CHARLES BUKOWSKI
HOT WATER MUSIC
for Michael Montfort
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Less Delicate than the Locust
Scream When You Burn
A Couple of Gigolos
The Great Poet
You Kissed Lilly
Hot Lady
It’s a Dirty World
900 Pounds
Decline and Fall
Have You Read Pirandello?
Strokes to Nowhere
Some Mother
Scum Grief
Not Quite Bernadette
Some Hangover
A Working Day
The Man Who Loved Elevators
Head Job
Turkeyneck Morning
In and Out and Over
I Love You, Albert
White Dog Hunch
Long Distance Drunk
How To Get Published
Spider
The Death of the Father I
The Death of the Father II
Harry Ann Landers
Beer at the Corner Bar
The Upward Bird
Cold Night
A Favor for Don
Praying Mantis
Broken Merchandise
Home Run
Fooling Marie
About the Author
Other Books by Charles Bukowski
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
LESS DELICATE THAN THE LOCUST
“Balls,” he said, “I’m tired of painting. Let’s go out. I’m tired of the stink of oils, I’m tired of being great. I’m tired of waiting to die. Let’s go out.”
“Go out where?” she asked.
“Anywhere. Eat, drink, see.”
“Jorg,” she said, “what will I do when you die?”
“You will eat, sleep, fuck, piss, shit, clothe yourself, walk around and bitch.”
“I need security.”
“We all do.”
“I mean, we’re not married. I won’t even be able to collect your insurance.”
“That’s all right, don’t worry about it. Besides, you don’t believe in marriage, Arlene.”
Arlene was sitting in the pink chair reading the afternoon newspaper. “You say five thousand women want to sleep with you. Where does that leave me?”
“Five thousand and one.”
“You think I can’t get another man?”
“No, there’s no problem for you. You can get another man in three minutes.”
“You think I need a great painter?”
“No, you don’t. A good plumber would do.”
“Yes, as long as he loved me.”
“Of course. Put on your coat. Let’s go out.”
They came down the stairway from the top loft. All around were cheap, roach-filled rooms, but nobody seemed to be starving: they always seemed to be cooking things in large pots and sitting around, smoking, cleaning their fingernails, drinking cans of beer or sharing a tall blue bottle of white wine, screaming at each other or laughing, or farting, belching, scratching or asleep in front of the tv. Not many people in the world had very much money but the less money they had the better they seemed to live. Sleep, clean sheets, food, drink and hemorrhoid ointment were their only needs. And they always left their doors a bit open.
“Fools,” said Jorg as they walked down the stairway, “they twaddle away their lives and clutter up mine.”
“Oh, Jorg,” Arlene sighed. “You just don’t like people, do you?”
Jorg arched an eyebrow at her, didn’t answer. Arlene’s response to his feelings for the masses was always the same—as if not loving the people revealed an unforgivable shortcoming of soul. But she was an excellent fuck and pleasant to have around—most of the time.
They reached the boulevard and walked along, Jorg with his red and white beard and broken yellow teeth and bad breath, purple ears, frightened eyes, stinking torn overcoat and white ivory cane. When he felt worst he felt best. “Shit,” he said, “everything shits until it dies.”
Arlene bobbled her ass, making no secret of it, and Jorg pounded the pavement with his cane, and even the sun looked down and said, Ho ho. Finally they reached the old dingy building where Serge lived. Jorg and Serge had both been painting for many years but it was not until recently that their work sold for more than pig farts. They had starved together, now they were getting famous separately. Jorg and Arlene entered the hotel and began climbing the stairway. The smell of iodine and frying chicken was in the halls. In one room somebody was getting fucked and making no secret of it. They climbed to the top loft and Arlene knocked. The door popped open and there was Serge. “Peek-a-boo!” he said. Then he blushed. “Oh, sorry…come in.”
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” asked Jorg.
“Sit down. I thought it was Lila…”
“You play peek-a-boo with Lila?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Serge, you’ve got to get rid of that girl, she’s destroying your mind.”
“She sharpens my pencils.”
“Serge, she’s too young for you.”
“She’s 30.”
“And you’re 60. That’s 30 years.”
“Thirty years is too much?”
“Of course.”
“How about 20?” asked Serge, looking at Arlene.
“Twenty years is acceptable. Thirty years is obscene.”
“Why don’t you both get women your own age?” asked Arlene.
They both looked at her. “She likes to make little jokes,” said Jorg. “Yes,” said Serge, “she is funny. Come on, look, I’ll show you what I’m doing…”
They followed him into the bedroom. He took off his shoes and lay flat on the bed. “See? Like this? All the comforts.” Serge had his paint brushes on long handles and he painted on a canvas fastened to the ceiling. “It’s my back. Can’t paint ten minutes without stopping. This way I go on for hours.”
“Who mixes your colors?”
“Lila. I tell her, ‘Stick it in the blue. Now a bit of green.’ She’s quite good. Eventually I might even let her work the brushes, too, and I’ll just lay around and read magazines.”
Then they heard Lila coming up the stairway. She opened the door, came across the front room and entered the bedroom. “Hey,” she said, “I see the old fuck’s painting.”
“Yeah,” said Jorg, “he claims you hurt his back.”
“I said no such thing.”
“Let’s go out and eat,” said Arlene. Serge moaned and got up.
“Honest to Christ,” said Lila. “He just lays around like a sick frog most of the time.”
“I need a drink,” said Serge. “I’ll snap back.”
They went down to the street together and moved toward The Sheep’s Tick. Two young men in their mid-20’s ran up. They had on turtleneck sweaters. “Hey, you guys are the painters, Jorg Swenson and Serge Maro!”
“Get the hell out of the way!” said Serge.
Jorg swung his ivory cane. He got the shorter of the young men right on the knee. “Shit,” the young man said, “you’ve broken my leg!”
“I hope so,” said Jorg. “Maybe you’ll learn some damned civility!”
They moved on toward The Sheep’s Tick. As they entered a buzzing arose from the diners. The headwaiter immediately rushed up, bowing and waving menus and speaking endearments in Italian, French and Russian.
“Look at that long, black hair in his nostrils,” said Serge. “Truly sickening!”
“Yes,” said Jorg, and then he shouted at the waiter, “HIDE YOUR NOSE!”
“Five bottles of your best wine!” screamed Serge, as they sat down at the best table.
The headwaiter van
ished. “You two are real assholes,” said Lila.
Jorg ran his hand up her leg. “Two living immortals are allowed certain indiscretions.”
“Get your hand off my pussy, Jorg.”
“It’s not your pussy. It’s Serge’s pussy.”
“Get your hand off Serge’s pussy or I’ll scream.”
“My will is weak.”
She screamed. Jorg removed his hand. The headwaiter came toward them with the wagon and bucket of chilled wine. He rolled it up, bowed and pulled one cork. He filled Jorg’s glass. Jorg drained it. “It’s shit, but O.K. Open the bottles!”
“All the bottles?”
“All the bottles, asshole, and be quick about it!”
“He’s clumsy,” said Serge. “Look at him. Shall we dine?”
“Dine?” said Arlene. “All you guys do is drink. I don’t think I’ve seen either of you eat more than a soft-boiled egg.”
“Get out of my sight, coward,” Serge said to the waiter.
The headwaiter vanished.
“You guys shouldn’t talk to people that way,” said Lila.
“We’ve paid our dues,” said Serge.
“You’ve got no right,” said Arlene.
“I suppose not,” said Jorg, “but it’s interesting.”
“People don’t have to take that crap,” said Lila.
“People accept what they accept,” said Jorg. “They accept far worse.”
“It’s your paintings they want, that’s all,” said Arlene.
“We are our paintings,” said Serge.
“Women are stupid,” said Jorg.
“Be careful,” said Serge. “They also are capable of terrible acts of vengeance…”
They sat for a couple of hours drinking the wine.
“Man is less delicate than the locust,” said Jorg finally.
“Man is the sewer of the universe,” said Serge.
“You guys are really assholes,” said Lila.
“Sure are,” said Arlene.
“Let’s switch tonight,” said Jorg. “I’ll fuck your pussy and you fuck mine.”
“Oh no,” said Arlene, “none of that.”
“Right,” said Lila.
“I feel like painting now,” said Jorg. “I’m bored with drinking.”
“I feel like painting, too,” said Serge.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Jorg.
“Listen,” said Lila, “you guys haven’t paid the bill yet.”
“Bill?” screamed Serge. “You don’t think we are going to pay money for this rotgut?”
“Let’s go,” said Jorg.
As they rose, the head waiter came up with the bill.
“This rotgut stinks,” screamed Serge, jumping up and down. “I would never ask anyone to pay for stuff like this! I want you to know the proof is in the piss!”
Serge grabbed a half-full bottle of the wine, ripped open the waiter’s shirt and poured the wine over his chest. Jorg held his ivory cane like a sword. The headwaiter looked confused. He was a beautiful young man with long fingernails and an expensive apartment. He was studying chemistry and had once won second prize in an opera competition. Jorg swung his cane and caught the waiter, hard, just below the left ear. The waiter turned very white and swayed. Jorg hit him three more times in the same spot and he dropped.
They walked out together, Serge, Jorg, Lila and Arlene. They were all drunk but there was a certain stature about them, something unique. They got out the door and went down the street.
A young couple seated at a table near the door had watched the entire proceedings. The young man looked intelligent, only a rather large mole near the end of his nose marred the effect. His girl was fat but lovable in a dark blue dress. She had once wanted to be a nun.
“Weren’t they magnificent?” asked the young man.
“They were assholes,” said the girl.
The young man waved for a third bottle of wine. It was going to be another difficult night.
SCREAM WHEN YOU BURN
Henry poured a drink and looked out the window at the hot and bare Hollywood street. Jesus Christ, it had been a long haul and he was still up against the wall. Death was next, death was always there. He’d made a dumb mistake and bought an underground newspaper and they were still idolizing Lenny Bruce. There was a photo of him, dead, right after the bad fix. All right, Lenny had been funny at times: “I can’t come!”—that bit had been a masterpiece but Lenny really hadn’t been all that good. Persecuted, all right, sure, physically and spiritually. Well, we all ended up dead, that was just mathematics. Nothing new. It was waiting around that was the problem. The phone rang. It was his girlfriend.
“Listen, you son of a bitch, I’m tired of your drinking. I had enough of that with my father…”
“Oh hell, it’s not all that bad.”
“It is, and I’m not going through it again.”
“I tell you, you’re making too much of it.”
“No, I’ve had it, I tell you, I’ve had it. I saw you at the party, sending out for more whiskey, that’s when I left. I’ve had it, I’m not going to take any more…”
She hung up. He walked over and poured a scotch and water. He walked into the bedroom with it, took off his shirt, pants, shoes, stockings. In his shorts he went to bed with the drink. It was 15 minutes to noon. No ambition, no talent, no chance. What kept him off the row was raw luck and luck never lasted. Well, it was too bad about Lu, but Lu wanted a winner. He emptied the glass and stretched out. He picked up Camus’ Resistance, Rebellion and Death…read some pages. Camus talked about anguish and terror and the miserable condition of Man but he talked about it in such a comfortable and flowery way…his language…that one got the feeling that things neither affected him nor his writing. In other words, things might as well have been fine. Camus wrote like a man who had just finished a large dinner of steak and french fries, salad, and had topped it with a bottle of good French wine. Humanity may have been suffering but not him. A wise man, perhaps, but Henry preferred somebody who screamed when they burned. He dropped the book to the floor and tried to sleep. Sleep was always difficult. If he could sleep three hours in 24 he was satisfied. Well, he thought, the walls are still here, give a man four walls and he had a chance. Out on the streets, nothing could be done.
The doorbell rang. “Hank!” somebody screamed. “Hey, Hank!”
What the shit? he thought. Now what?
“Yeah?” he asked, lying there in his shorts.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“Wait a minute…”
He got up, picked up his shirt and pants and walked into the front room.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting dressed…”
“Getting dressed?”
“Yeah.”
It was ten minutes after 12. He opened the door. It was the professor from Pasadena who taught English lit. He had a looker with him. The prof introduced the looker. She was an editor in one of the large New York publishing houses.
“Oh you sweet thing,” he said, and walked up and squeezed her right thigh. “I love you.”
“You’re fast,” she said.
“Well, you know writers have always had to kiss the asses of publishers.”
“I thought it was the other way around.”
“It isn’t. It’s the writer who’s starving.”
“She wants to see your novel.”
“All I have is a hardcover. I can’t give her a hardcover.”
“Let her have one. They might buy it,” said the prof.
They were talking about his novel, Nightmare. He figured she just wanted a free copy of the novel.
“We were going to Del Mar but Pat wanted to see you in the flesh.”
“How nice.”
“Hank read his poems to my class. We gave him $50. He was frightened and crying. I had to push him out in front of my class.”
“I was indignant. Only $50. Auden used to get $2,000. I don’t think he’s th
at much better than I am. In fact…”
“Yes, we know what you think.”
Henry gathered up the old Racing Forms from around the editor’s feet.
“People owe me $1100. I can’t collect. The sex mags have become impossible. I’ve gotten to know the girl in the front office. One Clara. ‘Hello, Clara,’ I phone her, ‘did you have a nice breakfast?’ ‘Oh yes, Hank, did you?’ ‘Sure,’ I tell her, ‘two hard-boiled eggs.’ ‘I know what you’re phoning about,’ she answers. ‘Sure,’ I tell her, ‘the same thing.’ ‘Well, we have it right here, our p.o. 984765 for $85.’ ‘And there’s another one, Clara, your p.o. 973895 for five stories, $570.’ ‘Oh yes, well I’ll try to get these signed by Mr. Masters.’ ‘Thank you, Clara,’ I tell her. ‘Oh that’s all right,’ she says, ‘you fellows deserve your money.’ ‘Sure,’ I say. And then she says, ‘And if you don’t get your money you’ll phone again, won’t you? Ha, ha, ha.’ ‘Yes, Clara,’ I tell her, ‘I’ll phone again.’”
The professor and the editor laughed.