Tales of Ordinary Madness (16 page)

Bukowski wears brown b.v.d.'s. Bukowski is afraid of airplanes. Bukowski hates Santa Claus. Bukowski makes deformed figures out of typewriter erasers. when water drips, Bukowski cries. when Bukowski cries, water drips. o, sanctums of fountains, o scrotums, o fountaining scrotums, o man's great ugliness everywhere like that fresh dogturd that the morning shoe did not see again; o, the mighty police, o the mighty weapons, o the mighty dictators, o the mighty damn fools everywhere, o the lonely lonely octopus, o the clock-tick seeping each neat one of us balanced and unbalanced and holy and constipated, o the bums lying in alleys of misery in a golden world, o the children to become ugly, o the ugly to become uglier, o the sadness and sabres and the closing of the walls – no Santa Claus, no Pussy, no Magic Wand, no Cinderella, no Great Minds Ever; kukoo – just shit and the whipping of dogs and children, just shit and the wiping away of shit; just doctors without patients just clouds without rain just days without days, o god o mighty that you put this upon us.

when we break into your mighty KIKE palace and timecard angels I want to hear Your voice just saying once

MERCY

MERCY

MERCY

FOR YOURSELF and for us and for what we will do to You, I turned off of Irola until I hit Normandie, that's what I did, and then came in and sat and listened to the telephone ring.

A RAIN OF WOMEN

yesterday, which was Friday, was dark and rainy, and I kept saying, stay sober, man, don't fall to pieces, and I walked out the door and out onto the landlord's lawn and ducked just in time to avoid a football thrown by a future S.C. quarterback, 1975 – 1975?, and I thought, jesus, we are not too far from 1984 I remember when I read that book, I thought, well, 1984, that's ten million miles to China, and here it was almost here, and I was almost dead, getting ready, chewing on the pulpy gig, getting ready to spit it out. dark and rainy – a death closet, a dark stinking death closet: Los Angeles, Calif., late afternoon, Friday, China 8 miles away, rice with eyes, vomiting dogs of mourning – dark and rainy, ah shit! – and I remembered when I was a kid, I thought, I'd like to live to see the year 2,000, I thought that would be the magic thing, with my old man beating hell out of me everyday I wanted to live to be 80 and see the year 2,000; now with everything beating hell out of me I no longer have that desire – it's a day at a time, WAR, dark and rainy – stay sober, man, don't fall to pieces, and I got into the car, used, me and it, and went up and made the 5th of 12 payments, and then I drove down Hollywood Blvd., west, the most depressive of all the streets, jammed glass nothing of nothing, it was the only street that really made me angry, and then I remembered I wanted Sunset which was just about as bad, and I turned south, everybody with their wipers going going going and behind that glass those FACES! – bah! – and I made Sunset, drove a block further west, found M. C. Slum's, pulled up beside a red Chevy with a pale blonde in it and the pale blonde and I stared at each other listlessly and hatefully – I'd fuck her, I thought, on a desert with nobody around, and she looked at me and thought, I'd fuck him inside a dead volcano with nobody around, and I said “SHIT!”, started the engine, put it in reverse and drove on out of there, dark and rainy, no service, you could sit there for hours and nobody would ask you what you wanted, you'd just see a mechanic now and then, chewing gum, his head popping up out of the hole, oh what a wonderful person he was! – and if you asked him anything he'd get pissed – you were supposed to see the service manager but the service manager was always hiding somewhere – he was afraid of the mechanic too and didn't want to put too much work on him. actually, the whole horrible answer was that NOBODY COULD DO ANYTHING – poets couldn't write poetry, mechanics couldn't fix cars, dentists couldn't pull teeth, barbers couldn't cut hair, surgeons fucked up with the knife, laundries ripped your shirts and sheets and lost your socks; bread and beans had little stones in them that broke the teeth; football players were cowards, telephone repairmen were molesters of children; and mayors, governors, generals, presidents had as much sense as slugs caught in spider webs. and on and on. dark and rainy, stay sober, don't fall to pieces, I drove into the Bier's garage lot and a big black bastard with a cigar ran up to me: “HEY! YOU! YOU THERE! YOU CAN'T PARK IN HERE!”

“listen, I know I can't park in here! I just wanna see the service manager. are you the service manager?”

“NO! NO, MAN! I'M NOT THE SERVICE MANAGER! MAN, YOU CAN'T PARK IN HERE!”

“well, where is the service manager? in the men's room playing with his pud?”

“YOU'VE GOT TO BACK ON OUT AND PARK IN THAT LOT THERE!”

I backed on out and parked in that lot there. I got out and walked over and stood by the little pulpit that said “Service Manager.” a woman drove in, a bit dizzy, big new car, door half open, car stalling, she looked wild, got out, car bucking, short short skirt, long grey stockings, her dress up around her hips climbing out the door, I stared at those legs, stupid bitch, what legs, umm, and she stood there stupid and dizzy and here CAME the service manager out of the men's room, “CAN I HELP YOU, MAM? AH, WHAT'S THE TROUBLE? YOUR BATTERY? DEAD BATTERY?” and he ran off to get the jumper and he ran back with the battery on wheels, asked her how to unhook the hood, and I stood there as they played with the hood, me looking at her legs and ass, thinking, the stupid ones are the best lays because you hate them – they have the gift of flesh and the brains of a fly.

they finally got the hood up and he hooked the battery up to his battery and told her to start the car. she got it started on the 3rd or 4th try, then put it in drive and tried to run him over as he was unhooking the cables. she almost made it, but he was a little too good on his feet. “PUT YOUR BRAKE ON! LEAVE IT IN NEUTRAL!” real stupid wench, I thought, wonder how many men she has killed? big earrings. red mouth like airmail stamps. intestines full of shit.

“O.K., NOW BACK IT UP AROUND THE SIDE OF THE BUILDING! WE'LL CHARGE IT FOR YOU!”

he ran along beside the car, sticking his head in the window and staring at her legs as she backed up. “AT'S RIGHT, AT'S RIGHT, BACK IT UP, BACK IT UP!”, looking, looking. she went around the corner and he stood there.

the service manager and I both had hard dicks. I came off from against the wall where I had been leaning. “HEY!”

“WHATZU?” he said.

“I NEED HELP!” I said walking up with my hard dick. he looked at me strangely.

“WHAT KINDA HELP?”

“rotation, realignment and balance.”

“HEY! HERITITO!”

a little Japanese ran up.

“rotation, realignment and balance,” I told Heritito.

“gimme your keys.”

I gave Heritito the keys. it didn't bother me. I always carried 2 or 3 sets of keys. I was a neurotic.

“62 Comet,” I told him.

Heritito went toward the 62 Comet as the service manager went to the men's room. I went back to the wall and watched the traffic go by; it was jammed and frightened and tired in the dark Los Angeles fizzling, drizzling rain, dark, 1984 20 years past already, the whole sick sweet society quite mad as a birthday cake given to the ants and the roaches, dark shit rain, Heritito ran my blue Comet, 5 of 12 payments up on the rack and my dick went down.

I saw him take off the wheels and went for a walk. I walked around the block twice, passed 200 people and failed to see a human being. I looked in the store windows and there was nothing in the store windows that I wanted at all. yet each thing had a price. a guitar. now what in the hell would I do with a guitar? I could burn it. a record player. a t.v. a radio. useless, useless. gut-junk. stuff to clog the mind-gut with. slug you like a red 6 ounce glove. pop. you had it.

Heritito was pretty good. a half hour later he had it down from the rack. parked.

“hey, that's good, now where do I pay?”

“oh no, that was just the wheel balance and rotation. we got to put it on the alignment rack yet. there's just one car ahead of you.”

“oh.”

they were racing at night and I was hoping to make the first post, 7:30 p.m., I needed the money and was going good, but it also took me about an hour before the races to set up my plays, that meant I had to have 6:30. rain, dark rain, failure. on the 13th, rent. on the 14th, child support, on the 15th. car payment. I had to have the horses; without them, I might as well toss in. I don't know how the hell anybody ever made it. well, shit. while waiting I walked over to the store and bought 4 pairs of shorts for $5. got back, threw them in the trunk, locked the trunk, jesus christ, found out I only had ONE key to the trunk! no good for a neurotic. I walked toward the keyman's shack. almost got run over by a woman backing out. I stuck my head in the window and stared at her legs, she had purple garters and very white flesh: “watch out where you are going,” I said to her legs, “you damn near killed me!” I never saw her face. I pulled my head out and walked to the keyman's shack. got another key made. while I was paying, an old woman ran up. “hey, I'm blocked in by a truck! I can't get out!”

“well, that's no hair of mine,” said the keyman.

she was just too old. flat shoes. insane look in eye. big flat false teeth. skirt halfway to ankles. love, love, love your grandmother's warts.

she looked at me, “what'll I do, Mr.?”

“try Kool-ade,” I said and walked off. maybe 20 years ago. well, I had my little key. it was still raining. I was standing trying to fit the key on the keyring when this one came out in miniskirt with umbrella. now with a miniskirt you're supposed to wear these special sexless stockings, netted thick shit, or stocking panties with panty petticoat crap dangling sickly; but this one was dressed old-style – high heels, long nylon stockings, the mini way up around her butt, and she was built. christ, everybody looked, it was walking mad sex on the loose, my hand trembled on the keyring and I stared in the rain and she walked slowly toward me, smiling. I ran around the corner with the keyring. I wanna see that ass go by, I thought. but the ass turned the corner and walked past me, slowly, voluting, voluting, young, asking for it. a well-dressed guy ran up behind her. called her by name. “oh, I'm so glad to see you!” he said. he talked and talked and she smiled. “well, I hope you have a good time tonight!” she said. he was dropping her? the guy was sick. I got the key on the keyring and followed her into the grocery store. I watched her wobbling and wobbling right there in the market and men turned their heads and said, “Jesus, look at that!”

I walked up to the butcher counter and took a number. I needed meat. while I was waiting I saw her come back. then she leaned against the wall and stood there, 15 feet off, looking at
me
and smiling. I looked down in my hand. I was #92. there she was. she was looking at
me.
man of the world. something went out of me. maybe she's got a big pussy, I thought. she kept looking and smiling. she had a nice face, almost beautiful. but I've got to make the first post, 7:30 p.m. rent the 13th, child support the 14th, car payment the 15th, 4 pairs of shorts $5, wheel alignment, first post first post, #92, YOU'RE AFRAID OF HER, YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO, HOW TO ACT, MAN OF THE WORLD, YOU ARE AFRAID, YOU DON'T KNOW THE WORDS, BUT WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE IN A BUTCHERSHOP? and it'll be trouble. she'll be insane, you know that. she'll want to move in. she'll snore at night, throw newspapers in the toilet, want to be fucked 8 times a week. god, it's too much, no no no no no, I've got to make that first post.

she read me. she read that I was chickenshit. suddenly she walked on past. 68 men stared and had dreams of glory. I passed. old. I was. on the dumpheap. she had wanted me. go play your horses, old man. go buy your meat, #92.

“#92,” the butcher said and I got a pound of groundround, a small t-bone and a cube steak. wrap that around your dick, old man.

I walked out in the rain and back to my car, opened the trunk, threw the meat in and stood back against the wall, looking worldly, smoking a cigarette, waiting for them to run it up the rack, waiting for the first post, but I knew that I had failed, failed an easy one, failed a good one, a gift from the heavens on a shit rainy day, Los Angeles, a Friday going into evening, the cars still going by with wipers going going going, no faces behind the glass, and me, Bogart, me, the one who has lived, crouched up against that wall, asshole, rounded shoulders, the Benedictine monks laughing wildly as they drank their wine, all the monkeys scratching, the rabbis blessing pickles and weenies; the man of action – Bogart, leaning on a Biers-Sobuck wall, no fuck, no guts, it rained it rained it rained, I'll take Lumber King in the first and parlay it to Wee Herb; and a mechanic came and got it and ran it up the rack and I looked at the clock – 5:30, it was going to be close, but somehow it didn't matter so much anymore. I threw the cigarette out in front of me and stared at it. the red glow stared back. then the rain put it out and I walked around the corner looking for a bar.

NIGHT STREETS OF MADNESS

the kid and I were the last of a drunken party at my place, and we were sitting there when somebody outside began blowing a car horn, loud LOUD LOUD it was, oh sing loude, but then everything is axed through the head anyway. the world is done, so I just sat there with my drink, smoking a cigar, thinking of nothing – the poets were gone, the poets with their ladies were gone, it was fairly pleasant even with the horn going. a comparison. the poets had each accused each other of various treacheries, of bad writing, of having slipped; meanwhile, each of them claiming they deserved better recognition, that they wrote better than so and so and so forth. I told them all that they needed 2 years in the coal mines or the steel mills, but on they chattered, finky, precious, barbaric, and most of them rotten writers. now they were gone. the cigar was good. the kid sat there. I had just written a foreword to his second book of poems. or his first? well.

“listen,” said the kid, “let's go out there and tell them to fuck-off. tell him to jam that horn up his ass.”

the kid wasn't a bad writer, and he had the ability to laugh at himself, which is sometimes a sign of greatness, or at least a sign that you have a chance to end up being something else besides a stuffed literary turd. the world was full of stuffed literary turds talking about the time they met Pound at Spoleto or Edmund Wilson in Boston or Dali in his underwear or Lowell in his garden; sitting there in their tiny bathrobes, letting you have it, and NOW you were talking to THEM, ah, you see. “... the last time I saw Burroughs ...” “Jimmy Baldwin, jesus, he was drunk, we had to trot him out on the stage and lean him on the mike ...”

“let's go out there and tell them to jam that horn up their ass,” said the kid, influenced by the Bukowski myth (I am really a coward), and the Hemingway thing and Humphrey B. and Eliot with his panties rolled. well. I puffed on my cigar. the horn went on. LOUDE SING KUKOOO.

“the horn's all right. never go out on the street after you've been drinking 5 or 6 or 8 or ten hours. they have cages ready for the likes of us. I don't think I could take another cage, not one more god damned cage of theirs. I build enough of my own.”

“I'm going out to tell them to shove it,” said the kid.

the kid was under the superman influence, Man and Superman. he liked huge men, tough and murderous, 6-4, 300 pounds, who wrote immortal poetry. the trouble was the big boys were all subnormal and it was the dainty little queers with the fingernail polish on who write the tough-boy poems. the only guy who fit the kid's hero-mold was big John Thomas and big John Thomas always acted as if the kid weren't there. the kid was Jewish and big John Thomas had the mainline to Adolph. I liked them both and I don't like very many people.

“listen,” said the kid, “I am going to tell them to jam it.”

oh my god, the kid was big but a little on the fat side, he hadn't missed too many meals, but he was easy inside, kind inside, scared and worried and a little crazy like the rest of us, none of us made it, finally, and I said, “kid, forget the horn. it doesn't sound like a man blowing anyhow. it sounds like a woman. a man will stop and start with a horn, make musical threats out of it. a woman just leans on it. the total sound, one big female neurosis.”

“fuck it!” said the kid. he ran out the door.

what does this have to do with anything? I thought. what does it matter? people keep making moves that don't count. when you make a move, everything must be mathematically set. that's what Hem learned at the bullfights and put to work in his work. that's what I learn at the track and put to work in my life. good old Hem and Buk.

“hello, Hem? Buk calling.”

“oh,
Buk,
so glad you called.”

“thought I'd drop over for a drink.”

“oh, I'd love it, kid, but you see, my god, you might say I'm kinda out of town right now.”

“but why'd you do it, Ernie?”

“you've read the books. they claim I was crazy, imagining things. in and out of the bughouse. they say I imagined the phone was tapped, that I imagined the C.I.A. was on my ass, that I was being tailed and watched. you know, I wasn't really political but I always fucked with the left. the Spanish war, all that crap.”

“yeah, most of you literary guys lean left. it seems Romantic, but it can turn into a hell of a trap.”

“I know. but really, I had this hell of a hangover, and I knew I had slipped, and when they believed in THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA, I knew that the world was rotten.”

“I know. you went back to your early style. but it wasn't real.”

“I know it wasn't real. and I got the PRIZE. and the tail on me. old age on me. sitting around drinking like an old fuck, telling stale stories to anybody who would listen. I had to blow my brains out.”

“o.k., Ernie, see you later.”

“all right, I know you will, Buk.”

he hung up. and how.

I went outside to check on the kid.

it was an old woman in a new '69 car. she kept leaning on the horn. she didn't have any legs. any breasts. any brain. just a '69 car and indignation, great and total indignation. a car was blocking her driveway. she had her own home. I lived in one of the last slum courts on DeLongpre. someday the landlord would sell it for a tremendous sum and I would be bulldozed out. too bad. I threw parties that lasted until the sun came up, ran the typer day and night. a madman lived in the next court. everything was sweet. one block North and ten blocks West I could walk along a sidewalk that had footprints of STARS upon it. I don't know what the names mean. I don't hit the movies. don't have a t.v. when my radio stopped playing I threw it out the window. drunk. me, not the radio. there is a big hole in one of my windows. I forgot the screen was there. I had to open the screen and drop the radio out. later, whilst I was drunken barefoot my foot (left) picked up all the glass, and the doctor while slitting my foot open without benefit of a shot, probing for ballsy glass, asked me, “listen, do you ever walk around not quite knowing what you are doing?”

“most of the time, baby.”

then he gave me a big cut that wasn't needed.

I gripped the sides of the table and said, “yes, Doctor.”

then he became more kindly. why should doctors be better than I am? I don't understand it. the old medicine man gimmick.

so there I was out on the street, Charles Bukowski, friend of Hemingway, Ernie, I have never read DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON. where do I get a copy?

the kid said to the crazy woman in the car, who was only demanding respectful and stupid property rights, “we'll move the car, we'll push it out of the way.”

the kid was talking for me too. now that I had written his foreword, he owned me.

“look, kid, there's no place to push the car. and I really don't care. I'm going in for a drink.” it was just beginning to rain. I have a most delicate skin, like an alligator, and soul to match. I walked off. shit, I'd had enough wars.

I walked off and then just as I about got to my front court hole, I heard screaming voices. I turned.

then we had this. a thin kid, insane, in white t-shirt screaming at the fat Jewish poet I had just written a foreword to poems for. what had the white t-shirt to do with it? the white t-shirt pushed against my semi-immortal poet. he pushed hard. the crazy old woman kept leaning against the car horn.

Bukowski, should you test your left hook again? you swing like the old barn door and only win one fight out of ten. when was the last fight you won, Bukowski? you should be wearing women's panties.

well, hell, with a record like yours, one more loss won't be any big shame.

I started to move forward to help the Jewish kid poet but I saw he had white t-shirt backing up. then out of the 20 million dollar highrise next to my slum hole, here came a young woman running. I watched the cheeks of her ass wobble in the fake Hollywood moonlight.

girl, I could show you something you will, would never forget – a solid 3 and one quarter inches of hobbling throbbing cock, oh my, but she never gave me a chance, she asshole-wobbling ran to her little 68 Fiaria or however you spell it, and got in, pussy dying for my poetic soul, and she got in, started the thing, got it out of the driveway, almost ran me over, me Bukowski, BUKOWSKI, ummm, and ran the thing into the underground parking lot of the 20 million buck highrise. why hadn't she parked there to begin with? well.

the guy in the white t-shirt is still wobbling around insane, my Jewish poet has moved back to my side there in the Hollywood moonlight, which was like stinking dishwater spilling over us all, suicide is so difficult, maybe our luck will change, there's PENGUIN coming up, Norse-Bukowski-Lamantia ... what?

now, now, the woman has her clearance for her driveway but she can't make it in. she doesn't even angle her car properly. she keeps backing up and ramming a white delivery truck in front of her. there go the taillights on first shot. she backs up. hits the gas. there goes half a back door. she backs up. hits the gas. there goes all the fender and half the left side, no the right side, that's it the right side. nothing adds. the driveway is clear.

Bukowski-Norse-Lamantia. Penguin books. it's a damn good thing for those other two guys that I am in there.

again chickenshit steel mashing against steel. and in between she's leaning on the horn. white t-shirt dangling in the moonlight, raving.

“what's going on?” I asked the kid.

“I dunno,” he finally admitted.

“you'll make a good rabbi some day but you should understand all this.”

the kid is studying to be a rabbi.

“I don't understand it,” he said.

“I need a drink” I said. “if John Thomas were here he'd murder them all. but I ain't John Thomas.”

I was just about to leave, the woman just kept on ramming the white pickup truck to pieces, I was just about to leave when an old man in a floppy brown overcoat and glasses, a real old guy, he was older than I, and that's
old,
he came out and confronted the kid in the white t-shirt. confronted? that's the right word ain't it?

anyhow, as they say, the old guy with glasses and floppy brown overcoat runs out with this big can of green paint, it must have been at least a gallon or 5 gallons, I don't know what it means, I have completely lost the plot or the meaning, if there ever was any in the first place, and the old man throws the paint on the insane kid in the white t-shirt circling around on DeLongpre ave. in the chickenshit Hollywood moonlight, and most of it misses him and some of it gets him, mostly where his heart used to be, a smash of green along the white, and it happens fast, like things happen fast, almost quicker than the eye or the pulse can add up, and that's why you get such divergent accounts of any action, riot or fist fight or anything, the eye and the soul can't keep up with the frustrating animal ACTION, but I saw the old man go down, fall, I think the first was a push, but I know that the second wasn't. the woman in the car stopped ramming and honking and just sat there screaming, screaming, one total pitch of scream that meant the same thing as her leaning on the honker, she was dead and finished forever in a '69 car and she couldn't fathom it, she was hooked and broken, thrown away, and some small touch inside of her still realized this – nobody ever finally loses their soul – they only piss away 99/100ths of it.

white t-shirt landed good on the old man on the second shot. broke his glasses. left him flopping and floundering in his old brown overcoat. the old man got up and the kid gave him another shot, knocked him down, hit him again as he got halfass up, the kid in the white t was having a good time of it.

the young poet said to me, “JESUS! LOOK WHAT HE'S DOING TO THE OLD MAN!”

“umm, very interesting,” I said, wishing I had a drink or a smoke at least.

I walked off back toward my place. then I saw the squad car and moved a bit faster. the kid followed me in.

“why don't we go back out there and tell them what happened?”

“because nothing happened except that everybody has been driven insane and stupid by life. in this society there are only two things that count: don't be caught without money and don't get caught high on any kind of high.”

“but he shouldn't have done that to the old man.”

“that's what old men are for.”

“but what about justice?”

“but that is justice: the young whipping the old, the living whipping the dead. don't you see?”

“but you say these things and
you're
old.”

“I know, let's step inside.”

I brought out some more beer and we sat there. through the walls you could hear the radio of the stupid squad car. 2 twentytwo year old kids with guns and clubs were going to be the immediate decision-makers upon 2,000 years of idiotic, homosexual, sadistic Christianity.

no wonder they felt good in their smooth and well-fed stretched black, most policemen being lower-middle class servants given a steak in the frying pan and a wife with halfway decent ass and legs, and a little quiet home in Shitland – they'd kill you to prove Los Angeles was right, we're taking you in, sir, so sorry, sir, but we've got to do this, sir.

2,000 years of Christianity and what do you end up with? squad-car radios trying to hold rotting shit together, and what else? tons of wars, little air raids, muggers in streets, knifings, so many insane that you just forget it, you just let them run the streets in policeman's uniforms or out of them.

so we went inside and the kid kept saying,

“hey, let's go out there and tell the police what happened?”

“no, kid, please. if you are drunk you are guilty no matter what happens.”

“but they are right outside, let's go tell them.”

“there's nothing to tell.”

the kid looked at me as if I were some kind of chickenshit coward. I was. the longest he had ever been in jail was 7 hours under some kind of east L.A. campus protestation.