The Bell Tolls for No One. Charles Bukowski

the young girl is climbing up on my precious reel, bugging me. But since the brought me some 7-UP I will tolerate their indecencies. Now the young boy gets up on my precious reel and dances. Now here comes two more kids. One gets up on the table.

      “What’s your name?” I ask.

      “Genie,” he says.

      “You guys do something exciting so I can write about it. Then GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

      They don’t do anything but bug, bug, bug . . . How would Ernie handle this? Who owns all these? There they go . . .

      There’s hardly enough sex to this column . . . I thought if I stayed in the desert I would get me some solitude. This is worse than Hollywood with all those drunks getting me out of bed at 11 a.m. to hear the sounds of their diminishing souls. I can’t recommend outdoor writing. At least the birds haven’t shit on me. One of those desert kids suggested that I wrote my next on horseback. Well, I tried Phoenix and Phoenix tried me. The sun’s going down now and my legs are immensely disgusted. I suppose it’s too obvious: Writing on an overturned reel in this place. I probably brought some Hollywood with me. If the races aren’t any better than this writing, then I’m a sure loser tomorrow. Meanwhile, it’s pack this machine back and sit down and listen to the ladies tell about screwing broom handles, cucumbers and the like . . . which reminds me of the guy who told me he stuck his into a vacuum cleaner . . . quack, quack, quack. I hear ducks. I whirl with this machine and stride toward that houseful of dirty female novelists . . .

      Iawakened in a strange bedroom in a strange bed with a strange woman in a strange town. I was up against her back and my penis was inserted into her cunt dog-fashion. It was hot in there and my penis was hard. I moved it a little and she moaned. She appeared to be asleep. Her hair was long and dark, quite long; in fact, a portion of it lay across my mouth—I brushed it away to breathe better, then stroked again. I felt hungover. I dropped out and rolled on my back and tried to reconstruct.

      I had flown into town a few days earlier and had given a poetry reading . . . . when? . . . the night before. It was a hot town. Kandel had read there 2 weeks earlier. And just before that the National Guard had managed to bayonet a few folk on campus. I liked an action town. My reading had gone all right. I had opened a pint and gone on through it. The regents and the English dept. had backed down at the last moment and I had to go on backed by student funds.

      After the reading there had been a party. Vodka, beer, wine, scotch, gin, whiskey. We sat on the rug and drank and talked. There had been one next to me . . . . long black hair, one tooth missing in the front when she smiled. That missing tooth had endeared me. That was it, and there I was.

      I got up to get a drink of water. Nice place. Large. I saw two babies crawling in a crib. No, it was one baby. One was in the crib, crawling. The other was outside walking around naked. A clock said 9:45 a.m. Well, it didn’t say 9: 45 a.m. I went into the kitchen and sterilized a bottle and warmed some milk. I gave the baby the bottle and he went right at it. I gave the walking kid an apple. I couldn’t find any seltzer. There were 2 beers left in the refrigerator. I drank another glass of water and opened the beer. Nice kitchen. Nice young girl. Missing tooth. Nice missing tooth.

      I finished the one beer, opened the other, cracked 2 eggs, put on chili powder and salt, and ate. Then I walked into the other room and this kid said, “I can see your Peter.” And I told him, “I can see your Peter too.” Over on the mantle I saw a letter, opened, addressed to a Mrs. Nancy Ferguson. I walked back into the bedroom, placed myself down behind her again.

      “Nancy?”

      “Yes, Hank?”

      “I gave the kid a bottle, the other one an apple.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Your husband?”

      My penis got hard again. I inserted it into her butt.

      “We’re . . . . ouch!—go easy there! . . . we’re separated.”

      “Did you like my reading?”

      “Oooh, goddamn it! Easy there! Yes, the reading was great. I liked it better than Corso’s reading.”

      “Corso? You’ve heard him? How about Kandel?”

      “I missed the Kandel . . . .”

      “I met Corso the other night,” I said.

      “Ah, you’ve met him?—Please! It doesn’t feel bad, but go easy . . . . What was Corso like?”