Burning in Water, Drowing in Flame (17 page)

this kid used to teach at Kansas U.

then they moved him out

he went to a bean factory

then he and his wife moved to the coast

she got a job and worked while

he looked for a job as an actor.

I really want to be an actor, he told me,

that’s all I want to be.

he came by with his wife.

he came by alone.

the streets around here are full of guys who

want to be actors.

I saw him yesterday.

he was rolling cigarettes.

I poured him some white wine.

my wife is getting tired of waiting, he said,

I’m going to teach karate.

his hands were swollen from hitting

bricks and walls and doors.

he told me about some of the great oriental

fighters. there was one guy so good

he could turn his head 180 degrees

to see who was behind him. that’s very hard to do,

he said.

further: it’s more difficult to fight 4 men properly placed

than to fight many more. when you have many more

they get in each other’s way, and a good fighter who has

strength and agility can do well.

some of the great fighters, he said,

even suck their balls up into their bodies.

this can be done—to some extent—because there are

natural cavities in the body…. if you stand upsidedown

you will notice this.

I gave him a little more white wine,

then he left.

you know, sometimes making it with a typewriter

isn’t so painful

after all.

I was glad I had money in the Savings and Loan

Friday afternoon hungover

I didn’t have a job

I was glad I had money in the Savings and Loan

I didn’t know how to play a guitar

Friday afternoon hungover

Friday afternoon hungover

across the street from Norm’s

across the street from The Red Fez

I was glad I had money in the Savings and Loan

split with my girlfriend and blue and demented

I was glad to have my passbook and stand in line

I watched the buses run up Vermont

I was too crazy to get a job as a driver of buses

and I didn’t even look at the young girls

I got dizzy standing in line but I

just kept thinking I have money in this building

Friday afternoon hungover

I didn’t know how to play the piano

or even hustle a damnfool job in a carwash

I was glad I had money in the Savings and Loan

finally I was at the window

it was my Japanese girl

she smiled at me as if I were some amazing god

back again, eh? she said and laughed

as I showed her my withdrawal slip and my passbook

as the buses ran up and down Vermont

the camels trotted across the Sahara

she gave me the money and I took the money

Friday afternoon hungover

I walked into the market and got a cart

and I threw sausages and eggs and bacon and bread in there

I threw beer and salami and relish and pickles and mustard in there

I looked at the young housewives wiggling casually

I threw t-bone steaks and porterhouse and cube steaks in my cart

and tomatoes and cucumbers and oranges in my cart

Friday afternoon hungover

split with my girlfriend and blue and demented

I was glad I had money in the Savings and Loan.

I got in the shower

and burned my balls

last Wednesday.

met this painter called Spain,

no, he was a cartoonist,

well, I met him at a party

and everybody got mad at me

because I didn’t know who he was

or what he did.

he was rather a handsome guy

and I guess he was jealous because

I was so ugly.

they told me his name

and he was leaning against the wall

looking handsome, and I said:

hey, Spain, I like that name: Spain.

but I don’t like you. why don’t we step out

in the garden and I’ll kick the shit out of your

ass?

this made the hostess angry

and she walked over and rubbed his pecker

while I went to the crapper

and heaved.

but everybody’s angry at me.

Bukowski, he can’t write, he’s had it.

washed-up. look at him drink.

he never used to come to parties.

now he comes to parties and drinks everything

up and insults real talent.

I used to admire him when he cut his wrists

and when he tried to kill himself with

gas. look at him now leering at that 19 year old

girl, and you know he

can’t get it up.

I not only burnt my balls in that shower

last Wednesday, I spun around to get out of the burning

water and burnt my bunghole

too.

the rag.

she sat there, glooming.

I couldn’t do anything with her.

it was raining.

she got up and left.

well, hell, here it is again, I thought

I picked up my drink and turned the radio up,

took the lampshade off the lamp

and smoked a cheap black bitter cigar

imported from Germany.

there was a knock on the door

and I opened the door

a little man stood in the rain

and he said,

have you seen a pigeon on your porch?

I told him I hadn’t seen a pigeon on my porch

and he said if I saw a pigeon on my porch

to let him know.

I closed the door

sat down

and then a black cat leaped through the

window and jumped on my

lap and purred, it was a beautiful animal

and I took it into the kitchen and we both ate a

slice of ham.

then I turned off all the lights

and went to bed

and that black cat went to bed with me

and it purred

and I thought, well, somebody likes me,

then the cat started pissing,

it pissed all over me and all over the sheets,

the piss rolled across my belly and slid down my sides

and I said: hey, what’s wrong with you?

I picked up the cat and walked him to the door

and threw him out into the rain

and I thought, that’s very strange, that cat

pissing on me

his piss was cold as the rain.

then I phoned her

and I said, look, what’s wrong with you? have you lost

your god damned mind?

I hung up and pulled the sheets off the bed

and got in and lay there listening to the rain.

sometimes a man doesn’t know what to do about things

and sometimes it’s best to lie very still

and try not to think at all

about anything.

that cat belonged to somebody

it had a flea collar.

I don’t know about the

woman.

in San Francisco the landlady, 80, helped me drag the green

Victrola up the stairway and I played Beethoven’s 5th

until they beat on the walls.

there was a large bucket in the center of the room

filled with beer and winebottles;

so, it might have been the d.t.’s, one afternoon

I heard a sound something like a bell

only the bell was humming instead of ringing,

and then a golden light appeared in the corner of the room

up near the ceiling

and through the sound and light

shone the face of a woman, worn but beautiful,

and she looked down at me

and then a man’s face appeared by hers,

the light became stronger and the man said:

we, the artists, are proud of you!

then the woman said: the poor boy is frightened,

and I was, and then it went away.

I got up, dressed, and went to the bar

wondering who the artists were and why they should be

proud of me. there were some live ones in the bar

and I got some free drinks, set my pants on fire with the

ashes from my corncob pipe, broke a glass deliberately,

was not rousted, met a man who claimed he was William

Saroyan, and we drank until a woman came in and

pulled him out by the ear and I thought, no, that can’t be

William, and another guy came in and said: man, you talk

tough, well, listen, I just got out for assault and

battery, so don’t mess with me! we went outside the

bar, he was a good boy, he knew how to duke, and it went

along fairly even, then they stopped it and we went

back in and drank another couple of hours. I walked

back up to my place, put on Beethoven’s 5th and

when they beat on the walls I beat

back.

I keep thinking of myself young, then, the way I was,

and I can hardly believe it but I don’t mind it.

I hope the artists are still proud of me

but they never came back

again.

the war came running in and next I knew

I was in New Orleans

walking into a bar drunk

after falling down in the mud on a rainy night.

I saw one man stab another and I walked over and

put a nickle in the juke box.

it was a beginning. San

Francisco and New Orleans were two of my

favorite towns.

I went over the other day

to pick up my daughter.

her mother came out with workman’s

overalls on.

I gave her the child support money

and she laid a sheaf of poems on me by one

Manfred Anderson.

I read them.

he’s great, she said.

does he send this shit out? I asked.

oh no, she said, Manfred wouldn’t do that.

why?

well, I don’t know exactly.

listen, I said, you know all the poets who

don’t send their shit out.

the magazines aren’t ready for them, she said,

they’re too far advanced for publication.

oh for christ’s sake, I said, do you really

believe that?

yes, yes, I really believe that, she

answered.

look, I said, you don’t even have the kid ready

yet. she doesn’t have her shoes on. can’t you

put her shoes on?

your daughter is 8 years old, she said,

she can put her own shoes on.

listen, I said to my daughter, for christ’s sake

will you put your shoes on?

Manfred never screams, said her mother.

OH HOLY JESUS CHRIST! I yelled

you see, you see? she said, you haven’t changed.

what time is it? I asked.

4:30. Manfred did submit some poems once, she said,

but they sent them back and he was
terribly

upset.

you’ve got your shoes on, I said to my daughter,

let’s go.

her mother walked to the door with us.

have a nice day, she said.

fuck off, I said.

when she closed the door there was a sign pasted to

the outside. it said:

SMILE.

I didn’t.

we drove down Pico on the way in.

I stopped outside the Red Ox.

I’ll be right back, I told my daughter.

I walked in, sat down, and ordered a scotch and

water. over the bar there was a little guy popping in and

out of a door holding a very red, curved penis

in his hand.

can’t

can’t you make him stop? I asked the barkeep.

can’t you shut that thing off?

what’s the matter with you, buddy? he asked.

I submit my poems to the magazines, I said.

you submit your poems to the magazines? he asked.

you are god damned right I do, I said.

I finished my drink and got back to the car.

I drove down Pico Boulevard.

the remainder of the day was bound to be better.

this woman keeps phoning me

even though I tell her I am living with a woman

I love.

I keep hearing noises in the environment,

she phones,

I thought it was you.

me? I haven’t been drunk for several

days.

well, maybe it wasn’t you but I felt it was

somebody who was trying to help

me.

maybe it was God. do you think He’s there?

yes, He’s a hook from the ceiling.

I thought so.

I’m growing tomatoes in my basement,

she says.

that’s sensible.

I want to move, where shall I move?

north is obvious, west is the ocean. the east is the

past. south is the only way.

south?

yes, but not past the border. it’s death to

gringos.

what’s Salinas like? she asks.

if you like lettuce

go to Salinas.

suddenly she hangs up. she always does that. and she

always phones back in a day or a week or a

month. she’ll be at my funeral with tomatoes and the

yellow pages of the phonebook stuck into the pockets of

her mince-brown overcoat in 97 degree heat,

I have a way with the ladies.