Charles Bukowski - Short Stories Collection Part 8

"only my friends call me *Jimmy.'"

"sit down, Mr. Burkett."

you could tell by looking at Burkett that he was insane. a great self-love covered him like a neon paint. there was no scrubbing it off. truth wouldn't do it. they didn't know what truth was.

"listen," said Burkett, lighting a cigarette and smiling around his cigarette like a temperamental & goofy b.i.t.c.h, "how come ya didn't like my stuff? your secretary out there sez ya sent it back?"

then Mr. Burkett gave him the direct, the so direct look in the eye, playing at having SOUL. you were supposed to LOVE to do, so very hard to do, and only Mr. Burkett didn't realize this.

"it just wasn't any good, Burkett. that's all."

Burkett tapped his cigarette out in the ashtray. now, he rammed it out, jamming it and twisting it in the tray. then he lit another cigarette, and holding the match out in front of him, flaming, he said: "hey, listen, man, don't give me that s.h.i.t!"

"it was terrible writing, Jimmy."

"I said only my FRIENDS call me *Jimmy'!"

"it was s.h.i.tty writing, Mr. Burkett, in our opinion, only, of course."

"listen, man, I KNOW this game! you SUCK up right and you're in! but you've got to SUCK! and I don't SUCK, man! my work stands alone!"

"it certainly does, Mr. Burkett."

"if I were a Jew or a f.a.g or a commy or black it would be all over, man, I'd be in."

"there was a black writer in here yesterday who told me that if his skin were white he'd be a millionaire."

"all right, how about the f.a.gs?"

"some f.a.gs write pretty good."

"like Genet, huh?"

"like Genet."

"I gotta suck d.i.c.k, huh? I gotta write about sucking d.i.c.k, huh?"

"I didn't say that."

"listen, man, all I need is a little promotion. a little promotion and I'll go. people will LOVE me! all they gotta do is SEE my stuff!"

"listen, Mr. Burkett, this is a business. if we published every writer who demanded that we do so because his stuff was so great, we wouldn't be here very long. we have to make the judgment. if we're wrong too many times we're finished. It's as simple as that. we print good writing that sells and we print bad writing that sells. we're in the selling market. we're not a charity, and frankly, we don't worry too much about the betterment of the soul or the betterment of the world."

"but my stuff will GO, Henry-"

" *Mr. Mason,' please! only my friends-"

"what are trying to do, get s.h.i.tTY with me?"

"look, Burkett, you're a pusher. as a pusher, you're great. why don't you sell mops or insurance or something?"

"what's wrong with my writing?"

"you can't push and write at the same time. only Hemingway was able to do that, and then even he forgot how to write."

"I mean, man, what don't you like about my writing? I mean, be DEFINITE! Don't give me a lot of s.h.i.t about Hemingway, man!"

"1955."

"1955? whatcha mean?"

"I mean, you were good then, but the needle's stuck. you're still playing 1955 over and over again."

"h.e.l.l, life is life and I'm still writing about LIFE, man! there isn't anything else! what the h.e.l.l you giving me?"

Henry Mason let out a long slow sigh and leaned back. artists were intolerably dull. and near-sighted. if they made it they believed in their own greatness no matter how bad they were. if they didn't make it they still believed in their greatness no matter how bad they were. if they didn't make it, it was somebody else's fault. it wasn't because they didn't have talent; no matter how they stank they always believed in their genius. they could always trot out Van Gogh or Mozart or two dozen more who went to their graves before having their little a.s.ses lacquered with Fame. but for each Mozart there were 50,000 intolerable idiots who would keep on puking out rotten work. only the good quit the game - like Rimbaud or Rossini.

Burkett lit another cigarette, once again holding the flaming match in front of him as he spoke: "listen, you print Bukowski. and he's slipped. you know he's slipped. admit it, man! hasn't Bukowski slipped, huh? hasn't he?"

"so, he's slipped."

"he writes s.h.i.t!"

"if s.h.i.t sells then we'll sell it. listen, Mr. Burkett, we aren't the only publishing house. why don't you try somebody else? just don't accept our judgment."

Burkett stood up. "what the h.e.l.l's the use? you guys are all alike! you can't use good writing! the world has no use for REAL writing! you couldn't tell a human being from a fly! because you're dead! DEAD, ya hear? ALL YOU f.u.c.kERS ARE DEAD! f.u.c.k YOU! f.u.c.k YOU! f.u.c.k YOU! f.u.c.k YOU!"

Burkett threw his burning cigarette on the rug, turned about, walked to the door, SLAMMED it and was gone.

Henry Mason got up, picked up the cigarette, put it in the tray, sat down, lit one of his own. no way of giving up smoking on a job like this, he thought. He leaned back and inhaled, so glad that Burkett was gone a" those guys were dangerous a" absolutely insane and vicious a" especially those who were always writing about LOVE or s.e.x or the BETTER WORLD. Jesus, jesus. he exhaled. the inter-come buzzer rang.

he picked up the phone.

"a Mr. Ainsworth Hockley to see you?"

"what's he want? we sent him his check for l.u.s.tS AND BUSTS ON THE CAMPUS."

"he says he has a new story."

"fine. tell him to leave it with you."

"he says he hasn't written it."

"o.k., have him leave the outline. I'll check it out."

"he says he doesn't have an outline."

"wutz he want, then?"

"he wants to see you personally."

"you can't get rid of him?"

"no, he just keeps staring at my legs and grinning."

"then, for Christ's sake. pull your dress down!"

"it's too short."

"all right. send him in."

in came Ainsworth Hockley.

"sit down," he told him.

Hockley sat down. then jumped up. lit a cigar. Hockley carried dozens of cigars. he was afraid of being a h.o.m.os.e.xual. that is, he didn't know whether he was a h.o.m.os.e.xual or not, so he smoked the cigars because he thought it was manly and also dynamic, but he still wasn't sure of where he was. he thought he liked women too. it was a mix-up.

"listen," said Hockley, "I just sucked a 36 inch c.o.c.k! gigan-tic!"

"listen, Hockley, this is a business. I just got rid of one nut. what do you want with me?"

"I want to suck your c.o.c.k, man! THAT'S what I want!"

"I'd rather you didn't."

the room was already smoggy with cigar smoke. Hockley really shot it out. he jumped out of the chair. walked around. sat down. jumped out of the chair. walked around.

"I think I'm going crazy." said Ainsworth Hockley. "I keep thinking of c.o.c.k. I used to live with this 14 year old kid. huge c.o.c.k! G.o.d. HUGE! he beat his meat right in front of me once, I'll never forget it! and when I was in college, all these guys walking around the locker rooms, real cool-like ya know? why one guy even had b.a.l.l.s down to his KNEES! we used to call him BEACHb.a.l.l.s HARRY. after BEACHb.a.l.l.s HARRY came, baby it was all OVER! like a waterhose spurting curdled cream! when that stuff dried-why, man in the morning he'd have to beat the sheets with a baseball bat, shake the flakes off before he sent it to the laun-dry-"

"you're crazy, Ainsworth."

"I know, I know, that's what I'm telling YA! have a cigar!"

Hockley poked a cigar at his lips.

"no, no, thank you."

"maybe you'd like to suck MY c.o.c.k?"

"I don't have the slightest desire. now what do you want?"

"I've got this idea for a story, man."

"o.k., write it."

"no, I want you to hear it."

Mason was silent.

"all right," said Hockley, "this is it."

he walked around shooting smoke. "a s.p.a.ceship, see? 2 guys and 4 women and a computer. here they are shooting through s.p.a.ce, see? days, weeks go by. 2 guys, 4 women, the computer. the women are getting real hot. they want it, see? got it?

"got it."

"but you know what happens?"

"no."

"the two guys decide that they are h.o.m.os.e.xuals and begin to play with each other. they ignore the women entirely."

"yeah, that's kind of funny. write it."

"wait. I'm not done yet. these two guys are playing with each other. it's disgusting. no. it isn't disgusting! anyhow, the women walk over to the computer and open the doors. and inside this computer there are 4 HUGE c.o.c.k and b.a.l.l.s."

"crazy. write it."

"wait. wait. but before they can get at the c.o.c.ks, the machine shows up with a.s.sholes and mouths and the whole d.a.m.ned machine goes into an orgy with ITSELF. G.o.d d.a.m.n, can you imagine?"

"all right. write it. I think we can use it."

Ainsworth lit another cigar, walked up and down. "how about an advance?"

"one guy already owes us 5 short stories and 2 novels. he keeps falling further and further behind. if it keeps up, he'll own the company."

"give me half then, what the h.e.l.l. half a c.o.c.k is better than none."

"when can we have the story?"

"in a week."

Mason wrote a check for $75.

"thanks, baby," said Hockley, "you're sure now that we don't want to suck each other's c.o.c.ks?"

"I'm sure."

then Hockley was gone. Mason walked out to the receptionist. her name was Francine.

Mason looked at her legs.

"that dress is pretty short, Francine."

he kept looking.

"that's the style, Mr. Mason.

"just call me *Henry.' I don't believe I ever saw a dress quite that short."