Charles Bukowski - Short Stories Collection Part 9

"they get shorter and shorter."

"you keep giving everybody who comes in here rocks. they come into my office and talk like crazy."

"oh, come on, Henry."

"you even give me rocks, Francine."

she giggled.

"come on, let's go to lunch," he said.

"but you've never taken me to lunch before."

"oh, is there somebody else?"

"Oh, no. but it's only 10:30 a.m."

"who the h.e.l.l cares? I'm suddenly hungry. very hungry."

"all right. just a moment."

Francine got out the mirror, played with the mirror a bit. then they got up and walked to the elevator. they were the only ones on the elevator. on the way down, he grabbed Francine and kissed her. she tasted like raspberry with a slight hint of halitosis. he even pawed one of her b.u.t.tocks. she offered a token resistance, pushing against him lightly.

"Henry! I don't what's gotten into you!" she giggled.

"I'm only a man, after all."

in the lobby of the building there was a stand which sold candy, newspapers, magazines, cigarettes, cigars- "wait a moment, Francine."

Mason bought 5 cigars, huge ones. he lit one and let out an immense spray of smoke. they walked out of the building, looking for a place to eat. It has stopped raining.

"do you usually smoke before lunch?" she asked.

"before, after and in between."

Henry Mason felt as if he were going just a bit insane. all those writers. what the h.e.l.l was wrong with them?

"hey, here's a place!"

he held the door open and Francine walked in. he followed her.

"Francine, I sure like that dress!"

"you do? why thank you! I've got a dozen similar to this one"

"you have?"

"umm hummm."

he pulled up her chair and looked at her legs as she sat down. Mason sat down. "G.o.d, I'm hungry. I keep thinking of clams, I wonder why?"

"I think you want to f.u.c.k me."

"WHAT?"

"I said, *I think you want to f.u.c.k me.'"

"oh."

"I'll let you. I think you're a very nice man, a very nice man, really."

the waiter came up and waved the smoke away with his menu cards. he handed one to Francine and one to Mason. and waited. and got rocks. how come some guys got nice dolls like that while he had to beat his meat? the waiter took their orders, wrote them down, walked through the swinging doors, handed the orders to the cook.

"hey," said the cook, "whatcha got there?"

"whadya mean?"

"I mean, ya got a horn! In front there! stay away from ME with that thing!"

"it's nothing."

"nothing? you'll kill somebody with that thing! go throw some cold water on it! it just don't look nice!"

the waiter walked into the men's room. some guys got all the broads. he was a writer. he had a whole truck full of ma.n.u.scripts. 4 novels. 40 short stories. 500 poems. nothing published. a rotten world. they couldn't recognize talent. they kept talent down. you have to have an "in," that's all there was to it. rotten c.o.c.ksucking world. waiting on stupid people all day.

the waiter took his c.o.c.k out, put it in the hand basin and began splashing cold water on it.

**Life and Death in the Charity Ward**

The ambulance was full but they found me a place on top and away we went. I had been vomiting blood from the mouth in large quant.i.ties and I was worried that I might vomit upon the people below me. We rode along listening to the siren. It sounded far off, it sounded as if the sound weren't coming from our ambulance. We were on the way to the county hospital, all of us. The poor. The chariy cases. There was something different wrong with all of us and many7 of us would not be coming back. The one thing we had in common was that we were all poor and didn't have much of a chance. We were packed in there. I never realized that an ambulance could hold so many people.

"Good Lord, oh good Lord," I heard the voice of a black woman below me, "I never thought this would happen to ME! I never thought nothing like this would Lord-"

I didn't feel that way about it. I had been playing with death for some time. I can't say we were the best of friends but we were well acquainted. He had moved a little close a little fast on me that night. There had been warnings: pains like swords stuck in my stomach but I had ignored them. I had thought I was a tough guy and pain to me was just like bad luck: I ignored it. I just poured whiskey on top of the pain and went about my business. My business was getting drunk. The whiskey had done it; I should have stayed on the wine.

Blood that comes from the inside is not the bright red color that comes, say, from a cut on the finger. The blood from inside is dark, a purple, almost black, and it stinks, it stinks worse than s.h.i.t. all that life giving fluid, it smelled worse than a beer s.h.i.t.

I felt another vomiting spasm coming on. It was the same feeling as throwing up food and when the blood came out, one felt better. But it was only an illusion-each mouthful out brought one closer to Pappa Death.

"O good Lord G.o.d, I never thought-"

The blood came up and I held it in my mouth. I didn't know what to do. Up there on the upper tier I would have wetted my friends down quite good. I held the blood in my mouth trying to think about what to do. The ambulance turned a corner and the blood began to dribble out the corners of my mouth. Well, a man had to maintain decencies even while he was dying. I got myself together, closed my eyes and swallowed my blood back down. I was sickened. But I had solved the problem. I only hoped we got someplace soon where I could let the next one go.

Really, there wasn't any thought of dying; the only thoughts I had were (was) one: this is a terrible convenience, I am no longer in control of what is happening. They narrowed down your choices and pushed you around.

The ambulance got there and then I was on a table and they were asking me questions: what was my religion? Where was I born? did I owe the country any $$$ from earlier trips to the hospital? when was I born? Parents alive? Married? all that, you know. They talk to a man as if he had all his faculties; they don't even pretend that you are dying. And they are hardly in a hurry. It does have a calming effect but that's not their reason: they are simply bored and they don't care whether you die, fly or fart. No, they rather you didn't fart.

Then I was on an elevator and the door opened into what appeared to be a dark cellar. I was rolled out. They placed me on a bed and left. An orderly appeared out of nowhere and gave me a small white pill.

"Take this," he said. I swallowed the pill and he handed me a gla.s.s of water and then vanished. It was the kindest thing that had happened to me in some time. I leaned back and noticed my surroundings. There were 8 or ten beds, all occupied by male Americans. We each had a tin bucket of water and a gla.s.s on the night stand. The sheets seemed clean. It was very dark in there and cold, much the feeling of an apartment house cellar. There was one small light bulb, unshaded. Next to me was a huge man, he was old, in his mid fifties, but he was huge; although much of the hugeness was fat, he did give off the feeling of much strength. He was strapped down in his bed. He stared straight up and spoke to the ceiling.

"-and he was such a nice boy, such a clean nice boy, he needed the job, he said he needed the job, and I said, *I like your looks, boy, we need a good fry cook, a good honest fry cook, and I can tell an honest face, boy, I can tell character, you work with me and my wife and you got a job here for life, boy-* and he said, *All right, sir,' just like that he said it and he looked happy about getting' that job and I said, *Martha, we got us a good boy here, a nice clean cut boy, he ain't gonna tap the till like the rest of those dirty sons of b.i.t.c.hes.' Well, I went out and got a good buy on chickens, a real good buy on chickens. Martha can do more things with a chicken, she's got that magic touch with chicken. Col. Sanders can't touch her with a 90 foot pole. I went out and bought 20 chickens for that weekend. We are going to have a good weekend, a chicken special. 20 chickens I went out and got. We were going to put Col. Sanders out of business. A good weekend like that, you can pull 200 bucks clear profit. That boy even helped us pluck and cut those chickens, he did it on his own time. Martha and I didn't have no children. I was really taking a liking to that boy. Well, Martha fixed the chicken in the back, she got all that chicken ready-we had chicken 19 different ways, we had chicken coming out of our a.s.sholes. All the boy had to do was cook up the other stuff like burgers and steak and so forth. The chicken was set. And by G.o.d, we had a big weekend. Friday night, Sat.u.r.day and Sunday. That boy was a good worker, and pleasant too. He was nice to be around. He made these funny jokes. He called me Col. Sanders and I called him son. Col. Sanders and Son, that's what we were. When we closed Sat.u.r.day night we were all tired but happy. Every d.a.m.ned bit of chicken was gone. The place had been packed, people waitin' on seats, you never saw anything like it. I locked the door and got out a 5th of good whiskey and we sat there, tired and happy, having a few drinks. The boy washed all the dishes and swept the floor. He said, *All right, Col. Sanders, when do I report tomorrow?' He smiled. I told him 6:30 a.m. and he got his cap and left. *That's a h.e.l.l of a nice boy, Martha,' I said and then I walked over to the till to count the profits. The till was EMPTY! That's right, I said, *The til was EMPTY!' And the cigar box with the other 2 days profit, he found that too. Such a clean cut boy-I don't understand it-I said he could have a job for life, that's what I told him. 20 chickens-Martha really knows her chickens-And that boy, that dirty chickens.h.i.t, he ran off with all that d.a.m.ned money, that boy-"

Then he screamed. I've heard a great many people scream but I've never heard anybody scram like that. He rose up against his straps and screamed. It looked as if those straps were going to break. The whole bed rattled, the wall roared the scream back at us. The man was in total agony. It wasn't a short scream. It was a long one and it went on and on. Then he stopped. We 8 or ten male Americans, ill, stretched in our beds and enjoyed the silence.

Then he began talking again. "He was such a nice boy, I liked his looks. I told him he could have the job for life. He made these funny jokes, he was nice to be around. I went out and got those 20 chickens. 20 chickens. On a good weekend you can clear 200. We had 20 chickens. The boy called me Col. Sanders-"

I leaned out of bed and vomited out a mouthful of blood- The next day a nurse came out and got me and helped me on a rolling platform. I was still vomiting up blood and was quite weak. She rolled me on the elevator.

The technician got behind his machine. They poked a point into my belly and told me to stand there. I felt very weak.

"I'm too weak to stand up," I said.

"Just stand there," said the technician.

"I don't think I can," I said.

"Hold still."

I felt myself slowly beginning to fall over backwards.

"I'm falling." I said.

"Don't fall." He said.

"Hold still," said the nurse.

I fell over backwards. I felt as if I were made of rubber. There was no feeling when I hit the floor. I felt very light. I probably was.

"Oh G.o.d d.a.m.n it!" said the technician.

The nurse helped me up and stood me up against the machine with this point jamming into my stomach.

"I can't stand it," I said, "I think I'm dying. I can't stand up. I'm sorry but I can't stand up."

"Stand still," said the technician, "just stand there."

"Stand still," said the nurse.

I could feel myself falling. I fell over backwards.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n you!" the technician screamed, "you made me waste two films! Those G.o.d d.a.m.ned films cost money!"

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Take him out of here," said the technician.

The nurse helped my up and put me back on the roller. The humming nurse rolled me back to the elevator, humming.

They did take me out of that cellar and put me into a large room, a very large room. There were about 40 people dying in there. The wires to the b.u.t.tons had been cut and large wooden doors, thick wooden doors coated with slabs of tin on both sides closed up away from the nurses and the doctors. They had put the sides up around my bed and I was asked to use the bedpan but I didn't like the bedpan, especially to vomit blood into and far less to s.h.i.t into. If a man ever invents a comfortable and usable bedpan he will be hated by doctors and nurses for eternity and beyond.

I kept having a desire to s.h.i.t but not much luck. Of course, all I was getting was milk and the stomach was ripped open so it had offered me some tough roast beef with half-cooked carrots and half-mashed potatoes. I refused. I knew they just wanted another empty bed. Anyhow, there was still this desire to s.h.i.t. Strange. It was my second or third night in there. I was very weak. I managed to unattach one side and get out of bed. I made it to the c.r.a.pper and sat there. I strained and sat there and strained. Then I got up. Nothing. Just a little whirlpool of blood. Then a merry-go-round started in my head and I leaned against the wall with one hand and vomited up a mouthful of blood. I flushed the toilet and walked out. I got halfway to my bed and another mouthful came up. I fell. Then on the floor I vomited up another mouthful of blood. I didn't know that there was so much blood inside of people. I let go another mouthful.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h," an old man hollered at me from his bed, "shut up so we can get some sleep."

"Sorry, comrade," I said, and then I was unconsciousa"

The nurse was angry. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she said, "I told you not to take down the sides of your bed. You f.u.c.kin' creeps sure make my night a drag!"

"your p.u.s.s.y stinks," I told her, "you belong in a Tijuana wh.o.r.e house."

She lifted my head by the hair and slapped me hard across the left side of my face and then backhanded me across the right.

"Take that back!" she said. "Take that back!"

"Florence Nightingale," I said, "I love you."

She put my head back down and walked out of the room. She was a lady of true spirit and fire; I liked that. I rolled over into my own blood, getting my smock wet. That'd teach her.

Florence Nightingale came back with another female s.a.d.i.s.t and they put me in a chair and slid the chair across the room toward my bed.

"Too much G.o.d d.a.m.ned noise!" said the old man. He was right.

They got me back into bed and Florence put the bed side back up. "Son of a b.i.t.c.h," she said. "stay in there now or next time I'm gonna lay on you."

"Suck me off," I said, "suck me off before you leave."

She leaned over the railing and looked into my face. I have a very tragic face. It attracts some women. Her eyes were wide and pa.s.sionate and looked into mine. I pulled the sheet down and pulled up my smock. She spit into my face, then walked out-Then the head nurse was there.

"Mr. Bukowski," she said, "we can't let you have any blood. You don't have any blood credit."

She smiled. She was letting me know that they were going to let me die.

"All right," I said.

"Do you want to see the priest?"

"What for?"

"We have on your admissions card that you are a Catholic."

"I just put that down."

"Why?"