Notes of a Dirty Old Man

  “a friend of mine, old time football player, used to block for Red Grange. I saw him this afternoon. he looked fine. I gave him a pack of smokes. they sneak the dead out at night. I see them drag one or two stiffs out each night. bad business to do it in daylight.”

  “how do you know it’s your friend?”

  “bone structure, shape of the head under the sheet. one night when I was high I almost decided to snatch a body when they went back in. I don’t know what I would have done with the damn thing. stood it up in a closet I guess.”

  “where they going now?”

  “to get another body. how’s your stomach?”

  “fine, fine!”

  we got upstairs, somehow, although one time she lurched and I thought she was going to take out the whole west wall.

  we stripped and I got on top.

  “jesus christ!” I said, “show me some MOVEMENT!”

  “don’t just LAY there like a giant pot of putty! lift those vast and giant redwood legs … mother I can’t FIND you!”

  she started giggling, “oh, hehehehehe, oh, hehehehehehehehe.”

  “oh what the flick!” I snarled. “MOVE IT! SHAKE IT!”

  then she really started to bounce and whirl. I hung on and tried to find the rhythm: she rotated pretty good, but it was rotate and then up and down and then back to rotate. I got the rhythm of the rotate, but on the up and down I got thrown out of the saddle several times. I mean the deck would be coming up as I hit it, which is all right under ordinary conditions, but with her as I hit the deck coming on it simply caroomed me completely out of the saddle and oftentime almost out of the bed onto the floor. I remember one time almost grabbing at a giant tit of a breast thing, but it was a most horrible and indecent looking thing and I simply hung to the side of the mattress like a hungry bedbug, lurched forward again and flung myself like some dog back into the center of that 300 pounds, sinking again into the center of “oh, hehehehehe, oh, hehehehehe,” and riding and hanging on, not knowing whether I was fucking or being fucked, but then, one seldom does.

  “may the good Lord be with us.” I whispered into one of her fat hot dirty ears.

  both being very drunk, we worked on and on, myself being thrown off again and again, but leaping back to battle. I’m sure we both wanted to quit but that somehow there was no way out. sex can sometimes become the most horrible of tasks. even once, in desperation, I grabbed one of those enormous breasts and lifted it like a flabby pancake thing and jammed a nipple into my mouth. it tasted of sadness, of rubber and agony and spoiled yogurt. I flung the thing out of my mouth with disgust, then dug back in.

  finally I wore her down. I mean, she was still working, she did not lay back like dead, I’ve got to give her that, but I wore her down, got inside the rhythm, found it, hit it, hit it proper a score of times and finally like a house of resistance that doesn’t want to give, it gave, she gave, I had her hooked. finally, she moaned and cried like a small child, and I smoked it out. it was beautiful. then we slept.

  in the morning when we awakened, I found that the bed was flat on the floor. we had broken all four legs down to the floor in our crazy freakfuck.

  “oh lord!” I said. “Oh lord! Lord!”

  “whatza matta, Hank?”

  “we broke the bed.”

  “I thought we might.”

  “yeah, but I don’t have any money. I can’t pay for a new bed.”

  “I don’t have any money either.”

  “I guess I ought to give you some money, Ann.”

  “no please don’t you’re the first man who has made me feel anything in years.”

  “well, thanks, but I’ve got this goddamned bed on my mind now.”

  “you want me to leave?”

  “no hard feelings, but do. it’s the bed. I’m worried.”

  “sure Hank. can I use the bathroom first?”

  “of course.”

  she got dressed and went down the hall to the crapper. when she came back she stood in the doorway.

  “goodbye, Hank.”

  “goodbye, Ann.”

  I felt lousy letting her go like that, but it was the bed, then I remembered the rope I had bought to hang myself with. it was good sturdy rope. I found that all the bed legs were cracked along a central grain. it was only a matter of binding them like broken human legs. I tied them back together. then I got dressed and went downstairs.

  the landlady was waiting. “I saw that woman leaving. she was a woman of the streets, mr. Bukowski. I do believe she was up in your room. I know all my other roomers too well.”

  “Mother,” I said, “few men can do without.”

  then I hit the streets. made for the bar. the drinks came along all right, but I had the bed on my mind. it’s screwy, I thought, for a man who wants to kill himself to be worried about a bed, but I was. so I had a few more and went on back. the landlady was waiting.

  “mr. Bukowski, you can’t fool me with all that rope! you busted that bed! my lands, there must have been some goings on up there last night to bust all FOUR legs on that bed!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I can’t pay for that bed. I lost my job as a busboy and all my short stories are coming back from Harpers and the Atlantic Monthly.”

  “well, we’ve got you a new bed!”

  “a new bed?”

  “yes, Lila is putting it together now.”

  Lila was a beautiful little colored maid. I had only seen her once or twice because she worked days, and days I was usually down at the bar, drinking it up.

  “well,” I said, “I’m tired, maybe I ought to go on up.”

  “yes, I should think you would be tired.”

  we walked up the stairway together. we passed a cloth sign on the wall: GOD BLESS THIS HOUSE.

  “Lila!” the landlady said as we got near the top of the stairway near my room.

  “yes?”

  “how you comin’ with the bed?”

  “oh man, this god damned thing knocks me out! I can’t seem to get the last laig in! thing just din’t seem to fit nohow!”

  we both stood outside my door.

  “listen ladies,” I said, “please pardon me, I have to go to the bathroom for a while …”

  I went down to the bathroom and had a good slow but steady beer — vodka — wine — whiskey shit. what a stink! I flushed it away and walked back toward my room. as I got near, I heard a final pounding then my landlady began to laugh and then they were both laughing together. then I walked in. their laughter stopped. their faces got very stern, I might say, even angry. my beautiful colored maid ran out and down the stairway and then I began to hear her laughing again. then the landlady stood in the doorway and looked at me.

  “please try to behave yourself Mr. Bukowski. we have only the finest tenants in here.”

  then she slowly closed the door and then it was shut.

  I looked at the bed. it was made of steel.

  then I undressed and climbed naked between the new sheets of my new bed, Philadelphia, one p.m. in the afternoon the sky spreading all over the place outside, I pulled the clean white sheet and the cover up to my chin and then I slept, alone, easy, gracious and touched by the miracle. it was o.k.

  ________

  “Dear Mr. Bukowski:

  You say you began writing at 35. what were you doing before then?

  E.R.”

  “Dear E.R.

  Not writing.”

  Mary tried all the tricks. she really didn’t want to leave that night. she came out of the bathroom with her hair all piled to one side. “look!” I’d just pour another wine “whore, you god damned whore …” then she came out with big lips on, big fat lipstick. “look! ya ever see Mrs. Johnson?”

  “whore, whore ya god damned whore …”

  I went over and lay on the bed, cigarette in one hand, wineglass half tottering on the nightstand. barefoot, in shorts and undershirt a week dirty. she came over and stood over me.

  “YOU’RE THE NUMBER ONE RAT
OF ALL TIMES!”

  “ah, hahahahaha,” I snickered.

  “well, I’m leaving!”

  “that doesn’t concern me. just one thing I’m warning you about!”

  “what’s that?”

  “don’t slam that door when you leave. I’m getting tired of slamming doors. if you slam that door I’m going to have to deck you.”

  “you wouldn’t have the GUTS!”

  she really slammed that door when she left. it was so loud it put me in a state of shock. when the wall stopped trembling I leaped up, drained the wineglass and opened the door. there was no time to dress. she heard me open the door and started running, but she had on high heels. I ran down the hall in my shorts and caught her at the top of the stairway. I spun her and gave her a fair open hand slap along the cheek. she screamed and went down. as she fell her legs went down last and I looked up her dress at those long fine legs spun in nylon, I saw way up, and I thought, god damn, I must be Crazy! but there was no way out and I turned and walked slowly back to the door, opened it, closed it, sat down and poured a wine. I could hear her crying out there. then I heard another door open.

  “whatza matta, honey?” it was another woman.

  “he HIT me! my husband HIT me!”

  (HUSBAND?)

  “oh you poor dear, let me help you up.”

  “thank you.”

  “what are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have any place to stay.”

  (lying bitch)

  “well listen, get yourself a room overnight, then when he goes to work you can come back here.”

  “WORK!” she screamed, “WORK! WHY THAT SON OF A BITCH HAS NEVER WORKED A DAY IN HIS LIFE!!”

  I thought that was very funny. I thought that was so funny that I couldn’t stop laughing. I had to turn and put my face into the pillow so that Mary couldn’t hear me. when I finally stopped laughing and pulled my face out of the pillow and got up and looked down the hall, everybody was gone.

  she was back a couple days later and it was the same old thing me in my shorts getting sour and Mary getting all dressed up fine getting ready to leave, trying to show me what I was going to lose.

  “this time I’m not coming back! I’ve had it truly! I’ve had it! I’m sorry, I can’t stand you anymore. you’re just damn rotten through and through and that’s all there is to it.”

  “you’re a whore, you’re nothing but a god damned whore …”

  “sure I’m a whore or else I wouldn’t be living with you.”

  “hmmm, I never thought of it that way.”

  “think of it.”

  I drained a wineglass. “this time I’m going to WALK you to the door, open it and close it MYSELF and wish you well. are you ready dear?”

  I walked to the door and stood there in my shorts, refilled wineglass in my hand, waiting. “come come, I don’t have all night. let’s get to the crux of this thing, shall we? Ummmm?”

  she didn’t like it. she walked out the door, turned, stood facing me.

  “well, come come now, toddle off into the night. maybe you can sell some of that syphed-up snatch for a buck and a quarter to that newsboy with the right thumb missing and the face like a rubber mask. toodle-ooh, dear.”

  I started to close the door and she raised her purse over her head, “you ROTTEN son of a bitch!” I saw the purse coming down and just stood there with a little calm smile on my face. I’d been in some fights with some rough boys; a woman’s purse was the last thing I was worried about. it came down. I felt it. plenty. she had stuffed the thing and in the front corner, the part that hit me over the head was a white cold cream jar. it was like a rock.

  “baby.” I said. I was still grinning and holding onto the doorknob, but I couldn’t move, I was Frozen.

  she came down with the purse again.

  “listen, baby,”

  again.

  “oh, baby.”

  the legs began to go. as I folded slowly down she had more leverage for the top of the head. she really went to it, faster and faster as if she was trying to crack my skull. it was my third k.o. in a rather spotted career, but the first by a woman.

  when I awakened the door was closed and I was alone. I looked around and the floor was an inch thick in my blood. luckily the whole apartment was covered with linoleum. I splashed through the stuff and headed for the kitchen. I’d saved a bottle of whiskey for a special occasion. this was it. I opened it and poured a good bit of it over my head, then I poured a glassful and drank it straight down. rotten bitch had tried to KILL me! unbelievable. I thought of turning her in to the police, but that wasn’t any good. they’d probably get their charge out of it and throw me in too.

  we were on the fourth floor. I had a little more whiskey and walked over to the closet. I got her dresses, shoes, pants, slips, brassieres, slippers, hankies, garterbelts, all that crap and piled it in front of the window, one by one sipping at my whiskey. “god damned whore tried to kill me …” sailed them out the window. there was a large vacant lot below next to a small house. the apartment was built next to an excavation so we were really about eight stories high. I tried for the electric wires with the panties, but I missed. then I got angry and started throwing things out without aiming. shoes and panties and dresses were all over the place … on bushes, in trees, across the fence or just flat in the lot. then I felt better, began to work on the whiskey, found a mop and mopped the place up.

  in the morning my head really hurt. I couldn’t comb my hair but wet it back with my hands. a huge three inch scab had formed on my head. it was about 11 a.m. I walked down the steps and got down to the first floor and went out the back to pick up the clothes and stuff. it was all gone. I couldn’t understand. there was an old fart working in the backyard of the small house, poking around with a trowel.

  “listen,” I asked the old fart, “did you happen to see any clothes lying around here?”

  “what kinda clothes?”

  “women’s clothes.”

  “they were all around here. I gathered them up for the salvation army. I phoned the salvation army to come get them.”

  “those were my wife’s clothes.”

  “looked like somebody threw them away.”

  “a mistake.”

  “well, I still got them in a box.”

  “you have? listen, can I have them back?”

  “sure, only it looked like somebody threw them away.”

  the old fart went into the house and came back with the box. he handed it over the fence to me. “thanks,” I said.

  “it’s all right.” he turned around, dropped to his knees and plunged the trowel into the ground. I took the clothes back upstairs.

  she came back that night with Eddie and the Duchess. they had wine. I poured it all around. “the place sure looks clean.” said Eddie.

  “listen, Hank. let’s not fight anymore. I get sick of this fighting! and you know I love you, I really do.” said Mary.

  “yeah.”

  the Duchess sat there with the hair all down in her face, her stockings all torn, and little rolls of spit coming down the side of her mouth. I made a note to get into her. she had that sick sexy look. I sent Mary and Eddie out for more wine and the minute the door closed I grabbed the Duchess and threw her on the bed. she was all bones and looked very dramatic. the poor thing probably hadn’t eaten food for two weeks. I dropped it in. it wasn’t bad. a fasty. we were sitting in the chair when they got back.

  we’d been drinking about another hour when the Duchess looked up out of that hair and pointed that bony death finger at me. there had been a lull in the conversation. the finger kept pointing at me, then she said “he raped me, he raped me while you were out getting the wine.”

  “listen Eddie, you’re not going to believe that are you?”

  “sure, I’m going to believe it.”

  “listen if you can’t trust a friend then get the hell out of here!”

  “the Duchess doesn’t lie. if t
he Duchess said that you …”

  “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! GOD DAMN YOU SONS OF BITCHES!”

  I stood up and threw a full glass of wine smashing it against the north wall.

  “me too?” asked Mary.

  “YOU TOO!” I pointed my own finger at her.

  “oh Hank, I thought we were through with all this, I’m so tired of breakups …”

  they filed on out. Eddie in front, the Duchess next, followed by Mary. the Duchess kept saying “he raped me, I tell you he raped me. he raped me, I tell you, he raped me …” she was crazy.

  they were just outside the door when I grabbed Mary’s wrist.

  “come in here, bitch!”

  I pulled her back into the room and put the chain on the door. then I grabbed her and gave her a big sexy kiss, ripping at a whole haunch of her butt with one hand.

  “oh, Hank…”

  she liked it.

  “Hank, Hank, you didn’t screw that bag of bones did you?”

  I didn’t answer. I just kept working on her. I heard her purse fall to the floor. one of her hands went to my balls and squeezed them. I was getting in deep, I needed a rest, about an hour or so.

  “I threw all your clothes out of the window,” I said.

  “WHAT?” the hand dropped away from my balls, the eyes were very wide.

  “but I went out and picked them up, let me tell you about it.”

  I walked over and poured two more drinks. “you know you almost killed me, don’t you?”

  “what?”

  “you mean you don’t remember?”

  I sat down with my drink in a chair and she came over and looked at the top of my head. “oh you poor baby. god, I’m sorry.”

  she leaned down and kissed that bloody scab very tenderly. then I reached up and under her skirt and then we tangled again. I needed about forty-five minutes. there we stood in the middle of the room wrestling amidst poverty and broken glass. there would be no fight that night, there were no whores or bums anywhere. love had taken over. and the clean linoleum tossed with our shadows.

  ________

  it was New Orleans, the French Quarter, and I stood on the sidewalk and watched a drunk leaning against a wall and the drunk was crying, and the Italian was asking him “are you a Frenchman?” and the Frenchman said, “yes I’m a Frenchman.” and the Italian hit him in his face hard, knocking his head against the wall, and then he asked the drunk again, “are you a Frenchman?” and the frog would say yes, and the wop would hit him again, meanwhile saying over and over again, “I’m your friend, I’m your friend, I’m only trying to help you. don’t you understand that?” and the Frenchman would say yes and the Italian would hit him again. there was another Italian sitting in his car shaving with a flashlight hung up and shining in his face. it seemed very odd. there he sat with shaving cream all over his face and shaving with his long open razor. he just ignored the action and sat there shaving away in the night. that was all right until the Frenchman fell away from the wall and staggered toward the car. the Frenchman grabbed at the car door and said “help!” and the Italian hit him again. “I’m your friend. I’m your FRIEND!” and the Frenchman fell against the car and joggled the whole car and the Italian inside evidently cut himself and he leaped out of the car with all of the shaving cream on and the cut growing on his face and he said “you sona bitch!” and he began slicing at the Frenchman’s face and when the Frenchman held up his hands he sliced at the hands. “you sona bitch, you dirty sona bitch!”