Of course, I had lost my job and was sitting on my last month’s rent. The end was working toward me. They had just finished the demolition of the L.A. County General Hospital so I had no place to go. I had lost 48 pounds, was starving, but still, in a cowardly way, I thought, well, at least almost ALL of my writing has been non-political. I will be allowed to die of starvation instead of being murdered, but like George said, it was my own fault: I just couldn’t play a good game of chess. God protects those who protect themselves. All that shit.
So I was somewhat surprised when the 3 men arrived and showed me their badges. They seated themselves about me.
“Well, Slim, we gotta ask ya some questions.”
“Shoot!” I said.
One of the motherfuckers drew out a gun and leveled it at me, clicking off the safety latch.
“WAIT, MAN! THAT’S JUST AN EXPRESSION!”
“Oh?” he said and put the gun back.
“You’re Charles Bukowski?” the big one asked.
“Yeh.”
“You used to work for that son of a bitch Bryan?”
“Yeh.”
“We’ve gone over your stuff. Mostly sex shit. I kinda liked it. Especially where you stuck your dick up your buddy’s ass because you were drunk and you thought you were in bed with your girl. Did that really happen?”
“Yeh.”
“So we checked out the 192 articles you wrote in 192 weeks and only ONE of them wuz about POLITICS . . .”
“The one on the merits and demerits of Revolution. Yes, I remember it.”
“But we don’t quite understand it. What did it mean?”
“It meant that unless your soul and hand were straight, Revolution was useless—it only meant substituting one kind of Economic Slavery for another. It meant, if you were going to kill somebody make sure you had something at least 5 times as good to replace it with.”
All three of them sat back writing in little notebooks.
“Is Hitler really alive in Argentina?” I asked.
“Uhh, huh,” the big one said. “He’s coming up next month to vacation in Vegas. He keeps asking for postcards of those chorus girls. You know, the last thing to die on an old German is his dick.”
“Yeh?”
“Hey.”
They all put their pencils down and looked at me. They didn’t say anything for 5 minutes. Part of some kind of training they were put through. Finally the big one said, “Mr. Bukowski?”
“Yeh?”
“Would you allow your daughter to marry a nigger?”
“Yeh.”
“WHAT?”
They all leaned a bit forward.
“Oh,” I said, “I mean, it’s all up to her. I mean, the kid’s only four. I don’t think she wants to marry anybody yet.”
They stared at me a long time again.
“Did you like the hippies?” (The hippies had long ago been exterminated.)
“Not really. But they never hurt me or bothered me. What more can you ask?”
“Are you for the war in Vietnam?”
“I’ve never been for any war. I wasn’t even for the war against Hitler.”
“Atta boy!” said the middle-sized one, putting his gun back.
Again they sat for a long time, just looking at me.
“Well, I’m afraid we gotta take you in, Bukowski,” the big guy said.
“All right, at least I’ll get some food in jail.”
They all laughed at that.
“No, the new jail system is juz jail them. Don’t feed them. Saves a hellulota money for the state.”
“God bless the State,” I said, “and while He’s at it He might as well bless the Saturday Evening Post.”
“Oh no,” said the big one. “The Saturday Evening Post has been burned.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Too left-wing,” said the fat boy.
“Jesus Christ,” I said, “let’s get out of here and get it done with.”
“Before we get you down there and work you over,” said the fat boy, “I just want to let you have one bit of mental unhappiness.”
“Shoot!” I said. “No, I mean, tell me about it.”
They put the bracelets on me. And walked me toward the door. The middle-sized one farted. A sign of happiness.
“Since you are being taken out of circulation, I am free to tell you this.”
He looked at his watch. “We have been careful not to have any leaks, so I can tell you this. A shit like you deserves unhappiness.”
“All right. Let me have it.”
We walked toward the door. Fat boy looked at his watch.
“In exactly 2 hours and 16 minutes Vice President Le-May will push the button that will set a fusillade of Hbombs upon N. Vietnam, China, Russia and other selected spots. What do you think of that?”
“I think it is a tactical mistake,” I said.
Fat boy reached to open the door. As he opened it, a sheet of red and grey and green and purple spread everywhere. There was lightning. And lily slivers. There were teaspoons and half-dogs, ladies stockings, torn cunt, history books, rugs, belts, turtles, teacups, marmalade and spiders flying through the air. I looked around and Fatso was gone and middle-size was gone and the little little shit was gone and the bracelets were broken on my wrists and I was standing in a bathtub and I looked down and I had one ball, a piece of cock, and there were eyes rolling along the ground like ants. Green, brown, blue, yellow, even albino eyes. Fuck. I got out of the tub. Found half a chair. Sat down. I watched my whole left arm shrivel up at once like a piece of burning cellophane.
How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm? Everything gone: Picasso, Shakespeare, Plato, Dante, Rodin, Mozart . . . Jackie Gleason. All the lovely girls. Even the pigs eating any kind of swill, so godly. Even the cops in their tight black pants. Even the cops that I had felt so sorry for, trapped in their nastiness. Life had been good, horrible but good and a few heroes had kept us going. Perhaps wrongly chosen heroes, but what the fuck. The polls had been wrong again—the old Harry Truman shit—Wallace had won, sitting in his mountain top hideaway. Spitting out redneck teeth of hatred—2 hours and 16 minutes too late!
Hiroshima was re-named America.
I was in the King’s Crow Bar and this guy sitting next to me asked, “You got any place to stay tonight?”
And I said, “Hell, no, I don’t have any place to stay.”
“O.K., come with me. My name’s Teddy Ralstead.”
So I went with him. That first night I sat in their front room while Teddy and his wife wrestled on the floor. Her dress kept slipping up around her ass and she smiled at me and pulled it down. They wrestled and wrestled and I drank beer.
Teddy’s wife’s name was Helen. And Teddy wasn’t always around. Helen acted like I had known her for years instead of one night.
“You’ve never tried to fuck me, have you, Bukowski?”
“Teddy’s my friend, Helen.”
“Shit! This is your friend too,” she said pulling her dress up. She didn’t have any panties on.
“Where’s Teddy?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about Teddy. He wants you to have me.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
We walked into the bedroom. There was Teddy sitting on a chair, smoking a cigarette. Helen pulled her dress off and climbed onto the bed.
“Go ahead,” said Teddy, “do it.”
“But Teddy, it’s your wife.”
“I know it’s my wife.”
“I mean, look Teddy—”
“I’ll give you ten bucks to do it,” he said. “Is it a deal, Bukowski?”
“Ten bucks?”
“That’s right.”
I took off my clothes and got on.
“Give her a long ride,” said Teddy. “No quickies.”
“I’ll try, but she’s got me going.”
“Just think of a stack of horseshit,” said Teddy.
“Yeah, think of a stac
k of horseshit,” said his wife.
“How tall?” I asked.
“Real tall. Wide. Covered with flies,” said Teddy.
“Thousands of flies,” said Helen, “all eating shit.”
“Flies are sure strange,” I said.
“Your ass looks funny,” Teddy said to me.
“Yours does too,” I said.
“How does my ass look?” asked Helen.
“Please,” I said, “I don’t wanna think about your ass or I’m not gonna last.”
“Try singing the National Anthem,” said Helen.
“Oh, say can you see? By the stars early light? Oh—”
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I don’t know the words.”
“Say anything that comes to your mind then,” said Helen.
“I’m coming,” I said.
“What?” she asked.
“I said, ‘I’m coming!’ ”
“Oh, my gawd!” she said.
We clutched and kissed, moaning. I climbed off. I wiped off on the sheet and Teddy handed me a ten.
“Next time,” he said, “try to last longer or it’s only five bucks.”
“O.K.,” I said.
“Oh, Teddy!” said Helen from the bed.
“What, dear?”
“I love you . . . ”
The second night was a bit different. Teddy and his wife had wrestled on the floor. Then Teddy had disappeared. I was drinking beer and watching television. Helen snapped off the TV and stood in front of it.
“Hey—that was a good program, Helen. Why’d you turn it off?”
“You’re not much of a man, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you like that fried chicken tonight?”
“Sure.”
“Do you like my legs, my hips, my breasts?”
“Sure, sure.”
“Do you like the color of my hair? Do you like the way I walk? Do you like my dress?”
“Sure, sure, sure.”
“You’re not much of a man, are you?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Beat me!”
“Beat you? What for?”
“Don’t you understand? Beat me! Use your belt! Use your hand! Make me cry! Make me scream!”
“Look—”
“Rape me! Hurt me!”
“Look, Mrs. Ralstead . . . ”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, get going!”
I took off my belt and slapped her across the thigh.
“Harder, you fool!”
“Mrs. Ralstead . . . ”
“Be a beast!”
I slammed her across the ass with the buckle. She screamed.
“MORE! MORE!”
I laid the belt to her. All up and down her legs. Then I slapped her and knocked her down, picked her up by the hair.
“Rip my dress!” she said. “Rip my dress to shreds!”
“But Mrs. Ralstead—I like your dress.”
“Oh, you fool—rip my dress!”
I ripped it straight down the front. Then I kept ripping until she didn’t have anything on.
“What do I do now?”
“Hit me! Rape me!”
I hit her again, picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. Teddy was sitting there smoking a cigarette. Helen was sobbing, crying.
“Beautiful!” said Teddy. “Beautiful!”
“You beast!” Helen screamed at me.
“Get her!” said Teddy. “Slam it to her!”
I leaped onto his wife and inserted my penis.
“Make it last,” said Teddy, “no quickies.”
“But she’s got me hot,” I shouted.
“Just think about eating shit,” said Teddy.
“Eating shit?”
“Yes,” said Helen, “with the flies still on it.”
“The flies would fly away if I got the shit close to my mouth,” I said.
“Not these flies,” said Helen. “These flies are different. You swallow them with the shit.”
“O.K.,” I said.
“No quickies,” said Teddy.
“Little boy blue,” I said, “come blow your horn, the cow’s in the meadow, the sheep’s in the corn . . . ”
“You haven’t learned the National Anthem yet?” asked Teddy.
“No.”
“You’re not a very good American, are you Bukowski?”
“I guess I’m not.”
“I’ve never failed to vote,” said Teddy. “This is a great country.”
“Little Jack Horner,” I said, “sat in a corner, eating a pumpkin pie . . . ”
“And along came a spider and sat down beside her,” said Helen.
“Wait a minute,” said Teddy, “is that the way it goes?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Mary had a little lamb and its fleece was white as snow and everywhere that Mary went—I’m coming!”
“What—?” asked Helen.
“I’m coming!”
“Oh, my gawd!” she said.
We clutched and kissed, moaning. I climbed off. I wiped off on the sheet and Teddy handed me a ten.
“Next time,” he said, “try to last a little longer or it’s only one buck.”
“O.K., Teddy,” I said.
“Oh, Teddy!” said Helen from the bed.
“What, dear?”
“I love both of you . . . ”
The third night we were all sitting watching TV. I got up and walked behind Helen. I grabbed her by the hair and pulled her backwards out of her chair. I fell on her and began kissing her legs. Then I heard Teddy get up and he pulled me off of his wife.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “What’s wrong, Teddy?”
“Shut up!” he told me.
He picked Helen up by the hair, then slapped her and knocked her down.
“You whore!” he screamed. “You dirty rotten whore! You filthy whore! You’ve betrayed me with this man! I’ve seen it with my own eyes!”
He picked her up, ripped her dress, slapped her. Then he took off his belt and worked her over good.
“Betraying bitch! You rotten bitch! You’re a disgrace to all womanhood!” He took a moment to look at me: “And you, you bastard, you better get out while you can!”
“But Teddy . . . ”
“I’m warning you, Bukowski.”
He picked Helen up and carried her into the bedroom. I got my coat and walked out, walked down to the King’s Crow Bar and sat down and had a beer. That Teddy. What the hell kind of friend he turned out to be.
Driving in to Los Alamitos racetrack one night I passed this small farm and saw this large creature standing in the moonlight. There was something very odd about this creature, it drew me to it. It seemed a magnet, a signal. I mean, I braked my car and got out and walked toward the creature. I always got off the freeway early and drove past these little farms. It gave my mind time to relax, getting off the freeway like that and driving down a side road to the track took the pressure off of my mind and made a better gambler out of me. I didn’t say a winning one, I said a better one. I really didn’t have time to stop. I was already late for the first race, but there I was walking toward this fenced-in enclosure.
I walked up to the fence and there it was—a huge hog. I’m not much of a farm hand but I felt that this must simply be the largest hog alive, but that wasn’t the thing. There was something in that hog, something that forced me to stop my car. I stood at the fence looking at it. There was the head, and well, I’ll call it a face because that’s exactly what was on the front of the head. This face. Never had I seen a face such as that. I am not sure what had called me to it. People often joke about my ugliness saying I am the ugliest old man they have ever seen. I am rather proud of this. My ugliness was hard-worked for; I was not born that way. I knew it meant a passing through of areas.
I forgot about the races, about everything but that hog’s face. When one ugly admires another there is a transgression of sorts, a touch
ing and exchange of souls, if you will. He, this hog, had the ugliest face I had seen in a lifetime of living. He was covered with warts and wrinkles and hairs, these long single hairs that cropped out obscenely and twisted—every place a hair shouldn’t be. I thought of Blake’s tiger. Blake had wondered how God had created such a thing, and now here was Bukowski’s hog and I wondered what had made that, and how and why. The deep ugliness reoccurred everywhere—it was wondrous. The eyes were small and mean and stupid, what eyes, as if all the evil and crassness that existed everywhere was registered there. And the mouth, the snout was horrible—gross, demented, slobbering, it was a stinking asshole of a snout and mouth. And the flesh of the face was actually decaying, rotting, falling off in pieces. The overall total of that face and body was beyond what could seem to register upon my brain.
My next thought came quickly—it’s human, it’s a human being. It came upon me so strongly that I accepted it. The hog had been standing ten or twelve feet off and then it began moving toward me. I couldn’t move although I felt some terror at its approach. Here it came toward me in the moonlight. It walked up to the fence and raised its head toward me. It was very close. Its eyes looked into my eyes and we stood there that way for some time, I believe, looking into each other. That hog recognized something in me. And I looked into those mean and stupid eyes. It was as if I were being given the secret of the world, and the secret was obvious and real and horrible enough.
It’s human, the thought came again, it’s a human being.
Suddenly it was too much, I had to break off; I turned and walked away. I got into my car and drove toward the racetrack. The hog rode in my brain, in my memory.
At the track I began to look at the faces. I saw a part of this face that fit the hog’s face and I saw a part of that face that fit the hog’s face, and here was another part, and here was another. Then I went to the men’s room and saw my face in the mirror. I am not one to linger before mirrors too long. I went out to bet.
That hog’s face was the sum total of that crowd, somehow. Of crowds everywhere. That hog had added it up and it stood there. It stood there behind that fence on the little farm two or three miles away. It was a night when I didn’t remember too much about the horses. After the races I didn’t have any desire to see the hog again. I took another road up . . .
A few nights later I explained to a friend of mine about the hog, about what I had seen and felt, mainly that the hog was a human caught in that body. My friend was an intellectual, well read.