Charles Bukowski - Short Stories Collection Part 5

"WAIT! I am never to be addressed as *Adolph' again-until the proper time, until I say so!-Until then, there will be no German spoken-I am now the President of the United States of America!"

"Yes, Mr. President!"

Then he reached and touched above his upper lip: "But I do miss the old mustache!"

They smiled.

Then he asked: "And the old man?"

"We've placed him in the bed. He will not awaken for 24 hours. At this moment-everything-all appendages of the operation have been destroyed, dissolved. All we need do is walk out of here," said Dr.Graf. "But-Mr. President, it is my suggestion that this man be-"

"No, I tell you, he's helpless! Let him suffer as I have suffered!"

He walked over to the bed and looked down at the man. A white-haired old man in his 80's.

"Tomorrow I'll be in his private home. I wonder how his wife will enjoy my lovemaking?" he gave a small laugh.

"I'm sure, mein Fuhrer-I'm sorry! Please! I'm sure, Mr. President, that she will enjoy your lovemaking very much."

"Let's leave this place, then. The doctors first, to go their way.then the rest of us-one or two at a time-a transfer of cars, then a good night's sleep at the White House."

The old man with the white hair awakened. He was alone in the room. He could escape. He got out of the bed in search of his clothing and as he walked across the room he saw an old man in a full-length mirror.

No, he thought, oh my G.o.d, no!

He raised an arm. The old man in the mirror raised an arm. He moved forward. The old man in the mirror enlarged. He looked down at his hands a" wrinkled, and not his hands! And he looked down at his feet! They weren't his feet! It wasn't his body!

"My G.o.d!" he said aloud, "OH MY G.o.d!"

Then he heard his voice. It wasn't even his own voice. They'd transferred the voice box also. He felt his throat, his head with his fingers. No scars! No scars anywhere. He got into the old man's clothing and ran down the stairway. At the first door he knocked on the door was marked "Landlady."

The door opened. An old woman.

"Yes, Mr. Tilson?" she asked.

"*Mr. Tilson?' Lady, I am the President of the United States of America! This is an emergency!"

"Oh, Mr. Tilson, you're so funny!"

"Look, where's your telephone?"

"Right where it has always been, Mr. Tilson. Just to the left of the entrance door."

He felt in his pockets. They had left him change. He looked into the wallet. $18. He put a dime in the phone.

"Lady, what's the address here?"

"Now, Mr. Tilson, you know the address. You've lived here for years! You're acting very strange today, Mr. Tilson. And I want to tell you something else!"

"Yes, yes-what is it?"

"I want to remind you that your rent is due today!"

"Oh, lady, please tell me the address here!"

"As if you didn't know! It's 2435 Sh.o.r.eham Drive."

"Yes," he said into the phone, "cab? I want a cab at 2435 Sh.o.r.eham Drive. I'll be waiting on the first floor. My name? My name? All right, my name is Tilson-"

It's no use going to the White House, he thought, they have that covered-I'll go to the largest newspaper. I'll tell them. I'll tell the editor everything, everything that happened- The other patients laughed at him. "See that guy? The guy that kinda looks like that dictator-fellow, what'-his-name, only a lot older. Anyhow, when he came in here a month ago he claimed that he was the President of the United States of America. That was a month ago. He doesn't say it too much now. But he sure likes to read the newspapers. I never saw a guy who was so eager to read a newspaper. He does know a lot about politics, though. I guess that's what drove him crazy. Too much politics."

The dinner bell rang. All the patients responded. Except one.

A male nurse walked up to him.

"Mr. Tilson?"

There wasn't any answer.

"MR. TILSON?"

"Oh-yes?"

"It's time to eat, Mr. Tilson!"

The old white-haired man rose and walked slowly toward the patients' dining room.

-charles bukowski - from the books: The Most Beautiful Woman in Town and Erections, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness ===.

**Trouble with a Battery**

I bought her a drink and then another drink and then we went up the stairway behind the bar. there were several large rooms there. she had me hot. sticking her tongue out at me. and we played all the way up the stairway. I took the first one, standing up, inside the door. she just slid back her panties and I put it in.

then we went into the bedroom and there was some kid in the other bed, there were two beds, and the kid said, "h.e.l.lo."

"it's my brother," she said.

the kid looked real thin and vicious, but then almost everybody in the world looked vicious when you thought about it.

there were several bottles of wine along the headboard. they opened a bottle and I waited until they both drank from the bottle, then I tried some.

I threw a ten on the dresser.

the kid really drank at the wine.

"his big brother is the great bullfighter, Jaime Bravo."

"I've heard of Jaime Bravo, he fights mostly out of T.," I said, "but you don't have to give me any bulls.h.i.t."

"o.k.," she said, "no bulls.h.i.t."

we drank and talked for some time, just small easy talk. and then she turned out the lights and with the brother there in the other bed, we did it again. I had my wallet under her pillow.

when we finished she hit the light and went to the bathroom while her brother and I pa.s.sed the bottle. while the brother wasn't looking I wiped off on the sheet.

she came out of the bathroom and she still looked good, I mean after two shots at it, she still looked good. her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were small but firm; what there was of them really jutted. and her a.s.s was big, big enough.

"why did you come to this place?" she asked, moving toward the bed. she slid in beside me, pulled up the sheet, pulled from the bottle.

"I had to get my battery charged across the street."

"after that one," she said, "you'll need a charge."

we all laughed. even the brother laughed. then he looked at her: "is he all right?"

"sure he's all right," she said.

"what's all that?" I asked.

"we have to be careful."

"I don't know what you mean."

"one of the girls was almost murdered up here last year. some guy gagged her so she couldn't scream and then took a pen knife and cut these crosses all over her body. she almost bled to death."

the brother dressed very slowly, then left. I gave her a five. she threw it on the dresser with the ten.

she pa.s.sed the wine. it was good wine, French wine. you didn't gag.

she put her leg up against mine. we were both sitting up in bed. it was very comfortable.

"how old are you?" she asked.

"d.a.m.n near half a century."

"you can sure go, but you look real beat-up."

"I'm sorry. I'm not very pretty."

"oh no, I think you're a beautiful man. didn't anybody ever tell you?"

"I'll bet you say that to all the men you f.u.c.k."

"no, I don't."

we sat there a while, pa.s.sing the bottle. it was very quiet except that you could hear a little music from the bar downstairs. I pa.s.sed into a kind of dream-trance.

"HEY!" she yelled. she jammed a long fingernail into my bellyb.u.t.ton.

"ow! G.o.d d.a.m.n!"

"LOOK at me!"

I turned and looked at her.

"what do you see?"

"a fine-looking Mexican-Indian girl."

"how can you see?"

"what?"

"how can you see? you don't open your eyes. you keep your eyes in little slits. why?"

it was a fair question. I took a good pull at the French wine.

"I don't know. maybe I'm afraid. afraid of everything. I mean, people, buildings, things, everything. mainly people."

"I'm afraid too," she said.

"but your eyes are open. I like your eyes."

she was. .h.i.tting the wine. hard. I knew those Mexican-Americans. I was waiting for her to get nasty.

then there was a rapping on the door that d.a.m.n near s.h.i.tted me out. it was flung open, viciously, American-style, and there was the bartender - big red brutal ba.n.a.l b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"ain't you through with that son of a b.i.t.c.h yet?"

"I think he wants some more," she said.

"do you? asked Mr. Ba.n.a.l.

"I think so," I said.

his eyes eagled over to the money on the dresser and he slammed the door. a money society. THEY thought it was magic.

"that was my husband, sort of," she said.

"I don't think I want to go again," I said.

"why not?"

"first, I'm 48. second, it's kind of like f.u.c.king in the waiting room of a bus station."

she laughed. "I'm what you guys call a *wh.o.r.e.' I must f.u.c.k 8 or ten guys a week, at least."

"that sure doesn't help my cause."