Run With the Hunted (39 page)

rickets or crickets or mice or termites or

roaches or flies or a

broken hook on a

screen, or out of gas

or too much gas,

the sink's stopped-up, the landlord's drunk,

the president doesn't care and the governor's

crazy.

lightswitch broken, mattress like a

porcupine;

$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at

Sears Roebuck;

and the phone bill's up and the market's

down

and the toilet chain is

broken,

and the light has burned out—

the hall light, the front light, the back light,

the inner light; it's

darker than hell

and twice as

expensive.

then there's always crabs and ingrown toenails

and people who insist they're

your friends;

there's always that and worse;

leaky faucet, Christ and Christmas;

blue salami, 9 day rains,

50 cent avocados

and purple

liverwurst.

or making it

as a waitress at Norm's on the split shift,

or as an emptier of

bedpans,

or as a carwash or a busboy

or a stealer of old lady's purses

leaving them screaming on the sidewalks

with broken arms at the age of

80.

suddenly

2 red lights in your rear view mirror

and blood in your

underwear;

toothache, and $979 for a bridge

$300 for a gold

tooth,

and China and Russia and America, and

long hair and short hair and no

hair, and beards and no

faces, and plenty of
zigzag
but no

pot, except maybe one to piss in and

the other one around your

gut.

with each broken shoelace

out of one hundred broken shoelaces,

one man, one woman, one

thing

enters a

madhouse.

so be careful

when you

bend over.

if we take what we can see—

the engines driving us mad,

lovers finally hating;

this fish in the market

staring upward into our minds;

flowers rotting, flies web-caught;

riots, roars of caged lions,

clowns in love with dollar bills,

nations moving people like pawns;

daylight thieves with beautiful

nighttime wives and wines;

the crowded jails,

the commonplace unemployed,

dying grass, 2-bit fires;

men old enough to love the grave.

These things, and others, in content

show fife swinging on a rotten axis.

But they've left us a bit of music

and a spiked show in the corner,

a jigger of scotch, a blue necktie,

a small volume of poems by Rimbaud,

a horse running as if the devil were

twisting his tail

over bluegrass and screaming, and then,

love again

like a streetcar turning the corner

on time,

the city waiting,

the wine and the flowers,

the water walking across the lake

and summer and winter and summer and summer

and winter again.

you won't see them often

for wherever the crowd is

they

are not.

these odd ones, not

many

but from them

come

the few

good paintings

the few

good symphonies

the few

good books

and other

works.

and from the

best of the

strange ones

perhaps

nothing.

they are

their own

paintings

their own

books

their own

music

their own

work.

sometimes I think

I see

them—say

a certain old

man

sitting on a

certain bench

in a certain

way

or

a quick face

going the other

way

in a passing

automobile

or

there's a certain motion

of the hands

of a bag-boy or a bag-

girl

while packing

supermarket

groceries.

sometimes

it is even somebody

you have been

living with

for some

time—

you will notice

a

lightning quick

glance

never seen

from them

before.

sometimes

you will only note

their

existence

suddenly

in

vivid

recall

some months

some years

after they are

gone.

I remember

such a

one—

he was about

20 years old

drunk at

10 a.m.

staring into

a cracked

New Orleans

mirror

face dreaming

against the

walls of

the world

where

did I

go?

I can see myself now

after all these suicide days and nights,

being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes

(of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky)

by a subnormal and bored nurse …

there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair …

almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull

looking

for the mercy of death …

“Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?”

“O, yeah, yeah …”

the children walk past and I don't even exist

and lovely women walk by

with big hot hips

and warm buttocks and tight hot everything

praying to be loved

and I don't even

exist …

“It's the first sunlight we've had in 3 days,

Mr. Bukowski.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.”

there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair,

myself whiter than this sheet of paper,

bloodless,

brain gone, gamble gone, me, Bukowski,

gone …

“Isn't it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?”

“O, yeah, yeah …” pissing in my pajamas, slop drooling out of my mouth.

2 young schoolboys run by—

“Hey, did you see that old guy?”

“Christ, yes, he made me sick!”

after all the threats to do so

somebody else has committed suicide for me

at last.

the nurse stops the wheelchair, breaks a rose from a nearby bush,

puts it in my hand.

I don't even know

what it is. it might as well be my pecker

for all the good

it does.

Edna was walking down the street with her bag of groceries when she passed the automobile. There was a sign in the side window:

WOMAN WANTED
.

She stopped. There was a large piece of cardboard in the window with some material pasted on it. Most of it was typewritten. Edna couldn't read it from where she stood on the sidewalk. She could only see the large letters:

WOMAN WANTED
.

It was an expensive new car. Edna stepped forward on the grass to read the typewritten portion:

Man age 49. Divorced. Wants to meet woman for marriage. Should be 35 to 44. Like television and motion pictures. Good food. I am a cost accountant, reliably employed. Money in bank. I like women to be on the fat side.

Edna was 37 and on the fat side. There was a phone number. There were also three photos of the gentleman in search of a woman. He looked quite staid in a suit and necktie. Also he looked dull and a little cruel. And made of wood, thought Edna, made of wood.

Edna walked off, smiling a bit. She also had a feeling of repulsion. By the time she reached her apartment she had forgotten about him. It was some hours later, sitting in the bathtub, that she thought about him again and this time she thought how truly lonely he must be to do such a thing:

WOMAN WANTED
.

She thought of him coming home, finding the gas and phone bills in the mailbox, undressing, taking a bath, the TV. on. Then the evening paper. Then into the kitchen to cook. Standing there in his shorts, staring down at the frying pan. Taking his food and walking to a table, eating it. Drinking his coffee. Then more T.V. And maybe a lonely can of beer before bed. There were millions of men like that all over America.

Edna got out of the tub, toweled, dressed and left her apartment. The car was still there. She took down the man's name, Joe Lighthill, and the phone number. She read the typewritten section again. “Motion pictures.” What an odd term to use. People said “movies” now.
W
OMAN
W
ANTED
. The sign was very bold. He was original there.

When Edna got home she had three cups of coffee before dialing the number. The phone rang four times. “Hello?” he answered.

“Mr. Lighthill?”

“Yes?”

“I saw your ad. Your ad on the car.”

“Oh, yes.”

“My name's Edna.”

“How you doing, Edna?”

“Oh, I'm all right. It's been so hot. This weather's too much.”

“Yes, it makes it difficult to live.”

“Well, Mr. Lighthill …”

“Just call me Joe.”

“Well, Joe, hahaha, I feel like a fool. You know what I'm calling about?”

“You saw my sign?”

“I mean, hahaha, what's wrong with you? Can't you get a woman?”

“I guess not, Edna. Tell me, where are they?”

“Women?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, everywhere, you know.”

“Where? Tell me. Where?”

“Well, church, you know. There are women in church.”

“I don't like church.”

“Oh.”

“Listen, why don't you come over, Edna?”

“You mean over there?”

“Yes. I have a nice place. We can have a drink, talk. No pressure.”

“It's late.”

“It's not that late. Listen, you saw my sign. You must be interested.”

“Well …”

“You're scared, that's all. You're just scared.”

“No, I'm not scared.”

“Then come on over, Edna.”