Charles Bukowski - Short Stories Collection Part 2

"I'm sorry, didn't you know?"

"No."

"Suicide. She was buried yesterday."

"Buried?" I asked. It seemed as though she would walk through the doorway at any moment. How could she be gone?

"Her sisters buried her."

"A suicide? Mind telling me how?"

"She cut her throat."

"I see. Give me another drink."

I drank until closing time. Ca.s.s was the most beautiful of 5 sisters, the most beautiful in town. I managed to drive to my place and I kept thinking, I should have insisted she stay with me instead of accepting that "no."Everything about her had indicated that she had cared. I simply had been too offhand about it, lazy, too unconcerned. I deserved my death and hers. I was a dog. No, why blame the dogs? I got up and found a bottle of wine and drank from it heavily. Ca.s.s the most beautiful girl in town was dead at 20. Outside somebody honked their automobile horn. They were very loud and persistent. I sat the bottle down and screamed out: "G.o.d d.a.m.n YOU,YOU SON OF A b.i.t.c.h ,SHUT UP!" The night kept coming and there was nothing I could do.

**A Lovely Love Affair**

I went broke a" again a" but this time in the French Quarter, New Orleans, and Joe Blanchard, editor of the underground paper OVERTHROW took me down to this place around the corner, one of those dirty white buildings with green storm windows, steps that ran almost straight up. It was Sunday and I was expecting a royalty, no, and advance from a dirty book I had written for the Germans, but the Germans kept writing me this bulls.h.i.+t about the owner, the father, being a drunk, they were deep in the red because the old man had withdrawn their funds from the bank, no, overdrawn them for his drinking and f.u.c.king bouts and therefore, they were broke but they were kicking the old man out and as soon as-Blanchard rang the bell.

This old fat girl came to the door, and she weighed about between 250 and 300 pounds. She kind of wore this vast sheet as a dress and her eyes were very small. I guess that was the only small thing about her. She was Marie Glaviano, owner of a caf+ in the French Quarter, a very small caf+. That was another thing that was not very big about her a" her caf+. But it was a nice caf+, red and white tablecloths, expensive menus and no people about. One of those old-time black mammy dolls standing near the entrance. The old black mammy doll signified good times, old times, good old times, but the good old times were gone. The tourists were walkers now. They just liked to walk around and look at things. They didn't go into the cafes. They didn't even get drunk. Nothing paid anymore. The good times were over. n.o.body gave a s.h.i.+t and n.o.body had any money and if they had any, they kept it. It was a new age and not a very interesting one. Everybody kind of watched the revolutionaries and the pigs rip at each other. That was good entertainment and it was free and they kept their money in their pockets, if they had any money.

Blanchard said, "h.e.l.lo, Marie. Marie, this is Charley Serkin. Charley, this is Marie."

"Hi," I said.

"h.e.l.lo," said Marie Glaviano.

"Let us come in a minute, Marie," said Blanchard.

(There are only two things wrong with money: too much or too little. And there I was down at the "too little" stage again.) We climbed the steep steps and followed her down one fo those long long sideways-built places a"I mean all length and no width, and then we were in the kitchen, sitting at a table. There was a bowl of flowers. Marie broke open 3 bottles of beer. Sat down.

"Well, Marie," said Blanchard, "Charley's a genius. He's up against the knife. I'm sure he'll pull out, but meanwhile-meanwhile, he's got no place to stay."

Marie looked at me. "Are you a genius?"

I took a long drag at the beer. "Well, frankly, it's hard to tell. More often, I feel like some type of subnormal. Rather like all these great big white blocks of air in my head."

"He can stay," said Marie.

It was Monday, Marie's only day off and Blanchard got up and left us there in the kitchen. Then the front door slammed and he was out of there.

"What do you do?" asked Marie.

"Live on my luck," I said.

"You remind me of Marty," she said.

"Marty?" I asked, thinking, my G.o.d, here it comes. And it came.

"Well, you're ugly, you know. Well, I don't mean ugly, I mean beat-up, you know. And you're really beat-up, you're even more beat-up than Marty was. And he was a fighter. Were you a fighter?"

"That's one of my problems: I could never fight worth a d.a.m.n."

"Anyhow, you got that same look as Marty. You been beat but you're kind. I know your type. I know a man when I see a man. I like your face. You got a good face."

Not being able to say anything about her face, I asked, "You got any cigarettes, Marie?"

"Why sure, honey," she reached down into that great sheet of a dress and pulled a full pack out from between her t.i.ts. She could have carried a week's worth of groceries in there. It was kind of funny. She opened me another beer.

I took a good drain, then told her, "I could probably f.u.c.k you until I made you cry."

"Now look here, Charley," she said, "I won't have you talking that way. I'm a nice girl. My mother brought me up right. You keep talking that way and you can't stay."

"Sorry, Marie, I was just kidding."

"Well, I don't like that kind of kidding."

"Sure, I understand. You got any whiskey?"

"Scotch."

"Scotch is fine."

She brought out an almost full fifth. 2 watergla.s.ses. We had ourselves some scotch and water. That woman had been around. That was obvious. She's probably been around ten years longer than I. Well, age wasn't any crime. It was only that most people aged badly.

"You're just like Marty," she said again.

"And you're not like anybody I've ever seen," I said.

"Do you like me?" she asked.

"I've got to," I said, and she didn't give me any snot over that one. We drank another hour or two,. Mostly beer but with a bit of scotch here and there, and then she took me down to my bed. And on the way down we pa.s.sed a place and she was sure to say, "That's my bed." It was quite wide. My bed was next to another one. Very strange. But it didn't mean anything. "You can sleep in either bed," said Marie, "or both of them."

There was something about that that felt like a putdowna"

Well, sure, I had a head in the morning and I heard her rattling in the kitchen but I ignored it as any wise man would, and I heard her turn on the tv for the morning news, she had the tv on the breakfast nook table, and I heard the coffee perking, it smelled rather good but the smell of bacon and eggs and potatoes I didn't like, and the sound of the morning news I didn't like, and I felt like p.i.s.sing and I was thirsty, but I didn't want Marie to know that I was awake, so I waited, mildly p.i.s.sed (haha, yes), but wanting to be alone, wanting to own the place alone and she kept f.u.c.king around f.u.c.king around and finally I heard her running past my bed- "Gotta go, " she said, "I'm late."

"Bye, Marie," I said.

When the door slammed I got up and walked to the c.r.a.pper and I sat there and I p.i.s.sed and I c.r.a.pped and I sat there in New Orleans, far from home, wherever my home was, and then I saw a spider sitting in a web in the corner, looking at me. Now that spider had been there a long time, I knew that. Much longer than I had. First, I thought of killing him. But he was so fat and happy and ugly, he owned the joint. I'd have to wait some time, until it was proper. I got up and wiped my a.s.s and flushed. As I left the c.r.a.pper, the spider winked at me.

I didn't want to play with what was left of the 5th, so I sat in the kitchen, naked, wondering, how can people trust me so? Who was I? People were crazy, people were simple. That gave me and edge. h.e.l.l ys, it did. I'd lived for ten years without a trade. People gave me money, food, places to stay. Whether they thought I was an idiot or a genius, that didn't matter. I knew what I was. I was neither. What made people give me gifts didn't concern me. I took the gifts and I took them without a feeling of victory or/and coercion. My only premise was that I couldn't ask for anything. On top of it all, I rather had this little phonograph record spinning around on top of my brain and it kept playing the same tune: don't try don't try. It seemed like and all right idea.

Anyhow, after Marie left I sat in the kitchen and drank 3 cans of beer I found in the refrigerator. I never cared much for food. I'd heard of people's love for food. But food only bored me. Liquid was o.k. but bulk was a dragdown. I liked s.h.i.+t, I liked to s.h.i.+t, I liked t.u.r.ds but it was such terrible work creating them.

After the 3 cans of beer I noticed this purse on the seat next to me. Of course, Marie had taken another purse to work. Would she be foolish enough or kind enough to leave money? I opened the purse. There at the bottom was a ten dollar bill.

Well, Marie was testing me and I'd prove worthy of her test.

I took the ten, walked back to my bedroom and dressed. I felt good. After all, what did a man need to survive? Nothing. It was true. And I even had the key to the place.

So I stepped outside and locked the door to keep out the thieves, hahaha, and there I was out on the streets, the French Quarter, and what a stupid place that was, but I had to make it do. Everything had to serve me, that's the way it went. So-oh yes, I was walking down the street, and the trouble with the French Quarter was that there just weren't any liquor stores around like in other decent parts of the world. Maybe it was deliberate. One had to guess that it helped those horrible s.h.i.+t holes on every corner that were called bars. The first thing I ever thought of when walking into one of those "quaint" French Quarter bars was vomiting. And I usually did, running back to some urine-stinking p.i.s.spot and letting go a" tons and tons of fried eggs and half-cooked greasy potatoes. And walking back in, after heaving, and looking upon them: the only thing more lonely and inane than the patrons was the bartender, especially if he also owned the place. O.k., so I walked around, knowing that the bars were the lie, and you know where I found my 3 six packs? A little grocery with stale bread and all about it, even peeling into the paint, this half-s.e.x smile of loneliness-help me, help me, help me-terrible, yes, and they can't even light the place up, electricity costs money, and here I was, the first guy to buy three six packs in 18 years, and my G.o.d, she almost came across the top of the cash register-It was too much. I grabbed my change and 18 tall cans of beer and ran out into the stupid French Quarter sunlight-I placed the remainder of the change back in the purse in the breakfastnook and then left the purse open so Marie could see it. Then I sat down and opened a beer.

It was good being alone. Yet, I wasn't alone. Each time I had to p.i.s.s I'd see that spider and I thought, well, spider, you've got to go, soon. I just don't like your looks in that dark corner, catching bugs and slies and sucking the blood out of them. You see, you're bad, Mr. Spider. And I'm o.k. At least, that's the way I like to see it. You're nothing but a frigging dark brainless wart of death, that's what you are. Suck s.h.i.+t. You've had it.

I found a broom in the backporch and came back in there and I crashed him out of his web and brought him his own death. All right, that was all right, he was out there ahead of me, somewhere, I couldn't help that. But how could Marie put her big a.s.s down on the rims of that lid and s.h.i.+t and look at that thing? Did she even see it? Perhaps not.

I went back in the kitchen and had some more beer. Then I turned on the tv. Paper people. Gla.s.s people. I felt as if I were going insane and turned the thing off. I drank some more beer. Then I boiled 2 eggs and fried two strips of bacon. I managed to eat. You forgot about food sometimes. The sun came through the curtains. I drank all day. I threw the empties in the trash. Time went. Then the door opened. It flew open. It was Marie.

"Jesus Christ!" she screamed, "you know what happened?"

"No, no, I don't."

"Oh, G.o.d d.a.m.n it!"

"Whatssa matta, honey?"

"I burned the strawberries!"

"Oh, yes?"

She ran around the kitchen in little circles, that big a.s.s bobbing. She was crazy. She was out of it. Poor old fat c.u.n.t.

"I had this pot of strawberries going in the kitchen and one of these tourists came in, rich b.i.t.c.h, first customer of the day, and she likes the little hats I make, you know-Well, she's kinda cute and all the hats look good on her and so she's got a problem, and then we get to talking about Detroit, she knew somebody in Detroit that I knew, you know, and we're talking and then all of a sudden I SMELL IT!!! THE STRAWBERRIES ARE BURNING! I ran into the kitchen, but it's too late-.what a mess! The strawberries have boiled over and they are everywhere and it stinks, it's burned, it's sad, and nothing can be saved, nothing! What h.e.l.l!"

"I'm sorry. But did you sell her a hat?"

"I sold her two hats. She couldn't make up her mind."

"I'm sorry about the strawberries. And I killed the spider."

"What spider?"

"I didn't think you'd know."

"Know what? What's this spiders? They're just bugs."

"They tell me a spider isn't a bug. Something to do with the number of legs-I really don't know or care."

"A spider ain't a bug? What kinda s.h.i.+t is that?"

"Not an insect. So they say. Anyhow, I killed the d.a.m.n thing."

"Sure. You left it there. I had to have beer."

"You have to have beer all the time?"

"Yes."

"You're going to be a problem. You had anything to eat?"

"2 eggs, 2 slices of bacon."

"You hungry?"

"Yes. But you're tired. Relax. Have a drink."

"Cooking relaxes me. But first I gotta have a hot bath."

"Go ahead."

"O.k.," she reached over and turned on the tv and then went to the bathroom. I had to listen to tv. A news broadcast. Perfectly ugly b.a.s.t.a.r.d. 3 nostrils. Perfectly hateful b.a.s.t.a.r.d dressed like a little inane doll, sweating, and looking at me, saying words I hardly understood or cared about. I knew that Marie would be looking at tv for hours, so I had to adjust to it. When Marie came back I was looking directly into the gla.s.s, which made her feel better. I looked as harmless as a man with a checkerboard and the sports page.

Marie had come out, dolled in another outfit. She might have even looked cute, but she was so G.o.d d.a.m.ned fat. Well, anyhow, I wasn't sleeping on a park bench.

"You want me to cook, Marie?"

"No, it's all right. I'm not so tired now."

She began preparing the food. When I got up for the next beer, I kissed her behind the ear.

"You're a good sport, Marie."

"You got enough drink for the rest of the night?" she asked.

"Sure, kid. And there's still that 5thy. Everything's fine. I just want to sit here and look at the set and listen to you talk. O.k?"

"Sure, Charley."

I sat down. She had something going. It smelled good. She was evidently a fine cook. The whole walls crawled with this warm smell of cooking. No wonder she was so fat: good cook, good eater. Marie was making a pot of stew. Every now and then she'd get up and add something to the pot. An onion. A piece of cabbage. A few carrots. She knew. And I drank and looked at that big sloppy old gal and she sat there making these most magic hats, her hands working into a basket, picking up first the color, then that, this length of ribbon, then that, and then twisting it so, sewing it so, placing it against the hat, and that 2 bit straw was just more magic. Marie created masterpieces that would never be discovered a" walking down the street on top of b.i.t.c.hes' heads.

As she worked and tended stew, she talked.

"It's not like it used to be. People don't have any money. Everything's Traveler's checks and checkbooks and credit cards. People just don't have money. They don't carry it. Credit's everything. A guy gets a paycheck and it's already taken. They mortgage their whole lives away to buy one house. And then they've got to fill that house with s.h.i.+t and have a car. They're hooked on house and the legislators know this and tax them to death with property taxes. n.o.body has any money. Small businesses just can't last."

We sat down to the stew and it was perfect. After dinner we brought out the whiskey and she brought me two cigars and we looked at tv and didn't talk much. I felt as if I had been there for years. She kept working on the hats, talking now and then, and I'd say, yeh, that's right, or, is that so? And the hats kept flying off of her hands, masterpieces.

"Marie," I told her, "I'm tired. Got to go to bed."

She told me to take the whiskey with me, so I did. But instead of going down to my bed, I threw back the cover of Marie's bed and crawled in. After undressing, of course. It was a fine mattress. It was a fine bed. It was one of those old-fas.h.i.+oned highpost jobs with a wooden roof, or whatever they call them. I guess if you f.u.c.ked until the roof came down, you made it. I'd never bring that roof down without help from the G.o.ds.

Marie kept looking at tv and making hats. Then I heard her turn off the set, switch out the kitchen light and she came into the bedroom, right past the bedroom and she didn't see me, she went right n down to the c.r.a.pper. She was in there a while and then I watched her switch out of her clothes and into this big pink nightie. She f.u.c.ked with her face a bit, gave up, put on a couple of curlers, then turned around and walked toward the bed and saw me.

"My G.o.d, Charley, you're in the wrong bed."