ally hollered, "everybody out!" I followed them out and we went into a big room and sat in these chairs like they used to have in school, or college rather, say like in Music Appreciation. with the big slab of wood for the right arm so you could open your notebook and write on it there. any- how, so there we sat for another 45 minutes. then some snot kid with a can of beer in his hand, said, "o.k., get your SACKS!" the bums all leaped up at ONCE and RAN to this large back room. what the hell? I thought. I slowly walked on back and looked in the other room. the bums were in there pushing and fighting for the best paper carriers. it was deadly and senseless battle. when the sack I found on the floor. it was very dirty and full of rips and holes. when I walked out into the other room the bums all had their paper carriers on their backs, wearing them. I found a seat and just sat there with mine in my lap. somewhere along the line I think they had gotten our names; I think it was before you get your coffee and doughnut tab you gave your name. so we sat there and were called out in groups of 5 or 6 or 7. this took, it seemed, another hour. anyhow, by the time I got into the back of this smaller truck with a few others, the sun was well up. they gave us such a little map.I recognized the streets all right: GOD OH MIGHTY, OUT OF THE WHOLE TOWN OF LOS ANGELES THEY HAD GIVEN ME MY OWN NEIGHBORHOOD! I had the rep as drinker, gambler, hustler, man of leisure shack-job specialist. how could I be SEEN with that filthy dirty sack on my back? delivering newspapers full of ads? they put me out on my corner. very familiar surroundings, indeed. there was the flowershop, there was the bar, the gas station, everything-.around the corner my little house with Kathy sleep- in her warm bed. even the dog was asleep. well, it's Sunday morning, I thought. nobody will see me. they sleep late. I'll run through the god damned route. and I did. I ran up and down 2 streets very quickly and nobody saw the great man of class and soft white hands and great soulful eyes. I was going to get by with it. then up the 3rd street. it was going well until I heard the voice of a little girl. she was in her yard. about 4 years old. "hey, mister!" "oh, yes? little girl? what is it?" "where's your dog?" "oh, haha, he's still asleep." "oh." I always walked the dog up that street. there was a vacant lot there he always shit in. that did it. I took all my remaining news- papers and dumped them into the back of an abandoned car near the freeway. the car had been there for months with all the wheels gone. I didn't know what it meant. but I put all the newspapers on the rear floor. then I walked around the corner and went inot my house. Kathy was still asleep. I awakened her. "Kathy! Kathy!" "oh, Hank-everything all right?" the dog ran on in and I petted him. "you know what those sons of bitches DID?" "what?" "they gave me my own neighborhood to deliver papers in!" "oh, well, it's not nice but I don't think the people will mind." "don't you understand? I've built this REP! I'm the hustler! I can't be seen with a bag of shit on my back!" "oh, I don't think you have that REP! it's just in your head." "listen, are you going to give me a lot of shit? you've had your ass in this warm bed while I've been out there with a lot of cock- suckers!" "don't be angry. I've got to pee. wait a minute." I waited out there while she took her sleepy female piss. god, they were SLOW! the cunt was a very inefficient pissing machine. dick had it all beat. Kathy came out. "please don't worry, Hank. I'll put on an old dress and help you deliver the papers. we'll finish fast. people sleep late on Sun- days." "but I've already been SEEN!" "you've already been seen? who saw you?" "that little girl in the brown house with the weeds on West- moreland st." "you mean Myra?" "I don't know her name!" "she's only 3." "I don't know how old she is! she asked about the dog!" "what about the dog?" "she asked where it WAS!" "come on, I'll help you get rid of the papers." Kathy was climbing into an old ripped dress." "I got rid of them. it's over. I dumped them into the back of that abandoned car." "will they catch you?" "FUCK! who cares?" I went into the kitchen and got a beer. when I got back Kathy was in bed again. I sat in the chair. "Kathy?" "uh?" "you just don't realize who you're living with! I'm class, real class! I'm 34 but I haven't worked 6 or 7 months since I was 18 years old. and no money. look at my hands! I've got hands like a pianist!" "Class? you OUGHT to HEAR yourself when you're drunk! you're horrible, horrible!" "are you trying to start some shit again, Kathy? I've kept you in furs and hundred proof since I dug you outa that gin mill on Alvarado st." Kathy didn't answer. "in fact," I told here, "I am a genius but nobody knows it but me." "I'll buy that," she said. then she dug her head into the pillow and went back to sleep. I finished the beer, had another, then went 3 blocks over and sat on the steps of a closed grocery store that the map said would be the meeting place where the man would pick me up. I sat there from 10 a.m. to 2:30 a.m. 9t was dull and dry and stupid and torturous and senseless. then the rotten truck came at 2:30 p.m. "hey. buddy?" "yum?" "you finished already?" "yum." "you're fast!" "yep." "I want you to help this one guy finish his route." oh, fuck. I got into the truck and then he let me off. here was this guy. he was CREEPING. he threw each paper with great care upon each porch. each porch got special treatment. and he seemed to enjoy his work. he was on his last block. I finished the whole thing off in 5 minutes. then we sat and waited for the truck. for an hour. they drove us back to the office and we sat in our school chairs again. then two snot-nosed kids came out with cans of beer in their hands. one called off names and the other gave each man his money. on a blackboard written in chalk behind the heads of the snot-noses was a message: ANY MAN WHO WORKS FOR US 30 DAYS IN A ROW WITHOUT MISSING A DAY WILL BE GIVEN A FREE SECOND HAND SUIT. I kept watching as each man was handed his money. it couldn't be true. it APPEARED that each man was given three one dollar bills. at the time, the lowest basic wage scale by law was one dollar an hour. I had been on that corner at 4:30 a.m. now it was 4:30 p.m. to me, that was 12 hours. I was one of the last names called. I think I was 3rd from last. not a one of those bums raised hell. they just took the $3 and went out the door. "Bukowski!" the snot-nosed kid hollered. I walked up. the other snot-nosed kid counted out 3 very clean and crisp Washingtons. "listen," I said, "don't you guys realize that there is a basic wage law? one buck an hour." the snot-nose raised his beer. "we deduct for transportation, breakfast and so forth. we only pay for average working time which we figure to be about 3 hours or so." "I see twelve hours out of my life and I've got to take a bus downtown now to go get my car and drive in back in." "you're lucky to have a car." "and you're lucky I don't jam that can of beer up your ass!" "I don't set company policy, sir, please don't blame me." "I'm going to report you to the State Labor Board!" "Robinson!" the other snot-nose hollered. the next to last burn got p from his seat for his $3 as I walked out the door and on up to Beverly blvd. to wait for the bus. by the time I got home and got a drink in my hand it was 6 p.m. or so. I really got drunk then. I was so frustrated I banged Kathy 3 times. broke a window. cut my foot on broken glass. sang songs from Gilbert and Sullivan, which I once learned from an insane English teacher who taught an English class which began at 7 a.m. in the morning. L.A.City College. Richardson was his name. and maybe he wasn't insane. but he taught me Gilbert and Sullivan and gave me a "d" in English for showing up no sooner than 7:30 a.m. with hang- over, WHEN I showed. but that's something else. Kathy and I had some laughs that night, and although I broke a few things I was not as nasty and stupid as usual. and that Tuesday at Hollywood Park I won $140 at the races and I was once again the quite casual lover, hustler, gambler, re- formed pimp and tulip grower. I drove slowly up the driveway, savoring the last of the evening sun. then I strolled in through the back door. Kathy had on some meat loaf with plenty of onions and crap and spices in it just the way I liked it. she was bent over at the stove and I grabbed her from the back. "ooooo-" "listen, baby-" "yeah?" she stood there with the large dripping spoon in her hand. I slipped ten into the neck of her dress. "I want you to get me a fifth of whiskey." "sure, sure." "and some beer and cigars. I'll watch the food." she took off her apron and went into the bathroom for a moment. I could hear her humming. a moment later I sat in my chair and listened to her heels clicking down the drive. there was a tennis ball. I took the tennis ball and bounced it on the floor so it hit the wall and zoomed high into the air. the dog who was 5 feet long and 3 feet tall, + wolf, leaped into the air, there was the snap of teeth and he had that tennis ball, up near the ceiling. for a moment he seemed to hang up there. what a beautiful dog, what a beautiful life. when he hit the floor I got up to check the meatloaf. it was all right. everything was. === **NON-HORSESHIT HORSE ADVICE** so, the Hollywood Park meet has begun, and naturally I have been out a couple of times, and the scene is not very variable: the horses look the same and the people a little worse, the horseplayer is a combination of extreme conceit, madness and greed. one of Freud's main pupils(I don't recall his name right now, only remem- ber reading the book) said that gambling is a substitute for masturba- tion. of course, the problem with any direct statement is that it can easily become an untruth, a part truth, a lie or a wilted gardenia. yet, checking out the ladies (between races) I do find the same oddity: before the first race they sit with their skirts down as much as possible, and as each race proceeds the skirts climb higher and high- er, until just before the 9th race it takes all one's facilities not to commit rape upon one of the darlings. whether it is a sense of masturbation that causes this or whether the dear little things need rent and bean money, I don't know, probably a combo. I saw one lady leap over 2 or 3 rows of seats after getting a winner, and screaming, screeching, divine as an iced-grapefruit vodka across the top of a hangover. "she's getting hers now," said my girlfriend. "yeah," I said, "but I wish I had gotten there first." for those of you unfamiliar with the basic principles of horse- wagering, allow me to divert you with a few basics. the difficulty in the average person leaving the track with any money at all is easily propounded if you will follow this - the track and the state take roughly 15% out of each dollar bet, plus breakage. the 15% is di= vided about in half between the state and the track. in other words, 85 cents out of each dollar is returned to the holders of winning tickets. breakage is the penny difference on the ten cent breakdown of the payoff. in other words, say if the totalizer machine breaks the payoff down to a $16.84 payoff, then the winning player gets $16.80, the 4 cents on each winning bet going elsewhere. now I am not sure, because the thing in not publicized but I also believe that on, say, a $16.89 payoff, the payoff is still $16.80 and the 9 cents goes elsewhere, but I am not positive of this and "Open City" cer- tainly can't afford a libel suit now or ever and neither can I, so I will not make this a positive presumption, but if any "Open City" reader has the facts on this, I do wish he would write O.C. and advise me, this penny breakage alone could make millionaires out of any of us. now take the average goof who has worked all week and is looking for a little bit of luck, entertainment, masturbation, take 40 of them, give them each $100, and presuming that they are average bettors, the general medium based upon a 15% take, forgetting breakage, would have 40 of them leaving with $85. but it doesn't work that way 0 35 of them will leave almost completely broke, one or two of them will win $85 or $150 by sheer fortune of falling upon the right horses and not knowing why. the 3 or 4 others will break even. all right, then, who is getting all this money that the little bettor who works a turret lathe or drives a bus all week, losers? easy: the betting stables who send off bad-form horses in a spot that it is profitable for them to win in. stables cannot make it upon purse money alone, that is, most of them can't. give a stable a top handi- cap horse and they are in, but even they must resort to pulls and deliberately bad races in order to get weight off for a top money race. in other words, say a top-weighted horse gifted with 130 pounds by the track handicapper for an early $25,000 race will tend to lose this race and get weight off on that performance for a later $100,000 race. now these statements cannot be proven but if you will follow this conjecture you might make a little money or at least save a little. but it is the stables who must race in the lower class races with lower purses who must maneuver their horses for a price. in some cases, the owner of the horse or horses himself is not aware of the maneuvering; this is because trainers and grooms, hot-walkers, exercise jocks are grossly underpaid (in time and effort put in, com- pared to other industries) and their only way to get out is to put one over. the racetracks are aware of this and attempt to keep the game clean, to give it a holy sheen of honesty, but for all their efforts- barring tough guys, cons, syndicates, operators, from the track, there are still "goodies" put over on the crowd, a so-called pig who "wakes up" and wins by 3 to 10 lengths at odds of 5 to up to 50 to1. but these are only animals, not machines. so there's an excuse, an excuse to haul away millions in wheelbarrows from the racetrack, tax-free. human greed will not relent, it will continue to feed itself. the com- munist party be damned. all right, that's bad enough. let's take something else. besides the public being automatically wrong just by instinct (ask the stock- broker - when you want to know which way to move just move the opposite from the big crowd with the small, 'scared, tight money). but the something else is this: a possible mathematic. taking the dollar base - you invest the first dollar, you get back 85 cents. automatic take. second race, you have to ass15 cents, then another 15% take. now take 9 races and take a 15% take on a break-even basis - upon your original dollar. is it just 9 times 15% or is it much more? it would take one of these Caltaech cats to tell me and I don't know any Caltech cats. anyway, if you have followed me up to here, you must realize that it is very difficult to make a "living" at the racetrack as some starry-eyed dreamers would like to do. I am a "hard-nose": that is, any given day at any track you just ain't gonna take much money from me; on the other hand, I ain't gonna make much. naturally, I have some good plays and I'd be a damn fool to reveal them to everybody because then they would not work. once the public gets onto something it is dead and it changes. the public is not allowed to win in any game ever invented and that includes the American Revolution. but for "Open City" readers I have a few basics that might save you a little money. take heed. a/ watch your underlay shots. an underlay is a horse that closes in odds under the trackman's morning line. in other words, the trackman lists the horse 10 t0 1 and it is going off at 6 to 1. money is much more serious than anything else. check your under- lays carefully, and if the line is just not a careless mistake by the trackman and the horse dos not show any recent fast works or a switch to a "name" jockey, and if the horse is not dropping weight and is running against the same class, you will probably get a fairly good run for your money. b/ lay off the closers. this is a horse, that say closed from 5 to 16 lengths from the beginning call to the last and still did not win and is coming back against the same or similar. the crowd loves the "closer," through fear $ tight money and stupidity, but the closer is generally a lard- ass, lazy and only passes tired horses who have been running and fighting for the front end. not only does the crowd love this type of junk-horse but they will consistently bet him down to odds less than 1/3 of his worth. even though this type of horse continually runs out, the crowd out of fear will go to him because they are tight up against the rent money and feel that a closer possesses some kind of super stength. 90% of the races are won by horses on the front end or near the front end of all the running, at plausible and reasonable prices. c/ if you must bet a "closer" bet him in shorter races, 6 or 7 furlongs, where the crowd believes he does not have time "to get up." here they go for the speed and are stuck again. 7 furlongs is the best closer's race in the business because of only one curve. a speed horse gets the advantage of being out in front and saving ground on the turns. 7 furlongs with one curve and the long backstretch is the perfect closer's race; much better than a mile and a quarter, even better than a mile and one half. I am giving you some good stuff here, I hope you heed it. d/ watch your toteboard - money in American society is more serious than death and you hardly get anything for nothing. if a horse is listed at 6 to 1 on the morning line and he is going off at 114 to 25 to 1, forget it. either the trackman had a hangover when he made his morning line or the stable just isn't going that race. you don't get anything free in this world; if you don't know anything about racing, do bet horses that go off to their morning line. large overlays are nil and almost impossible. all the little grandmamas go home to eat bitter toast with gummed teeth upon Papa's retire-ment death certificate. e/ only bet when you can lose. I mean without ending up sleeping on a park bench or missing 3 or 4 meals. the main thing, get the rent down first. avoid pressures. you will be luckier. and remem- ber what the pros say, "If you've got to lose, lose in front." in other words, make them beat you. if you're going to lose anyhow, then to hell with it, get you a dancer out of the gate, you've got it won until they beat you, until they pass you. the price is usually generous because the public hates what they call a "quitter" - a horse that opens daylight on the pack and still manages to lose. this looks bad to them. to me a "quitter" is any horse that does not win a race. f/ any profit-loss venture is not based upon the number of winners you have but upon the number of winners at the price. to basics, you can have three 6 to 5 winners in 9 races and wash out, but you can have one 9 to 1 and one 5 to 1 and get over. this does not always mean that a 6 to 5 is a bad bet, but if you know little or next to nothing about racing, it might be best to hold your bets between 7 to 2 and 9 to 1. or if you must indulge in wild fancies, keep your bets between 11 and 1q9 to 1. in fact, many 18 or 19 to 1's bounce in if you can find the right ones. but, actually, a man can never know enough about horse rac- ing or anything else. just when he thinks he knows he is just begin- ning. I remember one summer I won 4 grand at Hollypark and I went down to Del Mar in a new car, cocky, poetic, knowledgeable, I had the world by the nuts, and I rented myself a little motel by the sea and the ladies showed up as the ladies will when you are drinking and laughing and don't care and have some money (a fool and his money are soon parted) and I had a party every night and a new broad every other night, and it was a kind of joke I used to tell them, the place was right over the sea, and I'd say, after much drinking and talking, "Baby, I come with the WOOSH OF THE SEA!" === ANOTHER HORSE STORY the harness racing season has been under way, as they say, for a week or 2 now, and I have been out 5 or 6 times, perhaps breaking even for the course, which is a hell of a waste of time - anything is a waste of time unless you are fucking well or creating well or getting well or looming toward a kind of phantom love-happiness. we will all end up in the crud-pot of defeat - call it death or error. I am not a word-man. I do suppose, tho, as one keeps making adjustments to the tide, we can call it experience even if we are not so sure that it is wisdom. then too, it is possible for a man to live a whole life of constant error in a kind of numb and terrorized state. You've seen the faces. I've seen my own. so during all the heat wave they are still out there, the bettors, having gotten a little money somewhere, the hard way, and trying to beat the 15 percent take. I sometimes think of the crowd as hypno- tized, a crowd that has nowhere to go. and after the races they get into their old cars, drive to their lonely rooms and look at the walls. Wondering why they did it --- heels run down, bad teeth, ulcers, bad jobs, men without women, women without men. Nothing but shit. there are some laughs. there have to be. walking into the men's room between races the other day I came upon a young man gagging, then shouting in fury: "god damn son of a bitch, some god damn son of a bitch didn't flush his shit away! HE LEFT IT THERE! the son of a bitch, I walked in and there it WAS! I'll be he does that at home too!" this boy was screaming. the rest of us were standing there pissing or washing our hands, thinking about the last race or the next one. I know some freaks that would be delighted to come upon a potful of fresh turds.but that's the way it works - the wrong guy gets it. another day I am sweating, battling, scratching, praying, jack- ing to stay 10 or 12 bucks ahead, and it is a very difficult harness race, I don't even think the drivers know who is going to win, and this big fat woman, ponderous whale of healthy stinking blubber, walked up to me, put that stinking fat against my body front, and squeezed 2 little eyes, a mouth and the rest into my face and said, "what are the hands on the first horse?" "the hands on the first horse?" "yes, what are the hands on the first horse?" "god damn you lady, get away from me, and don't bother me. get away! get away!" she did. the whole track is full of crazy people. some of them come there when the gates open. they stretch out on the seats or on a bench and sleep all through the races. they never see a race. then they get up and go home. others wall around just vaguely aware that a race of some kind is going on. they buy coffee or just stand around looking as if life has been stunned and burned out of them. or sometimes you see one standing in a dark corner, jamming a whole hot dog down the throat, gagging, choking, delighted with the mess of themselves. and at the end of each day you see one or 2 with their heads down between their legs. sometimes they are crying. where do losers go? who wants a loser? essentially, in one way or another, everybody thinks that he has the key to beating the thing, even if it is only such an unjustified assumptions that their luck must change, some play stars, some play numbers, some play strictly time, others play drivers, or closers or speed r names or god knows what. almost all of them lose, contin- ually. almost all their income goes directly into the mutuel ma- chines. most of these people have unbearably fixed egos - the are tenaciously stupid. I won a few dollars Sept. 1. let's go over the card. Andy's Dream won the first at 9/2 from a morning line of 10. good play. unwarranted action on beaten horse running from outside post. 2nd race - Jerry Perkins, 14 year old gelding nobody wants to claim because of age, drops into $15 claimer. a good horse, consistent within his class, but you had to take 8/5 under a morning line of four. won easy. third race won by Special Product, a horse that broke in his last four races at long odds. he broke stride again this time, pulled up, righted himself and still came on to beat the 3/5 favorite Golden Bill. a possible bet if you are in touch with God and God is interested. ten to one. in the fourth race, Hal Richard a consistent 4 year old gelding won at three to one, beating out two shorter choices that showed better times but no winning ability. a good bet. In the fifth, Eileen Colby wins after Tiny Star and Marsand break and the crowd sends off April Fool at 3/5. April Fool has only been able to win four races out of 32, and one local handicapper tabs him "better than these by five lengths." all this on time effort of last race in better class when April Fool finishes seven lengths out. the crowd is taken again. then in the sixth race, Mister Honey is given a morning line of 10 but is sent off as second choice of 5/2 and wins easy, having won three out of nine in tougher class at short odds. Newport Buell, a cheaper horse is sent off at even money because he closed ground in last at nine to one. a bad bet. the crowd doesn't understand. in the seventh, Bills Snookums, a winner of seven out of nine in class and with the leading rider Farrington up is made the new 8/5 favorite and justifiably so. the crowd bets Princess Sampson down to 7/2. this horse has won only 6 races out of 67. naturally, the crowd gets burned again. Princess Sampson shows the best time in a tougher race but just does not want to win. the crowd is time-happy. they do not realize that time is caused by pace and pace is caused by the discre- tion - or lack of it - of the lead drivers. in the eighth, Abbemite win gets up in a four or five horse scramble. it was an open race and one I should have stayed out of. In the ninth, they let the public Have one. Luella Primrose. the horse had failed consistently at short odds and today got on its own pace without a challenger. 5/2. one for the ladies, and how they screamed. a pretty name. they'd been losing their drawers on the thing all through the meet. most of the cards are as reasonable as this, and it would seem possible to make a living at the track against the 15 percent take. but the outside factors beat you. the heat. tiredness. people spilling beer on your shirt. screaming. stepping on your feet. women showing their legs. pickpockets. touts. madmen. I was $24 ahead going into the ninth race and there wasn't a play in the ninth. being tired, I didn't have the resistance to stay out. before the race went off I had dropped in $16, shopping, feeling for a winner that didn't show. then they sent in the public play on me. I was not satisfied with a $24 day. I once worked for $16 a week at New Orleans. I was not strong enough to take a gentle profit, so I walked out $8 winner. Not worth the struggle: I could have stayed home and written an immortal poem. a man who can beat the races can do about any thing he makes up his mind to do. he must have the character, the knowledge, the detachment. even with these qualities, the races are tough, especially with the rent waiting and your whore's tongue hanging our for beer. there are traps beyond traps beyond traps. there are days when everything impossible happens. the other day they ran in a 50 to one shot in the first race, a 100 to one in the second, and crapped off the day with an 18 to one in the last race. when you are trying to scrape up pesos for the landlord and potato and egg money, this kind of day can very much make you feel like an imbecile. but if you come back the next day they will give you six or seven reasonable winners at fair prices. it's there but most of them don't go back. It takes patience and it's hard work: you have to think. It's a battlefield and you can become shell-shocked. I saw a friend of mine out there the other day, glaze-eyed, punched-out. It was late in the day and it had been a reasonable card, but somehow they had gotten past him and I could tell that he had bet too much trying to get out.he walked past me, not knowing where he was. I watched him. he walked right into the women's crapper. they screamed and he came running out. it was what he needed. it pulled him out and he caught the winner of the next race. but I would not advise this system to all losers. there are laughs and there is sadness. there is an old boy who walked up to me one time. "Bukowski," he said very seriously, "I want to beat the horses before I die." his hair is white, totally white, teeth gone, and I could see myself there in 15 or 20 years, if I make it. "I like the six horse," he told me. "luck," I told him. he'd picked a stiff, as usual. an odds-on favorite that had only won one race in 15 starts that year. the public handicappers had the horse on top too. the horse had won $88,000 LAST year. best time. I bet ten win on Miss Lustytown, a winner of nine races this year. Miss Lustytown paid 4/1. the odds-on finished last. the old man came by, raging. "how the hell! Glad Rags ran 2:01 and 1/5 last time and gets beat by a 2:02 and 1/5 mare! they oughta close this place up!" he raps his program, snarling at me. his face is so red that he appears to have a sunburn. I walk away from him, go over to the cashier's window and cash in. when I get home, there is one magazine in the mail, THE SMITH, parodying my prose style, and another magazine, THE SIX- TIES, parodying my poetic style. writing?what the hell's that? somebody is worried or pissed about m y writing. I look over ans sure enough there's a typewriter in the room. I am a writer of some kind, there's another world there of maneuvering and gouging and groups and methods. I let the warm water run, get into the tub, open a beer, open the racing formt phone rings. I let it ring. for me, maybe not for you, it's too hot to fuck or listen to some minor poet. Hemingway had his pulls. give me a horse's ass - that gets there first. === THE BIRTH, LIFE, AND DEATH OF AN UNDERGROUND NEWSPAPER There were quite a few meetings at Joe Hyans' house at first and I usually showed drunk, so I don't remember much about the inception of Open Pussy, the underground newspaper, and I was only told later what had happened. Or rather, what I had done. Hyans: "You said you were going to clean out the whole place and that you were going to start with the guy in the wheelchair. Then he started to cry and people started leaving. You hit a guy over the head with a bottle." Cherry (Hyans' wife): "You refused to leave and you drank a whole fifth of whiskey and kept telling me that you were going to fuck me up against the bookcase." "Did I?" "No." "Ah, then next time." Hyans: "Listen, Bukowski, we're trying to get organized and all you do is come around and bust things up. You're the nastiest damn drunk I'veeve seen!" "OK, I quit, Fuck it. Who cares about newspapers?" "No, we want you to do a column. We think you're the best writer in Los Angeles." I lifted my drink. "That's a motherfucking insult! I didn't come here to be insulted!" "OK, maybe you're the best writer in California." "There you go! Still insulting me!" "Anyhow, we want you to do a column." "I'm a poet." "What's the difference between poetry and prose?" "Poetry says too much in too short a time; prose says too little and takes too long." "We want a column for Open Pussy." "Pour me a drink and you're on." Hyans did. I was on. I finished the drink and walked over to my skidrow court thinking about what a mistake I was making. I was almost fifty years old and fucking with these long-haired, bearded kids. Oh God, groovy, daddy, oh groovy! War is shit. War is hell. fuck, don't fight. I'd known all that for fifty years. It wasn't quite as exciting to me. Oh, and don't forget the pot. the stash. Groove, baby! I found a pint in my place, drank it, four cans of beer and wrote the first column. It was about a three-hundred-pound whore I had once fucked in Philadelphia. It was a good column. I corrected the typing errors, jacked off and went to sleep- It started on the bottom floor of Hyans' two-story rented house. There were some half-assed volunteers and the thing was new and everybody was excited but me. I kept searching out the women for ass but they all looked and acted the same --- they were all nineteen years old, dirty-blonde, small ass, small breasted, busy dizzy, and, in a sense, conceited without quite knowing why. When- ever I'd lay my drunken hands upon them they were always quite cool. Quite. "Look, Gramps, the only thing we want to seeyou raise is a North Vietnamese flag!" "Ah, your pussy probably stinks anyhow!" "Oh, you are a filthy old man! You really are-so disgust- ing!" And then they'd walk off shaking those little delicious apple buttocks at me, only carrying in their hand --- instead of my lovely purple head --- some juvenile copy about the cops shaking down the kids and taking away their Baby Ruth bars on Sunset Strip. Here I was, the greatest living poet since Auden and I couldn't even fuck a dog in the ass- The paper got too big. Or Cherry got worried about my loung- ing about on the couch drunk and leering at her five-year-old daugh- ter. When it really got bad was when the daughter started sitting on my lap and looking up into my face while squirming, saying, "I like you, Bukowski. Talk to me. Let me get you another Beer, Bukow- ski." "Hurry back, sweetie!" Cherry: "Listen, Bukowski, you old letch-" "Cherry, children love me. I can't help it." The little girl, Zaza, ran back with the beer, got back into my lap. I opened the beer. "I like you, Bukowski, tell me a story." "OK, honey. Well, once upon a time there was this old man and this lovely little girl lost in the woods together-" "Cherry: "Listen, you old letch-" "Ta, ta, Cherry, I do believe you have a dirty mind!" Cherry ran upstairs looking for Hyans who was taking a crap. "Joe, Joe, we've just got to move this paper out of here! I mean it!"- They found a vacant building up front, two floors, and one midnight while drinking portw wine, I held the flashlight for Joe while he broke open the phone box on the side of the house and rear- ranged the wires so he could have extension phones without charge. about this time the only other underground newspaper in L.A. ac- cused Joe of stealing a duplicate copy of their mailing list. Of course, I knew Joe had morals and scruples and ideals --- that's why he quit working for the large metro daily. That's why he quit working for the other underground newspaper. Joe was some kind of Christ. Sure. "Hold that flashlight steady," he said- In the morning, at my place, the phone rang. It was my friend Mongo the Giant of the Eternal High. "Hank?" "Yeh?" "Cherry was over last night." "Yea?" "She had this mailing list. Was very nervous. She wanted me to hide it. Said Jensen was on the prowl. I hid it in the cellar under a pile of India ink sketches Jimmy the Dwarf did before he died." "Did you screw her?" "What for? She's all bones. Those ribs would slice me to pieces while I fucked." "You screwed Jimmy the Dwarf and he only weighed eighty- three pounds." "He had soul." "Yeh?" "Yeh." I hung up- For the next four or five issues, Open Pussy came out with sayings like, "WE LOVE THE L.A. FREE PRESS," "OH, WE LOVE THE L.A. FREE PRESS," "LOVE, LOVE, LOVE THE L.A. FREE PRESS." They should have. They had their mailing list. One night Jensen and Joe had dinner together. Joe told me later that everything was now "all right." I don't know who screwed who or what went on under the table. And I didn't care- And I soon found that I had other readers besides the beaded and the bearded- In Los Angeles the new Federal Building rises glass-high, insane and modern, with the Kafka-series of rooms each indulged with their own personal frog-jacking-off bit; everything feeding off of every- thing else and thriving with a kind of worm-in-the apple warmth and ther I was given a time ticket for that amount and I walked into the Federal Building, which had downstairs murals like Diego Rivera would have done if nine tenths of his sensibilities had been cut away ---American sailors and Indians and soldiers smiling away, trying to look noble in cheap yellows and retching rotting greens and pissy blues. I was being called into personnel. I knew that it wasn't for a promotion. They took the letter and cooled me on the hard seat for forty- five minutes. It was part of the old you-got-shit-in-your- intestines. And we-don't-have routine. Luckily, from past experience, I read the warty sign, and I cooled it myself, thinking about how Each of the girls who walked by would go on a bed, legs high, or Taking it in the mouth. Soon I had something huge between my legs --well, huge for me --- and had to stare at the floor. I was finally called in by a very black and slinky and well- dressed and pleasant Negress, very much class and even a spot of soul, whose smile said she knew that I was going to be fucked but who also hinted that she wouldn't mind throwing me a little pee- hole herself. It eased matters. Not that it mattered. And I walked in. "Have a seat." Man behind desk. Same old shit. I sat. "Mr. Bukowski?" "Yeh." He gave me his name. I wasn't interested. He leaned back, stared at me from his swivel. I'm sure he expected somebody younger and better-looking, more flamboyant, more intelligent-looking, more treacherous-look- ing-I was just old, tired, disinterested, hung-over. He was a bit gray and distinguished, if you know the type of distinguished I mean. Never pulled beets out of the ground with a bunch of wet- backs or been in the drunktank fifteen or twenty times. Or picked lemons at six a.m. without a shirt on because you knew that at noon it would be 110 degrees. Only the poor knew the meaning of life; the rich and the safe had to guess. Strangely then, I began thinking of the Chinese. Russia had softened; it could be that only the Chi- nese knew, digging up from the bottom, tired of soft shit. But then, I had no politics, that was more con: history screwed us all, finally. I was done ahead of time --- baked, fucked, screwed-out, nothing left. "Mr. Bukowski?" "Yeh?" "Well, ah-we've had an informant-" "Yeh. Go ahead." "-who wrote us that you are not married to the mother of your child." I imagined him, then, decorating a Christmas tree with a drink in his hand. "That's true. I am not married to the mother of my child, aged four." "Do you pay child support?" "Yes." "How much?" "I'm not going to tell you." He leaned back again. "You must understand that those of us in government service must maintain certain standards." Not really feeling guilty of anything, I didn't answer. I waited. Oh, where are you, boys? Kafka, where are you? Lorca, shot in the dirty road, where are you? Hemingway, claiming he was being tailed by the C.I.A. and nobody believing him but me- The, old distinguished well-rested non-beetpicking gray turned around and reached into a small and well-varnished cabinet behind him and pulled out six or seven copies of Open Pussy. He threw them upon his desk like stinking siffed and raped turds. He tapped them with one of his non-lemonpulling hands. "We are led to believe that YOU are the writer of these col- umns --- Notes of a Dirty Old Man." "Yeh." "What do you have to say about these columns?" "Nothing." "Do you call this writing? "It's the best that I can do." "Well, I'm supporting two sons who are now taking journalism at the best of colleges, and I HOPE-" He tapped the sheets, the stinking turd sheets, with the bot- tom of his ringed and un-factoried and un-jailed hand and said: "I hope that my sons never turn out to write like YOU do!" "They won't," I promised him. "Mr. Bukowski, I think that the interview is finished." "Yeah," I said. I lit a cig, stood up, scratched my beer-gut and walked out. The second interview was sooner than I expected. I was hard at work --- of course --- at one of my important menial tasks when the speaker boomed: "Henry Charles Bukowski, report to the Tour superintendent's office!" I dropped my important task, got a treavel form from the local screw and walked on over to the office. The Tour-Soup's male secre- tary, an old gray flab, looked me over. "Are you Charles Bukowski?" he asked me, quite disappoint- ed. "Yeh, man." "Please follow me." I followed him. It was a large building. We went down several stairways and down around a long hall and then into a large dark room that entered into another large and very dark room. Two men were sitting there at the end of a table that must have been seventy- five feet long. They sat under a lone lamp. And at the end of the table sat this single chair --- for me. "You may enter," said the secretary. Then he shorted out. I walked in. The two men stood up. Here we were under one lamp in the dark. For some reason, I thought of all the assassina- tions. Then I thought, this is America, daddy, Hitler is dead. Or is he? "Bukowski?" "Yeh." They both shook hands with me. "Sit down." Groovy, baby. "This is Mr. - - - - from Washington," said the other guy who was one of the local topdogturds. I didn't say anything. It was a nice lamp. Made of human skin? Mr. Washington did the talking. He had a portfolio with quite a few papers within. "Now, Mr. Bukowski-" "Yeh?" "Your age is forty-eight and you've been employed by the United States Government for eleven years." "Yeh." "You were married to your first wife two and a half years, divorced, and you married your present wife when? We'd like the date." "No date. No marriage." "You have a child!" "Yeh." "How old?" "Four." "You're not married?" "No." "Do you pay child support?" "Yes." "How much?" "About standard." Then he leaned back and we sat there. The three of us said nothing for a good four or five minutes. Then a stack of the underground newspaper Open Pussy ap- peared. "Do you write these columns? Notes of a Dirty Old Man?" Mr. Washington asked. "Yeh." He handed a copy to Mr. Los Angeles. "Have you seen this one?" "No, no, I haven't" Across the top of the column was a walking cock with legs, a huge HUGE walking cock with legs. The story was about a male friend of mine I had screwed in the ass by mistake, while drunk, believing that it was one of my girlfriends. It took me two weeks to finally force my friend to leave my place. It was a true story. "Do you call this writing?" Mr. Washington asked. "I don't know about the writing. But I thought it was a very funny story. Didn't you think it was humorous?" "But this-this illustration across the top of the story?" "The walking cock?" "Yes." "I didn't draw it." "You have nothing to do with the selection of illustrations?" "The paper is put together on Tuesday nights." "And you are not there on Tuesday nights?" "I am supposed to be here on Tuesday nights." They waited some time, going through Open Pussy, looking at my columns. "You know," said Mr. Washington, tapping the Open Pussies again with his hand, "you would have been all right if you had kept writing poetry, but when you began writing this stuff-" He again tapped the Open Pussies. I waited two minutes and thirty seconds. Then I asked: "Are we to consider the postal officials as the new critics of literature?" "Oh, no no," said Mr. Washington, "we didn't mean that." I sat and waited. "There is a certain conduct expected of postal employees. You are in the Public Eye. You are to be an example of exemplary behavior." "It appears to me," I said, "that you are threatening my free- dom of expression with a resultant loss of employment. The A.C.L.U. might be interested." "We'd still prefer you didn't write the column." "Gentleman, there comes a time in each man's life when he must choose to stand or run. I choose to stand." Their silence. Wait. Wait. The shuffling of Open Pussies. Then Mr. Washington: "Mr. Bukowski?" "Yeh?" Are you going to write any more columns about the Post Office?" I had written one about them which I thought was more humorous than demeaning --- but then, maybe my mind was twisted. I let them wait this time. Then I answered. "Not unless you make it necessary for me to do so." Then they waited. It was kind of an interrogation chess game where you hoped the other man would make the wrong move: blurt out his pawns, knights, bishops, king, his queen, his guts. (And meanwhile, as you read this, here goes my goddamned job. Groovy, baby. Send dollars for beer and wreaths to The Charles Bukowski Rehabilitation Fund at-) Mr. Washington stood up. Mr. Los Angeles stood up. Mr. Washington said: "I think that the interview is over." Mr. Washington said: "Meanwhile, don't jump off of any bridges-" (Strange: I hadn't even thought about it.) "-we haven't had a case like this in ten years." (In ten years? Who was the last poor sucker?) "So?" I asked. "Mr. Bukowski," said Mr. Los Angeles, "report back to your position." I really had an unquieting time (or is it disquieting?) trying to find my way back to the work floor from that underground Kafka- esqueish maze, and when I did, here all my subnormal fellow workers (good pricks all) started chirping at me: "Hey, baby, where ya been?" "What'd they want, daddieo?" "You knocked up another black chick, big daddy?" I gave them the Silence. One learns from dear old Uncle Sammy. They kept chirping and flipping and fingering their mental assholes. They were really frightened. I was Old Kool and if they could break Old Kool they could break any of them. "They wanted to make me Postmaster," I told them. "And what happened, daddieo?" "I told them to jam a hot turd up their siffed-up snatch." The foreman of the aisle walked by and they all gave him the proper obeisance but me, but I, but Bukowski, I lit a cigar with an easy flourish, threw the match on the floor and stared at the ceiling as if I were having great and wonderful thoughts. It was con; my mind was blank; I only wanted a halfpint of Grandad and six or seven tall cool beers- The fucking paper grew, or seemed to, and moved to a place on Melrose. I always hated to go there with copy, though, because everybody was so shitty, so truly shitty and snobby and not quite right, you know. Nothing changed. The history of the Man-beast was very slow. They were like the shifts I'd faced when I first walked into the copy room of the L.A. City College newspaper in 1939 or 1940 ---all these little hoity-toity dummies with little newspaper hats over their heads while writing stale, stupid copy. So very important --- not even human enough to acknowledge your presence. Newspaper people were always the lowest of the breed; janitors who picked up women's cuntrags in the crappers had more soul --- naturally. I looked at those college freaks, walked out, never went back. Now. Open Pussy. Twenty-eight years later. Copy in my hand. There was Cherry at a desk. Cherry was on the telephone. Very important. Couldn't speak. Or Cherry not at the telephone. Writing something on a piece of paper. Couldn't speak. the same old con of always. Thirty years hadn't broken the dish. and Joe Hyans running around, doing big things, running up and down the stairs. He had a little place on top. Rather exclusive, of course. And some poor shit in a back room with him there where Joe could watch him getting copy ready for the printer on the IBM. He gave the poor shit thirty-five a week for a sixty-hour week and the poor shit was glad, grew a beard and lovely soulful eyes and the poor shit hacked out the third-rate piteous copy. With the Beatles playing full volume over the intercom and the phone ringing contin- ually, Joe Hyans, editor, was always RUNNING OFF TO SOME- PLACE IMPORTANT SOMEWHEREA. But when you read the paper the next week you'd wonder where he'd run. It wasn't in there. Open Pussy went on, for a while. My columns continued to be good, but the paper itself was half-ass. I could smell the death-cunt of it- There was a staff meeting every other Friday night. I busted up a few of them. And after hearing the results, I just didn't go anymore. If the paper wanted to live, let it live. I stayed away and just slid my stuff under the door in an envelope. Then Hyans got me on the phone: "I've got an idea. I want you to get me together the best poets and prose writers that you know and we are going to put out a literary supplement." I got it together for him. He printed it. And the cops busted him for "obscenity." But I was a nice guy. I got him on the phone. "Hyans?" "Yeh?" "Since you done got busted for the thing, I'm a gonna let you have my column for free. That ten bucks you been paying me, it goes for the Open Pussy defense fund." "Thanks very much," he said. So there he was, getting the best writing in America for noth- ing- Then Cherry phoned me on night. "Why don't you come to our staff meetings anymore? We all miss you, terribly." "What? What the hell you saying, Cherry? You on the stuff?" "No, Hank, we all love you, really. Do come to our next staff meeting." "I'll think about it." "It's dead without you." "And death with me." "We want you, old man." "I'll think about it, Cherry." So, I showed. I had been given the idea by Hyans, himself, that since it was the first anniversary of Open Pussy the wine and the pussy and the life and the love would be flowing. But coming in very high and expecting to see fucking on the floor and love galore, I only saw all these little love-creatures busily at work. They reminded me very much, so humped and dismal, of the little old ladies working on piecework I used to deliver cloth to, working my way up through rope hand-pulled elevators full of rats and stink, one hundred years old, piecework ladies, proud and dead and neurotic as all hell, working, working to make a millionaire out of somebody-in New York, in Philadelphia, in St. Louis. And these, for Open Pussy, were working without wages, and there was Joe Hyans, looking a bit brutal and fat, walking up and down behind them, hands folded behind his back, seeing thateach volunteer did his (her) duty properly and exactly. "Hyans! Hyans, you filthy cocksucker!" I screamed as I walked in. "You are running a slave-market, you are a lousy pewking Simon Legree! You cry for justice from the police and from Wash- ington, D.C. and you are the biggest lousiest swine of them all! You are Hitler multiplied by a hundred, you slave-labor bastard! You write of atrocities and then triple them yourself! Who the fuck you think you're fooling, mother? Who the fuck you think you are?" Luckily for Hyans, the rest of the staff was quite used to me and they thought that whatever I said was foolishness and that Hyans Himself stood for Truth. Hyans Himself walked up and put a stapler in my hand. "Sit down, he said, "we are trying to increase the circulation. just sit down and clip one of these green ads to each of newspapers. We are sending out leftover copies to potential subscribers-" Dear old Freedom Loveboy Hyans, using big business methods to put over his crap. Brainwashed beyond himself. He finally came up and took the stapler out of my hand. "You're not stapling fast enough." "Fuck you, mother. There was supposed to be champagne all over this place. Now I'm eating staples-" "Hey, Eddie!" He called over another slave-labor member --- thin-cheeked, wire-armed, pnurious. Poor Eddie was starving. Everybody was starving for the Cause. Except Hyans and his wife, and they lived in a two-story house and sent one of their children to a private school, and there was old Poppa back in Cleveland, one of the head stiffs of the Plain Dealer, with more money than anything else. So Hyans ran me out and also a guy with a little propeller on the top of a beanie cap, Lovable Doc Stanley I believe he was called, and also Lovable Doc's woman, and as the three of us left out the back door quite calmly, sharing a bottle of cheap wine, there came the voice of Joe Hyans: "And get out of here, and don't any of you ever come back, but I don't mean you Bukowski!" Poor fuck, he knew what kept the paper going- Then there was another bust by the police. This time for print- ing the photo of a woman's cunt. Hyan's at this time, as always, was mixed up. He wanted to hype the circulation, by any means, or kill the paper and get out. It was a vise he couldn't seem to work properly and it drew tighter and tighter. Only the people working for nothing or for thirty-five dollars a week seemed to have any interest in the paper. But Hyans did manage to lay a couple of the younger female volunteers so he wasn't wasting his time. "Why don't you quit your lousy job and come work for us?" "How much?" "Forty-five dollars a week. That includes your column. You will also distribute to the boxes on Wednesday night, your car, I'll pay the gas, and you write up special assignments. Eleven a.m. to 7:30 p.m., Fridays and Saturday s off." "I'll think about it." Hyans' old man came in from Cleveland. We got drunk to- gether over at Hyans' house. Hyans and Cherry seemed very un- happy with Pops. And Pops could put away the whiskey. No grass for him. I could put away the whiskey too. We drank all night. "Now the way to get rid of the Free Press is to bust up their stands, run the peddlers off the streets, bust a few heads. That's what we used to do in the old days. I've got money. I can hire some hoods, some mean sons of bitches. We can hire Bukowski. "God damn it!" screamed young Hyans, "I don't want to hear your shit, you understand?" Pops asked me, "What do you think of my idea, Bukowski?" "I think it's a good idea. Pass the bottle over here." "Bukowski is insane!" screamed Joe Hyans. "You print his column," said Pops. "He's the best writer in California," said young Hyans. "The best insane writer in California," I corrected him. "Son," Pops went on, "I have all this money. I want to put your paper over. All we gotta do is bust a few-" "No. No. No!" Joe Hyans screamed. "I won't have it!" Then he ran out of the house. What a wonderful man Joe Hyans was. He ran out of the house. I reached for another drink and told Cherry that I was going to fuck her up against the bookcase. Pops said he'd take seconds. Cherry cussed us while Joe Hyans ran off down the street with his soul- The paper went on, coming out once a week somehow. Then the trial about the photo of the female cunt came up. The prosecuting attorney asked Hyans: "Would you object to oral copulation on the steps of the City Hall?" "No," said Joe, "but it would probably block traffic." Oh, Joe, I thought, you blew that one! You shudda said, "I'd prefer for oral copulation to go on inside the City Hall where it usually does." When the judge asked Hyans' lawyer what the meaning of the photo of the female sex organ was, Hyans' lawyer answered, "Well, that's just the way it is. That's the way it is, daddy." They lost the trial, of course, and appealed for a new one. "A roust," said Joe Hyans to the few and scattered news media about, "nothing but a police roust." What a brilliant man Joe Hyans was- Next I heard from Joe Hyans was over the phone: "Bukowski, I just bought a gun. One hundred and twelve dollars. A beautiful weapon. I'm going to kill a man!" "Where are you now?" "In the bar, down by the paper." "I'll be right there." When I got there he was walking up and down outside the bar. "Come on," he said, "I'll buy you a beer." We sat down. The place was full, Hyans was talking in a very loud voice. You could hear him all the way to Santa Monica. I'm going to splatter his brains out against the wall --- I'm going to kill the son of a bitch!" "What guy, kid? Why do you want to kill this guy, kid?" He kept staring straight ahead. "Groovy, baby. Why ya wanna kill this sunabitch,huh?" "He's fucking my wife, that's why!" "Oh." He stared some more. It was like a movie. It wasn't even as good as a movie. "It's a beautiful weapon," said Joe. "You put in this little clip. It fires ten shots. Rapid-fire. There'll be nothing left of the bastard!" Joe Hyans. That wonderful man with the big red beard. Groovy, baby. Anyhow I asked him, "How about all these anti-war articles you've printed? How about the love bit? What happened?" "Oh come on now Bukowski, you've never believed in all that pacifism shit?" "Well, I don't know-Well, I guess not exactly." "I've warned this guy that I am going to kill him if he doesn't stay away, and I walk in and there he is sitting on the couch in my own house. Now what would you do?" "You're making this a personal property thing, don't you understand? Just fuck it. Forget it. Walk away. Leave them there together." "Is that what you've done?" "After the age of thirty - always. And after the age of forty, it gets easier. But in my twenties I used to go insane. The first burns are the hardest." "Well, I am going to kill the son of a bitch! I'm going to blow his goddamned brains out!" The whole bar was listening. Love, baby, love. I told him, "Let's get out of here." Outside the bar Hyans dropped to his knees and screamed, a long milk- curdling four-minute scream. You could hear him all the way to Detroit. Then I got him up and walked him to my car. As he got to the car door on his side, he grabbed the handle, dropped to his knees and let go another hog- caller to Detroit. He was hooked on Cherry, poor fellow. I got him up, put him in the seat, got in the other side, drove north to Sunset and then east along Sunset and at the signal, red, at Sunset and Vermont, he let go another one. I lit up a cigar. The other drivers stared at the red beard screaming. I thought, he isn't going to stop. I'll have to knock him out. But then as the signal turned green he ended it and I shifted it out of there. He sat there sobbing. I didn't know what to say. There wasn't anything to say. I thought, I'll take him to see Mongo the Giant of the Eternal High. Mongo's full of shit. Maybe he can dump some shit on Hyans. me, I hadn't lived with a woman for four years. I was too far out of it to see it anymore. Next time he screams, I thought, I've got to knock him out. I Can't stand another one of those. "Hey! Where we going?" "Mongo's." "Oh, no! Not Mongo's! I hate that guy! He'll only make fun of me! He's a cruel son of a bitch!" It was true. Mongo had a good mind but a cruel one. It wasn't any good going over there. And I couldn't handle it either. We drove along. "Listen," said Hyans, "I've got a girlfriend around here. Couple blocks north. Drop me off. She understands me." I turned it north. "Listen," I said. "don't shoot the guy." "Why?" "Because you are the only one who will print my column." I drove to the place, let him out, waited until the door opened, then drove off. A good piece of ass might smooth him out. I needed one too-. Next I heard from Hyans, he had moved out of the house. "I couldn't stand it anymore. Why, the other night I took a shower, I was getting ready to fuck her, I wanted to fuck some life into her bones, but you know what?" "What?" "When I walked in on her she ran out of the house. What a bitch!" "Listen, Hyans, I know the game. I can't talk against Cherry because the next thing you know, you'll be back together again and then you'll remember all the dirty things I said about her." "I'm never going back." "Uh huh." "I've decided not to shoot the bastard." "Good." "I'm going to challenge him to a boxing match. Full ring rules. Referee, ring, glove and all." "OK," I said. Two bulls fighting for the cow. And a bony one at that. But in America the loser oftentimes got the cow. Mother instinct? Better wallet? Longer dick? God knows what- While Hyans was going crazy he hired a guy with a pipe and a necktie to keep the paper going. But it was obvious that Open Pussy was on its last fuck. And nobody cared but the twenty-five and thirty-dollar-a-week people and the free help. They enjoyed the paper. It wasn't all that good but it wasn't all that bad either. You see, there was my column: Notes of a Dirty Old Man. And pipe and necktie got the paper out. It looked the same. and meanwhile I kept hearing: "Joe and Cherry are together again. Joey and Cherry split again. Joe and Cherry are back together again./ Joe and Cherry- " Then on chilly blue Wednesday night I went out to a stand to buy a copy of Open Pussy. I had written one of my best columns and wanted to see if they had had the guts to run it. The stand contained last week's Open Pussy. I smelled it in the deathblue air: the game was over. I bought two tall six- packs of Schlitz and went back to my place and drank down the requiem. Always being ready for the end I was not ready when it happened. I walked over and took the poster off the wall and threw it into the trash: "OPEN PUSSY. A WEEKLY REVIEW OF THE LOS ANGELES RENAIS- SANCE." The government wouldn't have to worry anymore. I was a splendid citizen again. Twenty thousand circulation. If we could have made sixty --- without family troubles, without police rouses --- we could have made it. We didn't make it. I phoned the office the next day. The girl at the phone was in tears. "We tried to get you last night, Bukowski, but nobody knew where you lived. It's terrible. It's finished. It's over. The phone keeps ringing. I'm the only one here. We're going to hold a staff meeting next Tuesday night to try to keep the paper going. But Hyans took everything --- all the copy, the mailing list and the IBM machine which didn't belong to him. We're cleaned out. There's nothing left." Oh, you've got a sweet voice, baby, such a sad sad sweet voice, I'd like to fuck you, I thought. "We are thinking of starting a hippie paper. The underground is dead. Please show at Lonny's house Tuesday night." "I'll try." I said, knowing that I wouldn't be there. So there it was - -- almost two years. It was over. The cops had won, the city had won, the government had won. Decency was in the streets again. Maybe the cops would stop giving me tickets every tiem they saw my car. and Cleaver wouldn't be sending us little notes from his hiding place anymore. And you could buy the L.A. Times anywhere. Jesus Christ and Mother in Heaven, Life was Sad. But I gave the girl my address and phone number, thinking we might make it on the springs. (Harriet, you never arrived.) But Barney Palmer, the political writer, did. I let him in and opened up the beers. "Hyans," he said, " put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger." "What happened?" "It jammed. So he sold the gun." "It takes a lot of guts just to try it once." "You're right. Forgive me. Terrible hangover." "You want to hear what happened?" "Sure, it's my death, too." "Well, it was Tuesday night, we were trying to get the paper ready. We had your column and thank Christ it was a long one because we were short of copy. It looked like we couldn't make the pages. Hyans showed, glassy-eyed, drunk on wine. He and Cherry had split again." "Ugh." "Yeh. Anyhow, we couldn't make the pages. And Hyans kept getting in the way. Finally he went upstairs and got on the couch and passed out. The minute he left, the paper began to get together. We made it and had forty- five minutes to get to the printer's. I said I'd drive it down to the printer's. Then you know what happened?" "Hyans woke up." "I'm that way." "Well, he insisted on driving the copy to the printer's himself. He threw the stuff in the car but he never made the printer's. The next day we came in and found the note he left, and the place was cleaned out --- the IBM machine, the mailing list, everything-" "I've heard. Well, let's look at it this way: he started the goddamned thing, so he had a right to end it." "But the IBM machine, he didn't own it. He might get into a jam over it." "Hyans is used to jams. He thrives on them. He gets his nuts. You ought to hear him scream." "But it's all the little people, Buk, The twenty-five-buck-a-week guys who gave up everything to keep the thing going. They guys with cardboard in their shoes. The guys who slept on the floor." "The little guys always get it in the ass, Palmer. That's his- tory." "You sound like Mongo." "Mongo is usually right, even though he is a son of a bitch." We talked a little more, then it was over. A big black kitty walked up to me at work that night. "Hey, brother, I hear your paper folded." "Right, brother, but where did you hear?" "It's in the L.A. Times, first page of the second section. I guess they are rejoicing." "I guess they are." "We liked your paper, man. And your column too. Real tough stuff." "Thank you, brother." At lunchtime (10:24 p.m.) I went out and bought the L.A. Times. I took it across the street to the bar over there, bouthg a dollar pitcher of beer, lit a cigar and walked over to a table under a light: OPEN PUSSY DEEP IN RED Open Pussy, the second largest underground newspaper in Los Angeles, has ceased publication, its editors said Thursday. The newspaper was 10 weeks short of its second anniversary. Heavy debts, distribution problems and a $!,000 fine on an obscenity conviction in October contributed to the demise of the weekly newspaper." Said Mike Engel, the managing editor. He placed final circulation of the newspaper at about 20,000. But Engel and other editorial staff members said they believed That Open Pussy could have continued and that its closing was the decision of Joe Hyans, its 35-year-old-chief-editor. When the staff members arrived at the paper's office at 4369 Melrose Ave. Wednesday morning they found a note from Hyans which declared, in part: "The paper has already fulfilled its artistic purpose. Politically, it was never to effective anyway. What's been taking place in its pages recently is no improvement over what we printed a year ago. "As an artist, I must turn away from a work which does not grow-even though it is a work of my own hand and even though it is bringing in bread (money)." I finished the pitcher of beer and went into my governmental job- A few days later I found a note in my mailbox: 10:45 a.m., Monday Hank--- I found a note in my mailbox this morning from Cherry Hyans. (I was away all day Sunday and Sunday night.) She says she has the kids and is sick and in bad trouble at - - - - Douglas Street. I can't find Douglas on the fucking map, but wanted to let you know about the note. Barney A couple of days later the phone rang. It wasn't a woman with a hot snatch. It was Barney. "Hey, Joe Hyans is in town." "So are you and I," I said. "Joe's back with Cherry." "Yeh?" "They are going to move to San Francisco." "They ought to." "The hippie paper thing fell through." "Yeh. Sorry I couldn't make it. Drunk." "That's OK. But listen, I'm on a writing assignment now. But as soon as I finish, I want to contact you." "What for?" "I've got a backer with fifty grand." "Fifty grand?" "Yeh. Real money. He wants to do it. He wants to start an- other paper." "Keep in touch, Barney. I've always liked you. Remember the time you and I started drinking at my place at four in the afternoon, talked all night and didn't finish until eleven a.m. the next morn- ing?" "Yeh." "So, when I clean this writing up, I'll let you know." "Yeh. Keep in touch, Barney." "I will. Meanwhile, hang in." "Sure." I went into the crapper and took myself a beautiful beershit. Then I went to bed, jacked off, and slept. -Charles Bukowski- The Most Beautiful Woman in Town === **LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT** I walked along in the sun wondering what to do. I kept walk ing, walking. I seemed to be on the outer edge of something. I looked up and there were railroad tracks and by the edge of the tracks was a little shack, unpainted. It had a sign out: HELP WANTED I walked in. A little old guy was sitting there in blue-green suspenders and chewing tobacco. "Yeah?" he asked. "I, ah, I ah, I-" "Yeh, come on, man, spit it out! Whatcha want?" "I saw-your sign-help wanted." "Sign on? What?" "Well, shit, it ain't a spot as a chorus girl!" He leaned over and spit into his filthy spitoon, then worked at his wad again, drawing his cheeks in over his toothless mouth. "What do I do?" I asked. "You'll be tole what to do!" "I mean, what is it?" "Railroad track gang, someplace west of Sacramento." "Sacramento?" "You heard me, god damn it. Now I'm a busy man. You wanna sign or not?" I signed the list he had on the clipboard. I was # 27. I even signed my own name. He handed me a ticket. "You show up at gate 21 with your gear. We got a special train for you guys." I slipped the ticket into my empty wallet. He spit again. "Now, well, look, kid, I know you're a little goofy. This line takes care of a lot of guys like you. We help human- ity. We're nice folks. Always remember old - - - - - - - - - - lines and put in a good word for us here and there. And when you get out on those tracks, listen to your foreman. He's on your side. you can save money out on that desert. God knows, there's no place to spend it. But on Saturday night, kid, on Saturday night-" He leaned to his spitoon again, came back: "Why hell, on a Saturday night you go to town, get drunk, catch a cheap blowjob from a wetback Mexican senorita and come back in feeling good. Those blowjobs suck themisery right out of a man's head. I started on the gang, now I'm here. Good luck to you, kid." "Thank you, sir." "Now get the hell out of here! I'm busy!-" I arrived at gate 21 at the time instructed. By my train were all these guys standing there in rags, stinking, laughing, smoking rolled cigarettes. I went over and stood behind them. They needed haircuts and shaves and they acted brave and were nervous at the same time. Then a Mexican with a knife scar on his cheek told us to get on. We got on. You couldn't see through the windows. I took the last seat in the back of our car. The others all sat up in front, laughing and talking. One guy pulled out a half pint of whiskey and 7 or 8 of them each had a little suck. Then they began looking back at me. I began hearing voices and they weren't all in my head. "What's wrong with that sona bitch?" "He think he's better than us?" "He's gonna hafta work with us, man." "Who's he think he is?" I looked out the window, I tried to, the thing hadn't been cleaned in 25 years. The train began to move out and I was on there with them. The train began to move out and I was on there with them. There were about 30 of them. They didn't wait very long. I stretched out on my seat and tried to sleep. "SWOOSH!" Dust blew up into my face and eyes. I heard somebody under my seat. There was the blowing sound again and a mass of 25 year old dust rose up into my nostrils, my mouth, my eyes, my eyebrows. I waited. Then it happened again. A real good blast. Whoever was under there was getting damned good at it. I leaped up. And I heard all this sound from under my seat and then he was out from under there and running up toward the front. He threw himself into a seat, trying to be part of the gang, but I heard his voice: "If he comes up here I want you fellows to help me! Promise to help me if he comes up here!" I didn't hear any promises, but he was safe: I couldn't tell one from the other. Just before we got out of Louisiana I had to walk up front for a cup of water. They watched me. "Look at him. Look at him." "Ugly bastard." "Who's he think he is?" "Son of a bitch, we'll get him when we get him out over those tracks alone, we'll make him cry, we'll make him suck dick!" "Look! He's got that paper cup upsidedown! He's drinking from the wrong end! Look at him! He's drinking from the little end! That guy's nuts!" "Wait'll we get him over those tracks, we'll make him suck dick!" I drained the paper cup, refilled it and emptied it again, wrong Sideup. I threw the cup into the container and walked back. I heard: "Yeah," he acts nuts. Maybe he had a split-up with his girl friend." "How's a guy like that gonna get a girl?" "I dunno. I seen crazier things than that happen."- We were over Texas when the Mexican foreman came through with the canned food. He handed out the cans. Some of them didn't have any labels on them and were badly dented-up. He came back to me. "You Bukowski?" "Yes." He handed me a can of Spam and wrote "75" under column "F." I could see that I was charged with "$45.90" under column "T." Then he handed me a small can of beans. "45" he wrote down under column "F. He walked back toward the front of the car. "Hey! Where the hell's a can opener? How can we eat this stuff without a can opener?" somebody asked him. The foreman swang through the vestibule and was gone. There were water stops in Texas, bunches of green. At each stop 2 or 3 or 4 guys leaped off. When we got to El Paso there were 23 left out of the 31. In El Paso they pulled our traincar out and the train went on. the Mexican forman came through and said, "We must stop at El Paso. You will stay at this hotel." He gave out tickets. "These are your tickets to the hotel. You will sleep there. In the morning you will take traincoach #24 to Los Angeles and then on to Sacramento. These are your hotel tickets." He came up to me again. "You Bukowski?" "Yes." "Here's your hotel." He handed me the ticket and wrote in "12.50" under my "L" column. Nobody had been able to get their cans of food open. They would be picked up later and given to the next crew across. I threw my ticket away and slept in the park about two blocks from the hotel. I was awakened by the roaring of alligators, one in particular. I could see 4 or 5 alligators in the pond, and perhaps there were more. There were two sailors dressed in their whites. One sailor was in the pond, drunk, pulling at the tail of an alligator. The alligator was angry but slow and could not turn its neck enough to get at the sailor. The other sailor stood on the shore, laughing, with a young girl. Then while the sailor in the pond was still fighting the alligator, the other sailor and the girl walked away. I truned over and slept. On the ride to Los Angeles, more and more of them jumped off at the waterstops. When we reached Los Angeles there were 16 left of the 31. The Mexican foreman came through the train. "We will be in Los Angeles for two days. You will catch the 9:30 a.m. train, gate 21. Wednesday morning, traincoach 42. It is written upon the cover which goes around your hotel tickets. You are also being issued food- ration coupons which can be honored at French's Caf+, Main Street." "He handed out 2 little booklets, one labeled ROOM, the other FOOD. "You Bukowsko?" he asked. "Yes," I said. He handed me my booklets. And added under my "L" col umn: 12.80 and under my "F" column, 6.00. I came out of Union Station and while I was cutting across the plaza I noticed 2 small guys who had been on the train with me. They were walking faster than I and cut across to my right. I looked at them. They both got these big grins on and said, "Hi! How ya doin?" "I'm doin' all right." They walked faster and slid across Los Angeles street toward Main- In the caf+ the boys were using their food coupons for beer. I used my food coupons for beer. Beer was just ten cents a glass. Most of them got drunk very fast. I stood down at the end of the bar. They didn't talk about me anymore. I drank up all my coupons and then sold my lodging tickets to another bum for 50 cents. I had 5 more beers and walked out. I began walking. I walked north. Then I walked east. Then north again. Then I was walking along the junkyards where all the broken-down cars were stacked. A guy had once told me, "I sleep in a different car each night. Last night I slept in a Ford, the night before in a Chevy. Tonight I am going to sleep in a Cadillac." I found a place with the gate chained but the gate door was bent and I was thin enough to slide my body between the chains and the gate and the lock. I looked around until I found a Cadillac. I didn't know the year. I got into the back seat and slept. It must have been about 6 a.m. in the morning when I heard this kid screaming. He was about 15 years old and had this toy base ball bat in his hand: "Get out of there! Get out of our car, you dirty bum!" The kid looked frightened. He had on a white t shirt and tennis shoes and there was a tooth missing from the center of his mouth. I got out. "Stand back!" he yelled. "Stand back, stand back!" He point ed the bat at me. I slowly walked toward the gate, which was then open but not very far. Then an old guy, about 50, fat and sleepy, stepped out of a tarpaper shack. "Dad!" The kid yelled, "This man was in one of our cars! I found him in the back seat asleep!" "Is that right?" "Yeah, that's right, Dad! I found him asleep in the back seat of one of our cars!" "What were you doing in our car, Mr.?" The old guy was nearer to the gate than I was but I kept moving toward it. "I asked you, 'What were you doing in our car?'" I moved closer to the gate. The old guy grabbed the bat from the kid, ran up to me and jammed the end of it into my belly, hard. "oof!" I went, "god o mighty!" I couldn't straighten up. I backed away. The kid took courage when he saw that. "I'll get him, Dad! I'll get him!" The kid grabbed the bat from the old man and began swinging it. He hit me almost everywhere. On the back, the sides, all along both legs, on the knees, the ankles. All I could do was protect my head. I kept my arms up around my head and he beat me on the arms and elbows. I backed up against the wire fence. "I'll get him, Dad! I'll get him!" The kid wouldn't stop. Now and then the bat got through to my head. Finally the old man said, "O.k., that's enough son." The kid kept swinging the bat. "Son, I said, 'That's enough.'" I turned and held myself up by the wires of the fence. For a moment I couldn't move. They watched me. I finally let go and was able to stand. I limped toward the gate. "Let me get him again, Dad!" "No, son." I got through the gate and walked north. As I began to walk, everything began to tighten. Everything was beginning to swell. My steps became shorter. I knew that I wouldn't be able to move much further. There were only more junkyards. Then I saw a vacant lot between two of them. I walked into the lot and turned my ankle in a hole, right off. I laughed. The lot sloped downwards. Then I tripped Over a hard brush branch which would not give. When I got up again my right palm had been cut by the edge of a piece of green glass. Winebottele. I pulled the glass out. The blood came through the dirt. I brushed the dirt off and sucked against the wound. When I fell the next time, I rolled over on my back, screamed once with pain, then looked up into the morning sky. I was back in my hometown, Los Angeles. Small gnats whirled about my face. I closed my eyes. === All The Pussy We Want Harry and Duke. The bottle sat between in a cheap hotel in downtown L.A. It was Saturday night in one of the cruelest towns in the world. Harry's face was quite round and stupid with just a tip of a nose looking out and you hated his eyes; in fact, you hated Harry when you looked at him, so you didn't look at him. Duke was a little younger, a good listener, with just the slightest of smiles on when he listened. He liked to listen; people were his biggest show and there wasn't any admission charge. Harry was unemployed and Duke was a janitor. They'd both done time and would be in jail again. They knew it. It didn't matter. The 5th was about one-third finished and there were empty beercans on the floor. They rolled their cigarettes with the easy calm of men who had lived hard and impossible lives before the age of 35 and were still alive. They knew it was all a bucket of shit but they refused to quit. "See," said Harry, taking a drag, "I chose you, man. I can trust you. You won't panic. I think your car can make it. We split it right down the middle." "Tell me about it," said Duke. "You won't believe it." "Tell me." "Well, there's gold out there, laying on the ground, real gold. All you gotta do is walk out and pick it up. I know it sounds crazy, but it's there, I've seen it." "What's the catch?" "Well, it's an army artillery grounds. They shell all day, and sometimes at night, that's the catch. It takes guts. But the gold is there. Maybe the shells broke it out of the earth, I don't know. But they usually don't shell at night." "We go in at night." "Right. And just pick the stuff up off of the ground. We'll be rich. All the pussy we want. Think of it --- all the pussy we want." "It sounds good." "In case they start shelling we leap into the first shell hole. They ain't gonna aim there again. If they hit the target, they're satisfied. If they haven't, the next shot will be somewhere else." "That sounds logical." Harry poured some whiskey. "But there's another catch." "Yeah?" "There's snakes out there. That's why we need two men. I know you're good with a gun. While I pick up the gold you watch for the snakes and blow their heads off. There are rattlers out there. I think you're the man to do it." "Why the hell not?" They sat smoking and drinking, thinking about it. "All that gold," said Harry, "all that pussy." "You know," said Duke, "it mighta been that those guns blew open an old treasure chest." "Whatever it is, there's gold out there." They thought about it a while longer. "How do you know," asked Duke, "that after you gather all the gold I won't shoot you out there?" "Well, I just gotta take that chance." "Do you trust me?" "I don't trust any man." Duke opened another beer, poured another drink. "Shit, there's no use of me going to work Monday is there?" "Not now." "I feel rich already." "I kind of do too." "All a man needs is some kind of break," said Duke, "then people treat him like a gentleman." "Yeah." "Where's this place at?" asked Duke. "You'll see when we get there." "We split down the middle?" "We split down the middle." "You're not worried about me shooting you?" "Why do you keep bringing that up, Duke? I might shoot you." "Jesus, I never thought of that. You wouldn't shoot a pal, would you?" "Are we friends?" "Well, yes, I'd say so, Harry." "There'll be enough gold and pussy for both of us. We'll be set for life. No more parole officers. No more dish washing gigs. The Beverly Hills whores will be chasing us. Our worries are over." "Do you really think we can bring it off? "Sure." "Is there really gold down there?" "Listen , man, I told you." "O.k." They drank and smoked some more. They didn't talk. They were both thinking of the future. It was a hot night. Some of the roomers had their doors open. Most of them had a bottle of wine. The men sat in their undershirts, easy and wondering and beaten. Some of them even had women, not too much as ladies but they could hold their wine. "We better get another bottle," said Duke, "before they close." "I don't have any money." "I'll get it." "O.k." They got up and walked out the door. They turned right down the hall and went toward the back. The liquor store was down the alley and to the left. At the top of the back steps a man in stained and wrinkled clothing was stretched across the back doorway. "Hey, it's my old pal Franky Canon. He really hung one on tonight. Guess I'll move him out of the doorway." Harry picked him up by the feet and dragged him out of the way. Then he bent over him. "Wonder if anybody's got to him yet?" "I don't know," said Duke, "check him out. " Duke pulled all Franky's pockets inside out. Checked the shirt. Opened his pants, checked him around the waist. All he found was a matchbook that said: LEARN DRAFTING AT HOME Thousands of top pay jobs waiting "I guess somebody got him." said Harry. They walked down the back steps and into the alley. "Are you sure that gold is there?" asked Duke. "Listen," said Harry, "you're pissing me off! You think I'm crazy?" "No." "Well, don't ask me that no more then!" They walked into the liquor store. Duke ordered a fifth of whiskey and a tall six pack of malt beer. Harry stole a bag of mixed nuts. Duke paid for his stuff and they walked out. Just as they got to the alley a young woman walked up; well, young for that area, she was about 30 with a good figure, but her hair was uncombed and she slurred a bit. "What you guys got in that bag?" "Cats' tits," said Duke. She got up near Duke and rubbed against the bag. "I don't wanna drink no wine. You got whiskey in there?" "Sure, baby, come on up." "Lemme see the bottle." She looked good to Duke. She was slim and her dress was tight, real shit ass tight, god damn. He pulled the bottle out. "O.k.," she said, "let's go." They walked up the alley, the girl between them. Her haunch bumped Harry as she walked. Harry grabbed her and kissed her. She broke off. "You son of a bitch!" she screamed. "lemme alone! " "You're gonna spoil everything, Harry!" said Duke. "You do that again and I'm gonna punch you out!" "You can't punch me out." "Just do it again!" They walked up the alley and up the stairways, opened the door. The girl looked at Franky Cannon laying there but didn't say anything. They walked on up to the room. The girl sat down and crossed her legs. She had nice legs. "My name's Ginny," she said. Duke poured the drinks. "I'm Duke. He's Harry." Ginny smiled and took her drink. "Some son of a bitch I'm stayin' with he kept me naked, kept my clothes locked in the closet. I was in there a week. I waited until he passed out, took the key off him, got this dress and ran off." "That's a nice dress." "It's alright." "It brings out the best in you." "Thanks. Hey, listen, what do you guys do?" "Do?" asked Duke. "Yeah, I mean how do you make it?" "We're gold prospectors," said Harry. "Oh, come on, don't give me that shit." "That's right," said Duke, "we're gold prospectors." "We've struck it. We're gonna be rich inside a week," said Harry. Then Harry had to get up to piss. The can was down the hall. When Harry left Ginny said, "I wanna fuck you first, Honey. I'm not too crazy about him." "That's o.k.," said Duke. He poured three more drinks. When Harry came back Duke told him. "She's gonna lay me first." "Says who?" "Says us," said Duke. "That's right," said Ginny. "I think we ought to take her with us," said Duke. "Let's see how she lays first," said Harry. "I drive men crazy," said Ginny. "I make men scream. I've got the tightest pussy in the state of California!" "All right," said Duke, "let's find out." "Gimme another drink first," She said, draining her glass. Duke gave her a refill. "I've got something too, baby, I'll probably rip you wide open!" "Not unless you stick your foot in there," said Harry. Ginny just smiled as she drank. She finished her drink. "Come on," she said to Duke, "let's make it." Ginny walked over to the bed and pulled her dress off. She had on blue panties and a faded pink brassiere held together by a safety pin in the back. Duke had to undo the safety pin. "Is he gonna watch?" she asked Duke. "He can if he wants," said Duke, "what the hell." "O.k.," said Ginny. They got into the sheets together. There were some minutes of warmup and maneuvering as Harry watched. The blanket was on the floor. All Harry could see was movement under a rather dirty sheet. Then Duke mounted. Harry could see Duke's butt bobbling under the sheet. Then Duke said, "Oh shit! "What's the matter?" asked Ginny. "I slipped out! I thought you said you had a tight box!" "I'll put you in! I don't think you were in!" "I was in somewhere!" said Duke. Then Duke's butt was bobbing again. I never should have told that son of a bitch about the gold, thought Harry. Now we've got this bitch on our hands. They might team against me. Of course, if he happened to get killed, she might like me better. Then Ginny moaned and started talking. "Oh, honey, honey! Oh, Jesus, honey, oh my gawd!" What a bunch of bullshit, thought Harry. He got up and walked over to the back window. The back of the hotel was right near the Vermont turnoff on the Hollywood freeway. He watched the headlights and tail lights of the cars. It always amazed him that some people were in such a hurry to go in one direction while other people were in such a hurry to go in another. Somebody had to be wrong, or else it was just a dirty game. Then he heard Ginny's voice. "I'm gonna COME! O, my gawd I'm gonna COME! O, my gawd! I'm :" Bullshit, he thought and then turned to look at them. Duke was really working. Ginny's eyes did seem glazed; she stared straight up into the ceiling, straight up into an unshaded lightbulb; glazed, seemingly glazed she stared up past Duke's left ear: I might have to shoot him out on that artillery field, thought Harry. Especially if she's got a tight box. gold, all that gold. === The Great Poet I went to see him. He was the great poet. He was the best narrative poet since Jeffers, still under 70 and famous throughout the world. Perhaps his two best-known books were My Grief Is Better Than Your Grief, Ha! and The Dead Chew Gum In Languor. He had taught at many universities, had won all the prizes, including the Nobel Prize. Bernard Stachman. I climbed the steps of the YMCA. Mr. Stachman lived in Room 223. I knocked. "HELL, COME ON IN!" somebody screamed from inside. I opened the door and walked in. Bernard Stachman was in bed. The smell of vomit, wine, urine, shit and decaying food was in the air. I began to gag. I ran to the bathroom, vomited, then came out. "Mr. Stachman," I said, "why don't you open a window?" "That's a good idea. And don't give me any of that 'Mr. Stachman' shit, I'm Barney." He was crippled, and after a great effort he managed to pull himself out of the bed and into the chair at his side. "Now for a good talk," he said. "I've been waiting for this." At his elbow, on a table, was a gallon jug of dago red filled with cigarette ashes and dead moths. I looked away, then looked back. He had the jug to his mouth but most of the wine ran right back out, down his shirt, down his pants. Bernard Stachman put the jug back. "Just what I needed." "You ought to use a glass," I said. "It's easier." "Yes, I believe you're right." He looked around. There were a few dirty glasses and I wondered which one he would choose. He chose the nearest one. The bottom of the glass was filled with a hardened yellow substance. It looked like the remains of chicken and noodles. He poured the wine. Then he lifted the glass and emptied it. "Yes, that's much better. I see you brought your camera. I guess you came to photograph me?" "Yes," I said. I went over and opened the window and breathed in the fresh air. It had been raining for days and the air was fresh and clear. "Listen," he said, "I been meaning to piss for hours. Bring me an empty bottle." There were many empty bottles. I brought him one. He didn't have a zipper, just buttons, with only the bottom button fastened because he was so bloated. He reached in and got his penis and rested the head on the lip of the bottle. The moment he began to urinate his penis stiffened and waved about, spraying piss all over - on his shirt, on his pants, in his face, and unbelievably, the last spurt went into his left ear. "It's hell being crippled," he said. "How did it happen?" I asked. "How did what happen?" "Being crippled." "My wife. She ran me over with her car." "How? Why?" "She said she couldn't stand me anymore." I didn't say anything. I took a couple of photos. "I got photos of my wife. Want to see some photos of my wife?" "All right." "The photo album is there on top of the refrigerator." I walked over and got it, sat down. There were just shots of high- heeled shoes and a woman's trim ankles, nylon-covered legs with garter belts, assorted legs in panty hose. On some of the pages were pasted ads from the meat market: chuck roast, 89? a pound. I closed the album. "When we divorced," he said, "she gave me these." Bernard reached under the pillow on his bed and pulled out a pair of high-heeled shoes with long spike heels. He'd had them bronzed. He stood them on the night table. Then he poured another drink. "I sleep with those shoes," he said, "I make love to those shoes and then wash them out." I took some more photos. "Here, you want a photo? Here's a good photo." He unbuttoned the lone button on his pants. He didn't have on any underwear. He took the heel of the shoe and wiggled it up his behind. "Here, take this one." I got the photo. It was difficult for him to stand but he managed by holding onto the night table. "Are you still writing, Barney?" "Hell, I write all the time." "Don't your fans interrupt your work?" "Oh hell, sometimes the women find me but they don't stay long." "Are your books selling?" "I get royalty checks." "What is your advice to young writers?" "Drink, fuck and smoke plenty of cigarettes." "What is your advice to older writers?" "If you're still alive, you don't need any advice." "What is the impulse that makes you create a poem?" "What makes you take a shit?" "What do you think of Reagan and unemployment?" "I don't think of Reagan or unemployment. It all bores me. Like space flights and the Super Bowl." "What are your concerns then?" "Modern women." "Modern women?" "They don't know how to dress. Their shoes are dreadful." "What do you think of Women's Liberation?" "Any time they're willing to work the car washes, get behind the plow, chase down the two guys who just held up the liquor store, or clean up the sewers, anytime they're ready to get their tits shot off in the army, I'm ready to stay home and wash the dishes and get bored picking lint off the rug." "But Isn't there some logic on their demands?" "Of course." Stachman poured another drink. Even drinking from the glass, part of the wine dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. He had the body odor of a man who hadn't bathed in months, "My wife," he said, "I'm still in love with my wife. Hand me that phone, will you?" I handed the phone to him. He dialed a number. "Claire? Hello, Claire?" He put the receiver down. "What happened?" I asked. "The usual. She hung up. Listen, let's get out of here, let's go to a bar. I've been in this damned room too long. I need to get out." "But it's raining. It's been raining for a week. The streets are flooded." "I don't care. I want to get out. She's probably fucking some guy right now. She's probably got her high heels on. I always made her leave her high heels on." I helped Bernard Stachman get into an old brown overcoat. All the buttons were missing off the front. It was stiff with grime. It was hardly an L.A. overcoat, it was heavy and clumsy, it must have come from Chicago or Denver in the thirties. Then we got his crutches and we climbed painfully down the YMCA stairway. Bernard had a fifth of muscatel in one of the pockets. We reached the entrance and Bernard assured me he could make it across the sidewalk and into the car. I was parked some distance from the curbing. As I ran around to the other side to get in I heard a shout and then a splash. It was raining, and raining hard. I ran back around and Bernard had managed to fall and wedge himself in the gutter between the car and the curbing. The water swept around him, he was sitting up, the water rushed over him, ran down through his pants, lapped against his sides, the crutches floating sluggishly in his lap. "It's all right," he said, "just drive on and leave me." "Oh hell, Barney." "I mean it. Drive on. Leave me. My wife doesn't love me." "She's not your wife, Barney. You're divorced." "Tell that to the Marines." "Come on, Barney, I'm going to help you up." "No, no. It's all right. I assure you. Just go ahead. Get drunk without m