Come On In (9 page)

if death was staring you in the face,

he was asked, what would you say to your readers?

nothing, he told the interviewer, would you please

order another bottle of wine?

he was an old, tired writer from Los Angeles, hungover,

and his French publisher had pushed one more

interview on him.

the free dinners and drinks usually

were great

but now he was fed up.

the many recent interviews had become

frustrating and boring.

he figured either his books would sell on their own

or fail the same way.

he hadn’t written them for money anyhow but to keep

himself out of the madhouse.

he tried to tell the interviewers this but they just went on with

their usual

banal questions:

have you met Norman Mailer?

what do you think of Camus, Sartre, Céline?

do your books sell better here than in America?

did you really work in a slaughterhouse?

do you think Hemingway was homosexual?

do you take drugs?

do you drink when you write?

are you a misanthrope?

who is your favorite writer?

the interviewer ordered another bottle of wine.

it was 11:15 p.m. on the patio of a hotel.

there were little white tables and chairs scattered about.

theirs was the only one occupied.

there was the interviewer, a photographer,

the writer and his wife.

have you had sex with children? the interviewer

asked.

no, answered the writer.

in one of your stories a man has sex with a

child and you describe it very

graphically.

well? asked the writer.

it was as if you enjoyed it, the interviewer said.

I sometimes enjoy writing, the writer said.

you seemed to have experienced what you were describing,

said the interviewer.

I only photograph life, said the writer. I might write

about a murderer but this doesn’t mean that I am

one or would enjoy being one.

ah, here’s the wine, said the interviewer.

the waiter took out the cork, poured a bit for

him.

the interviewer took a taste, nodded to the

waiter

and the waiter poured all

around.

the wine goes fast when there’s four of us, said the

writer.

do you drink because you are afraid of life?

the interviewer asked.

disgusted with life is more like it, said the writer,
and with

you.

we were up very early, said the writer’s wife.

he’s given at least a dozen interviews over the past

3 days and he’s tired.

I am from one of the city’s most important newspapers,

said the interviewer.

fuck
you
, said the writer.

what? said the interviewer. you can’t talk to me

like that!

I am, said the writer.

all you American writers think you’re God, said the

interviewer.

God is dead, said the writer, remember?

this interview is over! said the interviewer.

the photographer quickly drank his wine,

then he and the interviewer stood up

and walked out.

you better get yourself together, said the wife

to the writer, you’re on television tomorrow

night.

I’ll tell them to kiss my ass, said the writer.

you can’t do that, said his wife.

baby, said the writer, lifting his

wineglass, watch me!

you’re just a drunk who writes, said his wife.

that’s better than a drunk who just drinks,

said the writer.

his wife sighed.

well, do you want to go back to the room or to another

café?

to another café, said the writer.

they rose and walked slowly out of the

restaurant, he looking through his pocket for

cigarettes, she looking back over her shoulder

as if something was following

them.

hell, hell, in hell,

trapped like a fish to bake

here and burn.

hell, hell, inside my brain

inside my gut,

hell hanging

twisting

screaming

churning

then crouching still

both inside

and outside of

me.

hell,

hell in the trees,

on the ground,

crawling on the rug.

hell,

bouncing off

the

walls and

ceiling as

I sit in this chair here

as outside

through the window

I watch

6 or 7 telephone wires

taut against the

sky

as fresh hell slides

toward me

along the wires.

hell is where I

am.

and I am

here. 

there isn’t any

place

else. 

see me now

reaching for a

cigarette,

my hand pushing

through boiling space. 

there is nothing more

I can do.  

I light the

cigarette,

lean back here

alone

in

this

chair.

“correctly so,” I told him,

“I would much rather they all

robbed banks or sold

drugs and if you please may

I have a vodka-7?” 

“I agree,” said the

barkeep mixing the

drink, “I’d rather they

collected garbage

or ran for Congress

or taught

biology.” 

“or,” I said, reaching

for the drink, “sold

flowers on the corner

or gave back rubs or

tried blowing glass.” 

“absolutely right,” said

the barkeep

pouring himself a

drink, “I’d rather they

plowed the good

earth or

delivered the mail.” 

“or,” I said, “mugged

old ladies or

pulled teeth.” 

“or directed traffic or

worked the factories,”

said the barkeep, “or

caught the bus to

the nearest harvest.” 

“that will be a great day,” I said,

“when it arrives.” 

“beautiful,” said the

barkeep, “but isn’t it the

mediocrity of the masses

which diminishes the

wealth of its entertainers

and artists?” 

“absolutely not,” I said, “and may I

have another vodka- 7?” 

“if I was the policeman

of the world,” the barkeep

continued, moving the drink

toward me, “many a darling

poet would either be allowed to

starve or forced to get a

real job.” 

“and correctly so,” I

said, raising my

drink. 

“that will be a beautiful day,”

said the barkeep,

“when it arrives.” 

“a hell of a beautiful

day,” I agreed.

you know what Li Po said when asked if he’d rather be an

Artist or Rich?

“I’d rather be Rich,” he replied, “for Artists can usually be found

sitting on the doorsteps of the

Rich.”

I’ve sat on the doorsteps of some expensive and

unbelievable homes

myself

but somehow I always managed to disgrace myself and / or insult

my Rich hosts

(mostly after drinking large quantities of their fine

liquor).

perhaps I was afraid of the Rich?

all I knew then was poverty and the very poor,

and I felt instinctively that the Rich shouldn’t be so

Rich,

that it was some kind of clever

twist of fate

based on something rotten and

unfair.

of course, one could say the same thing

about being poor,

only there were so many poor, it all seemed completely

out of proportion.

and so when I, as an Artist, visited the

homes of the Rich, I felt ashamed to be

there, and I drank too much of their fine wines,

broke their expensive glassware and antique dishes,

burned cigarette holes in their Persian rugs and

mauled their wives,

reacting badly to the whole damned

situation.

yet I had no political or social solution.

I was just a lousy houseguest,

I guess,

and after a while

I protected both myself and the Rich

by rejecting their

invitations

and everybody felt much better after

that.

I went back to

drinking alone,

breaking my own cheap glassware,

filling the room with cigar

smoke and feeling

wonderful

instead of feeling trapped,

used,

pissed on,

fucked.  

the phone doesn’t ring.

the hours hang limp and empty.

everybody else is having it

all.

it seems to never end. 

one night it got very bad.

I needed just a voice. 

I dialed the time on the

telephone and listened to her

voice as she said: 

“it’s eleven ten and ten seconds.

it’s eleven ten and twenty seconds.

it’s eleven ten and thirty seconds …” 

then she told me that it

was:

“eleven ten and forty seconds.”

she might have saved my life

although I’m not sure. 

it reads:

Mr. Chinaski, we stopped by to see if

you’re interested in a free lunch.

we’ll stop by again later this

afternoon.

we’ll bring some beer.

it is now 2 p.m.

call meanwhile if you’re interested.

       397- 8211

Steve and Frank 

I think that all the decades of teaching English

Lit has gotten to him. 

his own writing has become more and more

comfortable.

he has survived, he has held on to his job, he has

changed wives (often).

but it was all just too easy, really, teaching those Lit

classes

and coasting along and by

doing that he has missed out on something important,

reality perhaps,

and it’s beginning to show.

each new book of poetry gets more and more

comfortable (as I said earlier).

I think good poetry should startle, shatter and,

yes, entertain while getting as close to the truth as

possible.

I can get all the
comfort
I need from a good

cigar. 

if this gentleman expects his own poetry to be taught

by others

in future English

Lit classes

he’d better get his ass out of the warm sand

and start splashing in the bloody waters of real

life.

or maybe he’d just rather be a good old guy

forever,

adored and comforted by the eager young

coeds.

that’s not so bad, really,

considering that you get paid very well for

that. 

 it was 4 years ago, she told me,

and we were on a private beach,

on the Mediterranean

my sister and I—

my sister is 18 and she has

long and lovely

legs,

and these 3 beautiful young men

bronzed and slim

put their blankets near ours;

one was an Englishman, one was a Scotsman

and the other might have been

Greek or Italian.

my sister and I started spreading oil on our

bodies, you

know, and it was all going well, you could

feel the vibes—

then this boy of 12 walked up,

he was bowlegged, had acne,

a very
scruffy
boy,

and he started speaking to the men

and the men talked to him

and one of the men gave him a cigarette

and the boy stood there

smoking the cigarette

not inhaling

and then one of the men got up

and went into the water with the boy

behind some rocks

where the water was shallow

and the man and the boy

stayed there quite a while.

then they came back.

then

the men got up, folded their blankets

and walked off.

the boy stood there

smoking another cigarette, not

inhaling.

I asked him:

“how did you get in here? it’s a

private beach.”

the boy pointed to a fence behind us.

“it was easy,” he said, “there’a hole in

the fence.”

his English was terrible.

and then he walked away along the shore with his bowlegs,

such a
scruffy
boy.