and wiggled it up his behind. "Here, take this one." I got the photo.

It was difficult for him to stand but he managed by holding onto the night table.

"Are you still writing, Barney?"

"h.e.l.l, I write all the time."

"Don't your fans interrupt your work?"

"Oh h.e.l.l, sometimes the women find me but they don't stay long."

"Are your books selling?"

"I get royalty checks."

"What is your advice to young writers?"

"Drink, f.u.c.k and smoke plenty of cigarettes."

"What is your advice to older writers?"

"If you're still alive, you don't need any advice."

"What is the impulse that makes you create a poem?"

"What makes you take a s.h.i.t?"

"What do you think of Reagan and unemployment?"

"I don't think of Reagan or unemployment. It all bores me. Like s.p.a.ce flights and the Super Bowl."

"What are your concerns then?"

"Modern women."

"Modern women?"

"They don't know how to dress. Their shoes are dreadful."

"What do you think of Women's Liberation?"

"Any time they're willing to work the car washes, get behind the plow, chase down the two guys who just held up the liquor store, or clean up the sewers, anytime they're ready to get their t.i.ts shot off in the army, I'm ready to stay home and wash the dishes and get bored picking lint off the rug."

"But Isn't there some logic on their demands?"

"Of course."

Stachman poured another drink. Even drinking from the gla.s.s, part of the wine dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. He had the body odor of a man who hadn't bathed in months, "My wife," he said, "I'm still in love with my wife. Hand me that phone, will you?" I handed the phone to him. He dialed a number. "Claire? h.e.l.lo, Claire?" He put the receiver down.

"What happened?" I asked.

"The usual. She hung up. Listen, let's get out of here, let's go to a bar. I've been in this d.a.m.ned room too long. I need to get out."

"But it's raining. It's been raining for a week. The streets are flooded."

"I don't care. I want to get out. She's probably f.u.c.king some guy right now. She's probably got her high heels on. I always made her leave her high heels on."

I helped Bernard Stachman get into an old brown overcoat. All the b.u.t.tons were missing off the front. It was stiff with grime. It was hardly an L.A. overcoat, it was heavy and clumsy, it must have come from Chicago or Denver in the thirties.

Then we got his crutches and we climbed painfully down the YMCA stairway. Bernard had a fifth of muscatel in one of the pockets. We reached the entrance and Bernard a.s.sured me he could make it across the sidewalk and into the car. I was parked some distance from the curbing.

As I ran around to the other side to get in I heard a shout and then a splash. It was raining, and raining hard. I ran back around and Bernard had managed to fall and wedge himself in the gutter between the car and the curbing. The water swept around him, he was sitting up, the water rushed over him, ran down through his pants, lapped against his sides, the crutches floating sluggishly in his lap.

"It's all right," he said, "just drive on and leave me."

"Oh h.e.l.l, Barney."

"I mean it. Drive on. Leave me. My wife doesn't love me."

"She's not your wife, Barney. You're divorced."

"Tell that to the Marines."

"Come on, Barney, I'm going to help you up."

"No, no. It's all right. I a.s.sure you. Just go ahead. Get drunk without me."

I picked him up, got the door open and lifted him into the front seat. He was very, very wet. Streams of water ran across the floorboards. Then I went around to the other side and got in. Barney unscrewed the cap off the bottle of muscatel, took a hit, pa.s.sed the bottle to me. I took a hit. Then I started the car and drove, looking out through the windshield into the rain for a bar that we might possibly enter and not vomit the first time we got the look and smell of the urinal.