Tales of Ordinary Madness (15 page)

BEER AND POETS AND TALK

it was a hell of a night. Willie had slept in the weeds outside Bakersfield the night before. Dutch was there, and a buddy. the beer was on me. I made sandwiches. Dutch kept talking about literature, poetry; I tried to get him off it but he laid right in there. Dutch runs a bookshop around Pasadena or Glendale or somewhere. then talk about the riots came up. they asked me what I thought about the riots and I told them that I was waiting, that the thoughts would have to come by themselves. it was nice to be able to wait. Willie picked up one of my cigars, took the paper off, lit it.

somebody said, “how come you're writing a column? you used to laugh at Lipton for writing a column, now you're doing the same thing.”

“Lipton writes a kind of left-wing Walter Winchell thing. I create Art. there's a difference.”

“hey, man, you got any more of these green onions?” asked Willie.

I went into the kitchen for more green onions and beer. Willie was one right out of the book – a book that hadn't been written yet. he was a mass of hair, head and beard. bluejeans with patches. one week he was in Frisco. 2 weeks later he was in Albuquerque. then, somewhere else. he carried with him, everywhere, this batch of poems he had accepted for his magazine. whether the crazy magazine ever evolved or not was anybody's guess. Willie the Wire, slim, bouncy, immortal. he wrote very well. even when he put the knock on somebody it was a kind of without hatred knock. he just laid the statement down, then it was yours. a graceful carelessness.

I cracked some new beers. Dutch was still on literature. he had just published “18th Dynasty Egyptian Automobile Turnon” by D. R. Wagner. and a nice job too. Dutch's young buddy just listened – he was the new breed: quiet but very much there.

Willie worked on an onion. “I talked to Neal Cassady. he's gone completely crazy.”

“yeah, he's begging for busts. it's stupid. building a forced myth. being in Kerouac's book screwed up his mind.”

“man,” I said, “there's nothing like a bit of dirty literary gossip, is there?”

“sure,” said Dutch, “let's talk shop. everybody talks shop.”

“listen, Bukowski, do you think that there's any poetry being written now? by anybody? Lowell made time, you know.”

“almost all the great names have died recently – Frost, cummings, Jeffers, W. C. Williams, T. S. Eliot, the rest. a couple of nights ago, Sandburg. in a very short period, they all seemed to die together, throw in Vietnam and the ever-riots and it has been a very strange and quick and festering and new age. look at those skirts now, almost up around the ass. we are moving very quickly and I like it, it is not bad. but the Establishment is worried about its culture. culture is a steadier. there's nothing as good as a museum, a Verdi opera or a stiff-neck poet to hold back progress. Lowell was rushed into the breach, after a careful check of credentials. Lowell is interesting enough not to put you to sleep but diffuse enough so as not to be dangerous. the first thoughts you have after reading his work is, this baby has never missed a meal or even had a flat tire or a toothache. Creeley is a near similarity, and I imagine the Establishment balanced Creeley and Lowell for some time but had to finally come up with Lowell because Creeley just didn't seem like such a very good dull guy, and you couldn't trust him as much – he might even show up at the president's lawn party and tickle the guests with his beard. so, it had to be Lowell, and so it's Lowell we've got.”

“so who's writing it? where are they?”

“not in America. and there are only 2 that I can think of. Harold Norse who is nursing his melancholia-hypochondria in Switzerland, taking handouts from rich backers, and having the running shits, fainting spells, the fear of ants, so forth. and writing very little now, kind of going crazy like the rest of us. but then WHEN he writes, it's all there. the other guy is Al Purdy. not Al Purdy the novelist, I mean Al Purdy the poet. they are not the same people. Al Purdy lives in Canada and grows his own grapes which he squeezes into his own wine. he is a drunk, an old hulk of a man who must now be somewhere in his mid-forties. his wife supports him so he can write his poetry, which, you've got to admit, is some wonderful kind of wife. I've never met one like that or have you. but, anyhow, the Canadian government is always laying some kind of grant on him, $4,000 here and there, and they send him up to the Pole to write about life there, and he does it, crazy clear poems about birds and people and dogs. god damn, he wrote a book of poems once called “Songs for All the Annettes” and I almost cried all the way through the book reading it. it's nice to look up sometimes, it's nice to have heroes, it's nice to have somebody else carrying some of the load.”

“don't you think you write as well as they?”

“only at times. most of the time, no.”

the beer ran out and I had to take a shit. I gave Willie a five and told him it'd be good if he got 2 six packs, tall, Schlitz (this is an advertisement), and all 3 of them left and I went in and sat down. it wasn't bad to be more or less asked questions of the age. it was better yet to be doing what I was doing. I thought about the hospitals, the racetracks, some of the women I used to know, some of the women I had buried, outdrunk, outfucked but not outargued. the alcoholic madwomen who had brought love to me especially and in their own way. then I heard it through the wall:

“listen, Johnny, you ain't even kissed me in a week. what's wrong, Johnny? listen, talk to me, I want you to talk to me.”

“god damn you, get away from me. I don't want to talk to you. LEAVE ME ALONE, WILL YOU? GOD DAMN YOU, LEAVE ME ALONE!”

“listen, Johnny, I just want you to talk to me, I can't stand it. you don't have to touch me, just talk to me, jesus christ Johnny I can't stand it, I CAN'T STAND IT, JESUS!”

“GOD DAMN IT, I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE! LEAVE ME ALONE, GOD DAMN YOU, LEAVE ME ALONE, LEAVE ME ALONE, LEAVE ME ALONE, WILL YOU?”

“Johnny ...”

he hit her a good one. open hand. a real good one. I almost fell off the stool. I heard her choking off the crap and walking off.

then Dutch and Willie and crew were back. they ripped open the cans. I finished my business and walked back in.

“I'm gonna get up an anthology,” said Dutch, “an anthology of the best living poets, I mean the real best.”

“sure,” said Willie, “why not?” then he saw me: “enjoy your crap?”

“not too much.”

“no?”

“no.”

“you need more roughage. you ought to eat more green onions.”

“you think so?”

“yeah.”

I reached over and got 2 of them, jammed them down. maybe next time would be better. meanwhile there were riots, beer, talk, literature, and the lovely young ladies were making the fat millionaires happy. I reached over, got one of my own cigars, took off the paper, took off the cigar band, jammed the thing into my screwed-up and complex face, then lit it, the cigar. bad writing's like bad women: there's just not much you can do about it.

I SHOT A MAN IN RENO

Bukowski cried when Judy Garland sang at the N.Y. Philharmonic, Bukowski cried when Shirley Temple sang “I Got Animal Crackers in my Soup”; Bukowski cried in cheap flophouses, Bukowski can't dress, Bukowski can't talk, Bukowski is scared of women, Bukowski has a bad stomach, Bukowski is full of fears, and hates dictionaries, nuns, pennies, busses, churches, parkbenches, spiders, flies, fleas, freaks; Bukowski didn't go to war. Bukowski is old, Bukowski hasn't flown a kite for 45 years; if Bukowski were an ape they'd run him out of the tribe ...

my friend is so worried about tearing the meat of my soul from my bones that he hardly seems to think of his own existence.

“but Bukowski pukes real neat and I've never seen him piss on the floor.”

so I do have charm after all, you see. then he throws open a little door and there in a 3 by 6 room stacked with papers and rags is an out.

“you can always stay here, Bukowski. you'll never want.”

no window, no bed, but I'm next to the bathroom. it still looks good to me.

“but you may have to wear earplugs because of the music I keep playing.”

“I can pick up a set, I'm sure.”

we walk back into his den. “you wanna hear some Lenny Bruce?”

“no, thanks.”

“Ginsberg?”

“no, no.”

he just has to keep that tape machine going, or the record player. they finally hit me with Johnny Cash singing to the boys at Folsom.

“I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.”

it seems to me that Johnny is giving them a little shit just like I suspect Bob Hope does to the boys at Viet during Xmas, but I have this kind of mind. the boys holler, they are out of their cells but I feel like it's something like tossing meatless bones instead of biscuits to the hungered and the trapped. I don't feel a damn thing holy or brave about it. there's only one thing to do for men in jail: let ‘em out. there's only one thing to do for men at war: stop the war.

“turn it off,” I ask.

“whatsa matta?”

“it's a trick. a publicity man's dream.”

“you can't say that. Johnny's done time.”

“a lot of people have.”

“we think it's good music.”

“I like his voice. but the only man who can sing in jail, really, is a man who is in jail, really.”

“we still like it.”

his wife is there and a couple of young black men who play combo in some band.

“Bukowski likes Judy Garland. Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

“I liked her that one time in N.Y. her soul was up. you couldn't beat her.”

“she's overweight and a lush.”

it was the same old thing – people tearing meat and not getting anywhere. I leave a little early. as I do, I hear them put J. Cash back on.

I stop for some beer and just make it in as the phone is ringing.

“Bukowski?”

“yeah?”

“Bill.”

“oh, hello, Bill.”

“what are you doing?”

“nothing.”

“what are you doing Saturday night?”

“I'm tied then.”

“I wanted you to come over, meet some people.”

“not this time.”

“you know, Charley, I am going to get tired of calling.”

“yeah.”

“do you still write for that same scurrilous rag?”

“what?”

“that hippie paper ...”

“have you ever read it?”

“sure. all that protest stuff. you're wasting your time.”

“I don't always write to the paper's policy.”

“I thought you did.”

“I thought you had
read
the paper?”

“by the way, what have you heard from our mutual friend?”

“Paul?”

“yes, Paul.”

“I haven't heard from him.”

“you know, he admires your poetry very much.”

“that's all right.”

“personally, I don't like your poetry.”

“that's all right too.”

“you can't make it over Saturday.”

“no.”

“well, I'm going to get tired of calling. take care.”

“yeah, good night.”

another meat tearer. what the hell did they want? well, Bill lived in Malibu and Bill made money writing – philosophical sex shit potboilers full of typos and undergraduate Art work – and Bill couldn't write but Bill couldn't stay off the telephone either. He'd phone again. and again. and fling his little scrubby shit turds at me. I was the old man who hadn't sold his balls to the butcher and it drove them screwy. their final victory over me could only be a physical beating and that could happen to any man at any place.

Bukowski thought Mickey Mouse was a nazi; Bukowski made an ass out of himself at Barney's Beanery; Bukowski made an ass out of himself at Shelly's Manne-Hole; Bukowski is jealous of Ginsberg, Bukowski is jealous of the 1969 Cadillac, Bukowski can't understand Rimbaud; Bukowski wipes his ass with brown hard toilet paper, Bukowski will be dead in 5 years, Bukowski hasn't written a decent poem since 1963, Bukowski cried when Judy Garland ... shot a man in Reno.

I sit down. stick the sheet in the typer. open a beer. light a smoke.

I get one or two good lines and the phone rings.

“Buk?”

“yeah?”

“Marty.”

“hello, Marty.”

“listen, I just ran across your last 2 columns. it's good writing. I didn't know you were writing so well. I want to run them in book form. have they come back from GROVE yet?”

“yeah.”

“I want them. your columns are as good as your poems.”

“a friend of mine in Malibu says my poems stink.”

“to hell with him. I want the columns.”

“they're with – – – – – – – – – – – –.”

“hell, he's a pornie-man. if you go with me you'll hit the universities, the best book stores. when those kinds find you out, it's all over; they're tired of that involute shit they've been getting for centuries. you'll see; I can see bringing out all your back and unavailable stuff and selling it for a buck, or a buck and a half a copy and going into the millions.”

“aren't you afraid that will make a prick out of me?”

“I mean, haven't you always been a prick, especially when you've been drinking ... by the way, how've you been doing?”

“they say I grabbed a guy at Shelly's by the lapels and shook him up a bit. but it could have been worse, you know.”

“how do you mean?”

“I mean, he could have grabbed me by the lapels and shook me up a bit. a matter of pride, you know.”

“listen, don't die or get killed until we get you out in those buck and a half editions.”

“I'll try not to, Marty.”

“how's the ‘Penguin' coming?”

“Stanges says January. I just got the page proofs. and a 50 pound advance which I blew on the horses.”

“can't you stay away from the track?”

“you bastards never say anything when I win.”

“that's right. well, let me know on the columns.”

“right. good night.”

“good night.”

Bukowski, the big-time writer; a statue of Bukowski in the Kremlin, jacking off; Bukowski and Castro, a statue in Havana in the sunlight covered with birdshit, Bukowski and Castro riding a tandem racing bike to victory – Bukowski in the rear seat; Bukowski bathing in a nest of orioles; Bukowski lashing a 19-year-old high-yellow with a tiger whip, a high-yellow with 38 inch busts, a high-yellow who reads Rimbaud; Bukowski kukoo in the walls of the world, wondering who shut off the luck ... Bukowski going for Judy Garland when it was too late for everybody.

then I remember the time and get back in the car. just off Wilshire Boulevard. there's his name on the big sign. we once worked the same shit job. I am not too crazy about Wilshire blvd. but I am still a learner. I don't block out anything. he's half-colored, from a white mother, black father combo. we fell together on the shit job, something mutual. mostly not wanting to wade in shit forever, and although shit was a good teacher there were only so many lessons and then it could drown you and kill you forever.

I parked in back and beat on the back door. he said he'd wait late that night. it was 9:30 p.m. the door opened.

TEN YEARS. TEN YEARS. ten years. ten years. ten. ten fucking YEARS.

“Hank, you son of a bitch!”

“Jim, you lucky mother ...”

“come on up.”

I followed him in. jesus, so you don't buy all that. but it's nice especially with the secretaries and staff gone. I block nothing. he has 6 or 8 rooms. we go in to his desk. I rip out the two 6 packs of beers.

ten years.

he is 43. I am 48. I look at least 15 years older than he. and feel some shame. the sagging belly. the hang-dog air. the world has taken many hours and years from me with their very dull and routine tasks; it tells. I feel shame for my defeat; not his money, my defeat. the best revolutionary is a poor man; I am not even a revolutionary, I am only tired. what a bucket of shit was mine! mirror, mirror on the wall ...

he looked good in a light yellow sweater, relaxed and really happy to see me.

“I've been going through hell,” he said, “I haven't talked to a real human being in months.”

“man, I don't know if I qualify.”

“you qualify.”

that desk looks twenty feet wide.

“Jim, I been fired from so many places like this. some shit sitting in a swivel. like a dream upon a dream upon a dream, all bad. now I sit here drinking beer with a man behind a desk and I don't know anymore now than I did then.”

he laughed. “baby, I want to give you your own office, your own chair, your own desk. I know what you're getting now. I want to double that.”

“I can't accept it.”

“why?”

“I want to know where my value would be to you?”

“I need your brain.”

I laughed.

“I'm serious.”

then he laid out the plan. told me what he wanted. he had one of those stirring motherfucking brains that dreamed that sort of thing up. it seemed so good I had to laugh.

“it'll take 3 months to set it up,” I tell him.

“then a contract.”

“o.k. with me. but these things sometimes don't work.”

“it'll work.”

“meanwhile I've got a friend who'll let me sleep in his broom closet if the walls fall in.”

“fine.”

we drink 2 or 3 more hours then he leaves to get enough sleep to meet his friend for a yachting next morning (Saturday) and I tool around and drive out of the high rent district and hit the first dirty bar for a closer or two. and son of a bitch if I don't meet a guy I used to know down at a job we both used to have.

“Luke!” I say, “son of a bitch!”

“Hank, baby!”

another colored (or black) man. (what do the white guys do at night?)

he looks low so I buy him one.

“you still at the place?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“man, shit,” he says.

“what?”

“I couldn't take it anymore where you're at, you know, so I quit. man, I got a job right away. wow, a change, you know. that's what kills a man: lack of change.”

“I know, Luke.”

“well, the first morning I walk up to the machine. it's a fibre glass place. I've got on this open neck shirt with short sleeves and I notice people staring at me. well, hell, I sit down and start pressing the levers and it's all right for a while and next thing you know I start itching all over. I call the foreman over and I say, ‘hey, what the hell's this? I'm itching all over! my neck, my arms, everywhere!' he tells me, ‘it's nothing, you'll get used to it.' but I notice he has on this scarf buttoned up all the way around his throat and this long-sleeved working shirt. well, I come in the next day all scarfed-up and oiled and buttoned but it's still no good – this fucking glass is shiving off so fine you can't
see
it and it's all little glass arrows and it goes right through the clothing and into the skin. then I know why they make me wear the protective glasses for my eyes. could blind a man in half an hour. I had to quit. went to a foundry. man, do you know that men POUR THIS WHITE HOT SHIT INTO MOLDS? they pour it like bacon-grease or gravy. Unbelievable! and hot! shit! I quit. man, how you doing?”

“that bitch there, Luke, she keeps looking at me and grinning and pulling her skirt higher.”

“don't pay any attention. she's crazy.”

“but she has beautiful legs.”

“yes, she has.”

I buy another drink, pick up, walk over to her.

“hello, baby.”

she goes into her purse, comes out, hits the button and she's got a beautiful 6 inch swivel. I look at the bartender who looks blank-faced. the bitch says, “one step closer and you got no balls!”

I knock her drink over and when she looks at that I grab her wrist, twist the swivel out, fold it, put it into my pocket. the bartender still looks neutral. I go back to Luke and we finish our drinks. I notice it's ten to 2 and get 2 six packs from the barkeep. we go out to my car. Luke's without wheels. she follows us. “I need a ride.” “where?” “around Century.” “that's a long way.” “so what, you motherfuckers got my knife.”

by the time I am halfway to Century I see those female legs lifting in the back seat. when the legs come down I pull down a long dark corner and tell Luke to take a smoke. I hate seconds but when firsts haven't been for a time and you are supposed to be a great Artist and an understander of Life, seconds just HAVE to do, and like the boys say, with some, seconds are better. it was good. when I dropped her off I gave her the switchblade back wrapped in a ten. stupid, of course. but I like to be stupid. Luke lives around 8th and Irola so it's not too far in for me.

as I open the door the phone begins ringing. I open a beer and sit in the rocker and listen to it ring. for me, it's been enough – evening, night and morning.