The Bell Tolls for No One

  “You are charged,” said your honor, after informing me of my rights, “with intoxication and blocking traffic. What do you plead?”

  “Your honor?”

  “Yes?”

  “The intoxication was deliberate. Blocking traffic was not.”

  “Do you realize that those people thought you were a corpse stretched out on that mortuary step?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Do you realize that you caused the worst traffic jam in the history of the city of Inglewood?”

  “No, your honor.”

  “What do you plead?”

  “Guilty, your honor.”

  “32 dollars or ten days.”

  I’ll pay the fine, your honor.”

  “Please see the bailiff . . . ”

  I got off the bus at Alvarado across from the park and walked into the first bar I saw and there was Jane sitting down at the end of the bar. She was sitting between two guys and she had this long silken hanky or scarf flopped over her purse and she was either drinking a vodka or a gin and smoking a cigarette and not talking, and when she saw me her eyes got very wide and I walked toward her slowly. Then I stood near her. “Listen,” I said, “I tried to make a woman out of you but you’ll never be anything but a goddamned whore.”

  “If I wanna . . . ” she started to say. I knew what she was going to say. My hand went out. I couldn’t hold it back. The left hand, open palm. She landed on the floor, screamed. One of the guys helped her up. It was very quiet in that bar. I walked to the entrance. Then I turned and faced them. There were twelve or thirteen guys in there.

  “Now, listen,” I said, “if there’s anybody in here who didn’t like what I just did, JUST SAY SO!”

  I waited. It was a most quiet quiet. I turned and walked out the door. The moment I got to the street I could hear the sound in there, they were all talking.

  She’s right, I thought, if she wants to be a whore that’s her business. I had no right to hit her. I fell in love with a whore. She didn’t ask me to.

  I walked into the next bar and there sat Judy Edwards. Judy would do anything for five dollars. Judy would do anything for a drink. I bought her a scotch and told her I was going to buy a fifth and go up to my place. She said, “What about Jane?” “We’re split,” I said.

  “For good?”

  “For good.”

  We got on up to my place and Judy sat in a chair, crossing her legs and twisting her ankles. She was ready. “Are you sure it’s over?”

  “Yeah, baby,” I said, “yeah, baby, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  I pulled her up from the chair and then I gave her a long slow kiss, watching myself do it in the full-length mirror. Judy pushed me off.

  “You sure she’s gone?”

  “Yeah. I just knocked her on her ass down at Shelby’s.”

  Judy walked over and opened the closet door. “Her clothes are still here. She’ll kill me if she finds me here.”

  “She doesn’t own me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “How long you been with her?”

  “Five years.”

  “She owns you.”

  I grabbed her again. She seemed to be fighting me. We fell backwards over the bed. I fell on top of her. “I blocked traffic in Inglewood, was jailed in Malibu, and tried in Culver City. No wonder our taxes are so high.”

  “Your eyes are open,” she said. “You have the most beautiful eyes. I’ve never seen when you open them. Why don’t you open your eyes more often?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I spread her lips open with mine and then locked my mouth against hers. Her tongue came out and then the door opened. It was Jane. Judy leaped up. They started screaming at each other. Their voices became more and more pitched, yet they seemed to hear each other and answer back and forth.

  I walked over and poured a tall straight one, drank it down, poured another one and sat in a chair and listened and watched. They got closer and closer.

  Suddenly one reached out, I don’t know which, and then they were upon each other, scratching and biting, pulling hair, kicking, screaming. They fell to the floor and rolled over and over. They both knew how to dress—long spiked heels, garter belts, all that feminine wondrous stuff—ankle bracelets, earrings, the works.

  At last I’ve really done something, I thought. I caused the worst traffic jam in the history of the city of Inglewood.

  Their long lovely legs kicked through the air, a lamp leaped from the table and broke. Then I drank half my drink and reached over and turned on the music station. I was in luck. Shostakovich. I hadn’t heard Shostakovich in a long long time.

  A Piece of Cheese

  Rena was hot, that’s all. She had a ground floor apartment in the middle of a row of apartments. They were all one story high with beamed ceilings, fireplaces, beds and pillows all about—at least there were beds and pillows all about in Rena’s place.

  The place was just steeped in sex, even a red telephone, red gown, red pillows, well, and there was Rena and although she wasn’t red, she was hot, that’s all.

  I am oversexed myself. There is definitely something wrong with me, but the best thing for an oversexed man is an oversexed woman. I didn’t say a nymph. A nymph can kill a man. Rena was just hot, that’s all.

  It was summertime so I went over to Rena’s at night.

  Those daytime workouts just got too sweaty. It was just one round of sex after another but it was far from work, it was almost humorous. It was like being in a trance only it was a very good trance.

  We’d decide to wash off after resting up from a good one and we’d get in the shower and begin soaping up and rubbing each other’s parts, laughing, the water first too cold, then too hot, then me hogging the spray. And the next thing you knew, I had it in again, back or front, anywhere. And it’s more difficult standing up, but it can be done.

  We did it everywhere. In the large park behind the brush, in the car, in the kitchen, in the front room, in the bedroom, wherever it struck us

  This one night I came over a bit drunk and I sat in the front room drinking from a good bottle of French wine I had brought along. Rena and I began kissing, and Rena could KISS. She did things to me with her lips and tongue that no other woman ever did.

  Rena had verve and imagination. My imagination isn’t bad either. Soon we were both naked and I was tonguing her all about and vice versa.

  Pretty soon I got hungry and Rena brought me a cheese sandwich. She stood on the coffee table. Rena liked to stand on coffee tables, naked. It brought her thing right about to my face when I stood up. I looked at her there. Then I took the piece of cheese, rolled it up and stuck it in there. Then I stood up and slowly began to nibble at the cheese.

  This had quite an effect on Rena.

  She liked new things. She boiled and cursed, she got so hot she got mad, her lips flecked out and she flushed in the face and along the neck, cursing, her body trembling.

  When I got to the end of the cheese I just kept on eating. She erupted like a damn volcano, then pushed me backwards upon the couch and threw herself upon me.

  It was like being raped. I didn’t mind. We had nothing left after that one.

  I dressed and went home and read one of those many books on the life of Ernest Hemingway, and I thought, I wonder if Ernie did all the things with women that I did? If he did, he must have stopped doing it or he wouldn’t have gone the shotgun way. Such things were too good to leave voluntarily.

  The phone rang. It was Rena.

  “Bukowski, I’m scared.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I think there’s a man at my window. A peeping Tom. I see his head in the window now. I’m in the bedroom. I’m scared. He can come right in here.”

  “I’ll be right over!” I hung up.

  I got in my car and ran two red lights and ignored the stop signs. As I parked, sure enough—here was some guy in a white t-shirt standing behind
this bush by Rena’s window with his head sticking in there. I leaped out of the car.

  “Hey, you son of a bitch!”

  It was a young kid, about 19, blonde, goodlooking. He looked scared though, plenty. And as I ran toward him, he broke from behind the bush and started running down the street. I raced after him but his fear and his youth were too much for me, and I was soon winded.

  About the only exercise I got was hitting the typewriter, plus the sex workouts with Rena.

  He was soon around the corner and gone.

  I walked back.

  It was senseless for a kid like that having to peep. It was just that women were unavailable to some, hard to get. It really wasn’t fair.

  I had decided long ago never to go through all that, but I had simply been lucky all my life. Women tend to like men who tend to disregard them. I was psychologically lucky.

  I rang the bell.

  “Who is it?”

  “Bukowski, Rena.”

  She let me in. “Is he gone?”

  “Yeah—I ran his ass off. But I couldn’t catch him.”

  “Come on outside a minute,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

  She had a heavy robe on over her pajamas. I stepped outside with her.

  “Look,” she said.

  Rena pointed to the curtains that covered the front room windows. From inside, the curtains had a heavy look as if they concealed everything. The lights were on inside. But you could see right through the curtains. The front room, the coffee table, the couch. It was like a stage.

  “My god!” I said.

  “He could see everything we’ve done in there and we’ve done about everything.”

  I looked at the tall apartment that stood facing her front room windows. It seemed as if all the shades were pulled almost down to the bottom with just a small portion to look out of. People could have invited their friends if they wanted to.

  “We’ve given half the neighborhood rocks,” I said, “and we’ve created a peeping Tom. Our souls ought to rot in hell.”

  “Tomorrow,” Rena said, “I’m going to the store and buy some more material and sew it onto the curtains.”

  “O.K., either do that or we begin charging admission,” I laughed.

  “Please, Bukowski, I want you to stay with me tonight. I’m afraid.”

  “Sure,” I said, “let’s take a shower together before we hit the sack.”

  “Alright,” she said, and we walked in. Whoever invented the shower was one horny guy . . .

  The next night, with the additions to the curtain, I tried the cheese bit again. Only this time, I stuck in two slices.

  I was just at the bottom of the last slice when I heard a brushing sound outside and then somebody running. I got dressed as quickly as possible and went outside. One of the kids from the apartment down the way was standing out there. He was about 12.

  “Hey, mister,” he yelled, “I came outside when I heard the ice cream truck and I saw this man looking in your window. When he saw me, he ran away.”

  “Was it a young, blonde guy in a white t-shirt?”

  “Yeah, that’s who it was.”

  I looked at the curtains that Rena had repaired. You could still see in there. I walked back in.

  “We’ve got to stay out of this front room, Rena, or we’ve got to work in the dark or something.”

  “Can you work the cheese bit in the dark?” she asked.

  “I suppose so.”

  “But I like it better when I can watch you,” she said.

  “All right, we’ll get a flashlight or something.”

  “O.K.,” she agreed.

  I had to leave town for a week and I called on Rena one night without phoning. She let me in. A young guy was sitting on the couch. He looked about 19, blonde, almost handsome.

  “This is my friend, Arnold,” said Rena.

  “Hello, Arnold, how’s it going?”

  “Oh, real good,” he said. “Everything’s fine, just fine.”

  “Listen, Rena,” I whispered, “this guy is the peeping Tom.”

  “Who, Arnold?”

  “Yes, Arnold.”

  “Bukowski, you’re just a jealous man. I won’t have you saying such things about Arnold.”

  “How’d you meet him?” I shot back.

  “Arnold’s a bag boy at the local market. He’s a nice boy.

  He was a straight-A student in high school. I won’t have you talking bad about him.”

  “Damn it—this is the guy I chased down the street that night.”

  “You son of a bitch, I won’t have you talking that way. Please leave.”

  Rena was really mad. I walked to the door, opened it, closed it, and I was gone. I got in my car and was half-way home on the freeway when I realized I had left my top coat back in her apartment.

  I pulled off the freeway, got it going the other way, and drove back. I parked and got out.

  I walked up to the apartment and was about to ring when I saw something through the curtain. Arnold and Rena were kissing, a long hard kiss. He had her down upon the sofa, her dress up around her hips, one of her breasts out, and she was grasping his penis in her hand.

  It looked exciting. I watched.

  She began to rub his joint. He lifted his head, sucked at her breast, then leaped back from the breast to the mouth, one of hands going down and pulling at her panties. Then I heard somebody coming down the walk and I pulled away from the curtain quickly and walked toward my car. A little drop of sweat rolled down my neck.

  I started the car and drove off. Hell—I could get the coat in the morning or they could keep it. As I drove off, though, I had the feeling that I would have liked to have watched the rest of that scene. It had to be good.

  That kid Arnold had a lot of technique. He should have—after watching me all those nights with Rena.

  “All these guys,” he said, “walking around the room with just their shorts on, not naked but with their shorts on, some with hard-ons, some with half hard-ons, soft soft, walking around the room, saying, ‘I’m tough. I hate those goddamn fags. I’ll beat the shit out of a fag!’ They had a shit-thing going,” he said, “everybody liked to shit. Another thing they liked to do was run across the street naked from one house to another. One time a guy was running across the street naked with half a hard-on and hollering and there was this guy sitting in his car and the guy jumped up on the hood and shit on the windshield. The other guy didn’t know what to do.”

  “Well,” I said, “I guess he could have turned on his windshield wipers.”

  “Another time this guy was an All-American tackle and he was fucking this girl with this shade open and about twenty-five or thirty guys were watching. Suddenly he stopped, got up on her and shit on her.”

  “Well,” I said, “it’s sexual, I guess. Then there are some guys who pay women to shit and piss on them. Then there are some guys who like to be shit and pissed-upon, spiritually. Not me. I’ve had enough. I ask kindness out of a woman but most American women can’t give it, not under the age of forty. For that matter, neither can men. But women are colder than men because it’s much easier for them to get picked up, fucked, possibly loved. I guess a lot of men go fag simply out of disgust.”

  “The whorehouse,” he said, “has been a great saver of man’s spirit.”

  “Amen,” I said, “but where can a woman go? Even though it’s easier for them, it’s not always easier. There ought to be whorehouses for women too. Clit-licking guys with giant cocks and muscular bodies. But I suppose it’s all a matter of supply and demand. If women needed whorehouses badly enough they’d arrive.”

  “It’s like you say, it’s too easy for them. A woman can walk into a bar and there will be twelve guys sitting there, ready to go, ready to fight over her. Where’s a bar a guy can walk into and have twelve women sitting there ready to fuck him, fight almost to the death for him?”

  “Nowhere in America,” I said. “Nowhere in this land and in this time.” r />
  “What’s a man to do?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Most men settle for 2nd or 3rd or 4th best simply because they are lonely, simply because they are afraid, simply because they lack the guts to live alone. They accept all the flaws in another person simply to have them around.”

  “What do you mean by ‘flaws’?”

  “I mean what people do to you because they simply don’t care enough. 98 percent of the people in America live together but don’t love each other. It’s a compromise and a lie.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “and then the games begin. The flirtings, the cheatings, the fucks on the side, meanwhile each one claiming innocence and love.”

  “Yeah, they sure use the word LOVE easily. ‘Oh, I love you, o my god I love you!’ They usually say it after you send your cock home after a good warm-up. But they don’t mean it.”

  “And we’re chauv pigs, you know, our ideas on women are all wrong.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  We sat silent, drinking our beers. Then he said, “Yeah, those guys at S.C. were just too much, especially the ones from the higher-income families. They had a thing they learned from the boys at Yale, it was called ‘Drifting Diligently.’ Nobody ever saw them study. They studied in the early morning hours, like from 3 a.m. to 7 a.m. Nobody ever saw them study. They were always lolling around the tennis courts or bullshitting on the lawn. It always confused the other guys.”

  “Life is good for some,” I said, “but you know, the pressure must get off a man’s back in one way or the other before he can really become clever. It’s hard to be clever standing in a line outside the Union Rescue Mission waiting for some watery beans.”

  “I wonder what these guys do for women?”

  “They forget them. At least they’re at peace in that area.”

  “You’ve heard the old joke about the screw in the bellybutton, how it falls out and your cock and asshole drop off?”

  “No, I haven’t heard it,” I said. “Tell it to me.”

  “Oh no, I don’t want to tell it.”

  “Oh, go on.”

  “No, no, no.”

  “This screw drops out,” I said, “and the asshole and cock drop off. That’s good, How about the balls?”