Notes of a Dirty Old Man. Charles Bukowski

fielder? I don’t see him,” said Bugsy, lighting up a five buck cigar.

      “our center fielder has gone back to heaven due to one of your $3.50 Sears-Roebuck hacksaws.”

      Bugsy laughed. “a guy like me can piss in a mule’s eye and come up with a mint julep. that’s why I am where I am.”

      “who’s the beautiful lady?” I asked.

      “oh, this is Helena. Helena, this is Tim Bailey, the worst manager in baseball.”

      Helena crossed those nylon things called legs and I forgave Crispin for everything.

      “nice to meetcha, Mr. Bailey.”

      “yeah.”

      the game began. it was old times. by the 7th inning we were behind 10 to 0. Bugsy was feeling damn good by then, feeling this broad’s legs, rubbing up against her, having the whole world in his pocket. he turned to me and handed me a five buck cigar. I lit up.

      “was this guy really an angel?” he asked me, kind of smiling.

      “he said to call him J.C. for short, but damned if I know.”

      “looks like Man has beat God nearly everytime they have tangled,” he said.

      “I don’t know,” I said, “but the way I figure it, cutting a man’s wings off is kind of like cutting his cock off.”

      “maybe so. but the way I see it, the strong make things go.”

      “or death makes things stop. which one is it?”

      I pulled the luger out and put it at the back of his head.

      “for Christ’s sake, Bailey! get hold of yourself! I’ll give you half of everything I’ve got! no, I’ll give you everything I’ve got — this broad, everything, the works — just take that gun away from my head!”

      “if you think killing is strong, then TASTE some strong!”

      I pulled the trigger. it was awful. a luger. parts of eggshell head, and brain and blood everywhere: over me, over her nylon legs, her dress …

      the game was held up an hour while they got us out of there — the dead Bugsy, his crazy hysterical woman, and me. then they finished out the innings.

      God over Man; Man over God. mother preserved strawberries while everything was so very sick.

      it was the next day in my cell when the screw handed me the paper:

      “BLUES PULL IT OUT IN 14th INNING, WIN 12-11 GAME AND PENNANT.”

      I walked to the cell window, 8 floors up. I balled the paper up and jammed it through the bars, I jammed and jolted the paper up and shoved it through the bars and as it fell through the air I watched it, it spread, it seemed to have wings, well, horseshit on that, it floated down like any piece of unfolding paper does, toward the sea, those white and blue waves down there and I couldn’t touch them, God beat Man always and continually, God being Whatever It Was — a cocksucker machinegun or the painting of Klee, well, and now, those nylon legs folding around another damn fool. Malone owed me 250 grand and couldn’t pay off. J.C. with wings, J.C. without wings, J.C. on a cross, I was still a little alive and I walked back across the floor, sat upon that prison pot without a lid and began to shit, x-major league manager, x-man, and a slight wind came through the bars and a slight way to go.

      ________

      it was hot in there. I went to the piano and played the piano. I didn’t know how to play the piano. I just hit the keys. some people danced on the couch. then I looked under the piano and saw a girl stretched out under there, her dress up around her hips. I played with one hand, reached under and copped a feel with the other. either the bad music or copping that feel woke up the girl. she climbed out from under the piano. the people stopped dancing on the couch. I made it to the couch and slept for fifteen minutes. I hadn’t slept for two nights and two days. it was hot in there, hot. when I awakened I vomited in a coffee cup. then that was full and I had to let go on the couch. somebody brought a large pot. just in time. I let it go. sour. everything was sour.

      I got up and walked into the bathroom. two guys were in there naked. one of them had some shaving cream and a brush and was lathering up the other guy’s cock and balls.

      “listen, I got to take a shit,” I told them.

      “go ahead,” said the guy being lathered, “we ain’t bothering you.”

      I went ahead and sat down.

      the guy with the brush said to the guy being lathered, “I hear Simpson got fired from Club 86.”

      “KPFK,” said the other guy, “they can more people than Douglas Aircraft, Sears Roebuck and Thrifty Drugs combined. one wrong word, one sentence out of line with their pre-baked conceptions of humanity, politics, art, so forth, and you’ve had it. the only safe guy on KPFK is Eliot Mintz — he’s like a kid’s toy accordion: no matter how you squeeze him you get the same sound.”

      “now go ahead,” said the guy with the brush.

      “go ahead what?”

      “rub your dick until it gets hard.”

      I dropped a big one.

      “jesus!” said the guy with the brush, but he no longer had the brush. he’d thrown it in the sink.

      “jesus what?” said the other guy.

      “you got a head on that thing like a mallet!”

      “I had an accident once, it caused it.”

      “I wish I could have an accident that way.”

      I dropped another one.

      “now go ahead.”

      “go ahead what?”

      “bend way back and slip it between your upper legs.”

      “like this?”

      “yeah.”

      “now what?”

      “bring your belly down. slide it. back and forth. make your legs tight. that’s it! see! you’ll never need another woman!”

      “oh Harry, it just ain’t like pussy! what you giving me? you’re giving me a lot of shit!”

      “it just takes PRACTICE! you’ll see! you’ll see!”

      I wiped, flushed and got out of there.

      I went to the refrigerator and got another can of beer, I got 2 cans of beer, opened them both and began on the first one. I figured that I was someplace in North Hollywood. I sat across from some guy with a red tin helmet on and a two foot beard. he’d been brilliant for a couple of nights but was coming down off the speed and was out of speed. but he hadn’t hit the sleep stage yet, just the sad and vacant stage. just maybe hoping for a joint but nobody was showing anything.

      “Big Jack,” I said.

      “Bukowski, you owe me 40 dollars,” said Big Jack.

      “listen, Jack, I have this idea that I gave you 20 dollars the other night. I really have this idea. I remember this 20.”

      “but you don’t remember, do you Bukowski? because you were drunk, Bukowski, that’s why you don’t remember!”

      Big Jack had this thing against drunks.

      his girl friend Maggy was sitting next to him. “you gave him a 20, all right, but it was because you wanted some more to drink. we went out and got you some stuff and brought you the change.”

      “all right. but where are we? North Hollywood?”

      “no, Pasadena.”

      “Pasadena? I don’t believe it.”

      I had been watching these people go behind this big curtain.