And even before I could get to the door, I’d look back and she’d already have Andre’s fly open, or if the bermudas didn’t have a fly, there it would be down around his French ankles, and she would be grabbing that twelve inches of limp to see what it could do if teased a bit. And Andre would always have her dress up around her hips by then and his finger fluttering, gorging, seeking the secret of the hole in that gap between her tight, cleanly washed pink panties. And for the finger, there was always something: the seemingly new melodramatic hole or asshole or if, master that he was, he could slip around and through the tight, washed pinkness, upward, there he was, preparing that cunt that had had only eighteen hours rest.
So I always had my walk along the beachfront. Since it was so early I did not have to view that giant spread of humanity wasted, stuffed side by side, gagging, croaking things of flesh, Frogs’ tumors. I didn’t have to see them walking or lounging about with their horrible bodies and sold-out lives — no eyes, no voices, nothing, and not knowing it — just the shit of the waste, the smear along the cross.
But the mornings, early, were not bad, especially during the weekdays. Everything belonged to me, and the very ugly gulls — who became more ugly as the bags and crumbs began to vanish around Thursday or Friday — for this was the end of Life to them. They had no way of knowing that on Saturday and Sunday the mob would be back with their hotdog buns and various sandwiches. Well, I thought, maybe the gulls are worse off than I am? Maybe.
Andre got an offer to do a reading somewhere — Chicago, N.Y., Frisco, somewhere — one day, and so there he was gone and I was in the place, alone. I had a chance to use the typer. Not much good came out of that typer. Andre could make the thing work almost perfectly. It was strange that he was such a great writer and that I wasn’t. It didn’t seem as if there was that much difference between us. But there was — he knew how to lay down one word next to the other. But when I sat down that white sheet of paper just sat there and looked at me. Each man had his various hells but I had a three-length lead on the field.
So I drank more and more wine and waited on my death. Andre had been gone a couple of days when one morning about 10:30 a.m. there was this knock on the door. I said, “Just a moment,” went into the bathroom, vomited, rinsed my mouth. Lavoris. I got into some shorts, then put on one of Andre’s silken robes. I opened the door.
There was a young guy and a girl out there. She had on this very short skirt and high heels, and her nylons ran almost all the way up to her ass. The guy was just a guy, young, a kind of Cashmere Bouquet type — white T-shirt, thin, open-mouthed, holding his arms halfway up his sides as if he were going to take off and fly.
The girl asked, “Andre?”
“No. I’m Hank. Charles. Bukowski.”
“You’re making a joke aren’t you, Andre?” the girl asked.
“Yeh. I’m a joke,” I answered.
There was a light rain out there. They stood there.
“Well, anyhow, come on in out of the rain.”
“You are Andre!” said the bitch. “I recognize you, that aged face — two hundred years old!”
“OK, OK,” I said. “Come on in. I am Andre.”
They had two bottles of wine. I went into the kitchen for the corkscrew and the glasses. I poured three wines. I was standing up drinking my wine, glancing up her legs best I could, when he reached out, unzipped my fly and began sucking at my dick. He made very much noise with his mouth. I patted him on top of the head, then asked the girl, “What’s your name?”
“Wendy,” she said, “and I’ve always admired your poetry, Andre. I think that you are one of the greatest living poets.”
The guy kept working away, sucking and slopping it up, his head bobbing like some crazy thing with a lost mind.
“One of the greatest?” I asked. “Who are the others?”
“One other,” said Wendy. “Ezra Pound.”
“Ezra always bored me,” I said.
“Really?”
“Really. He works too hard at it. Over-serious, over-learned, and finally just a dull craftsman.”
“Why do you simply sign your work ‘Andre’?”
“Because I feel like it.”
The guy was working very hard then. I grabbed his head, pulled it forward into me and unloaded.
Then I zipped up, poured three more wines.
We simply sat and talked and drank. I don’t know how long it went on. Wendy had beautiful legs and fine thin ankles which she kept twisting and turning as if she were on fire or something. They did know their literature. We talked of various things. Sherwood Anderson — Winesburg, all that stuff. Dos. Camus. The Cranes, the Dickeys, the Brontes; Balzac, Thurber, on and on …
We finished both wines and I found some more stuff in the refrigerator. We worked on that. Then, I don’t know. I rather went crazy and began clawing at her dress — what there was of it. I saw a bit of underslip and panties; then I ripped the dress at the top, ripped the brassiere. I got a tit. I got a tit. It was fat. I kissed and sucked at the thing. Then I twisted it in my hand until she screamed, and as she did, I pushed my mouth against hers, gagging the screams.
I ripped the dress back — nylon, nylon legs knees flesh. And I picked her up out of the chair and ripped those chickenshit panties off and rammed it home.
“Andre,” she said. “Oh, Andre!”
I looked over and the guy was watching us and jacking off in his chair.
I took her standing up, but we were all over the room. I was driving it in, and we knocked over chairs, broke lamps. At one time I had her across the coffee table, but I felt the legs giving under both of us, so I lifted her up before we could quite flatten the table to the floor.
“Oh, Andre!”
Then she quivered all over once, then once again, like something on a sacrificial altar. Then, knowing she was weakened and out of her senses, out of her being, I simply layed the whole thing into her like a hook, held it still, hung her there like some crazy sea-fish speared forever. In half a century I had learned a few tricks. She was out of consciousness. Then I leaned back and rammed rammed her, rammed her, had her head bobbing like some crazy puppet, and her ass, and she came again just as I did, and when we came I damn near died. Both of us damn near died.
To take someone standing up, their size must have a certain relationship to your size. I remember one time almost dying in a Detroit hotel room. I tried a standup and it didn’t quite work. What I mean is, she took her legs off the floor and wrapped them around me. Which meant I was holding up two people on two legs. That’s bad. I wanted to quit. I was only holding her up with two things: my hands under her asshole and my cock.
But she kept saying, “God, you’ve got powerful legs! God, you’ve got beautiful and strong legs!”
Which is true. The rest of me is mostly shit, including my mind and all the rest. But somebody had placed these huge and powerful legs upon my body. No bullshit. But it damned near killed me — that Detroit hotel fuck — because your leverage, the moving of the cock back and forth into that thing, takes a special movement from that position. You are holding up the weight of two bodies. All the motion must therefore be transferred to your spine or backbone. It’s a rough and murderous maneuver. Finally we both came and I just tossed her off somewhere. Threw her away.
But with the one at Andre’s, she kept her feet on the floor, which allowed me to do tricks — rotate, spearfish, slow down, speed up, and the various.
So there I finally finished her off. I was in a bad position — my pants and my shorts down there dripping around my shoes. I just let go of Wendy. I don’t know where the hell she fell, nor did I care. Just as I was reaching down to pull up my shorts and my pants, the guy, the kid walked up and stuck the middle finger, right hand, straight and hard into my asshole. I screamed, turned around and punched him in the mouth. He went flying.
Then I got my shorts and pants up and sat in a chair, drinking wine and beer, glowering, not saying anything. They finally got themselves toge
ther.
“Good night, Andre,” he said.
“Good night, Andre,” she said.
“Watch the steps now,” I said. “They get very slippery in the rain.”
“Thank you, Andre,” he said.
“We’ll watch it, Andre,” she said.
“Love!” I said.
“Love!” they both answered at once.
I closed the door. God, it was so nice to be an immortal French poet!
I walked to the kitchen, found a good bottle of French wine, some anchovies and some stuffed olives. I brought it all out and set it upon the wobbly coffee table.
I poured a tall glass of wine. Then I walked to the window which overlooked the world and the ocean. That ocean was nice: it kept on doing what it was doing. I finished that wine, had another, ate some of the stuff, then I was tired. I took my clothes off and got into the middle of Andre’s bed. I farted, looking out at the sun, listening to the sea.
“Thank you, Andre,” I said. “You’re a pretty good guy after all.”
And my talent was not yet finished.
ALL THE GREAT WRITERS
Mason had her on the phone. “yeh, well, listen, I was drunk. I don’t remember WHAT I said to you! maybe it was true and maybe it wasn’t! no, I’m NOT sorry, I’m tired of being sorry … you what? you won’t? well, god damn you then!”
Henry Mason hung up. it was raining again. even in the rain there was always trouble with women, there was always trouble with
...
it was the intercom buzzer. he picked up the phone.
“there’s a Mr. Burkett, a James Burkett...”
“will you tell him that his manuscripts have been returned? we mailed them back yesterday. so sorry, all that.”
“but he insists on seeing you personally.”
“you can’t get rid of him?”
“no.”
“all right, send him in.”
a bunch of damned extroverts. they were worse than clothing salesmen, brush salesmen, they were worse than …
in cames James Burkett.
“sit down, Jimmy.”
“only my friends call me ‘Jimmy.’ ”
“sit down, Mr. Burkett.”
you could tell by looking at Burkett that he was insane. a great self-love covered him like a neon paint. there was no scrubbing it off. truth wouldn’t do it. they didn’t know what truth was.
“listen,” said Burkett, lighting a cigarette and smiling around his cigarette like a temperamental & goofy bitch, “how come ya didn’t like my stuff? your secretary out there sez ya sent it back? how come ya sent it back, man, huh? how come ya sent it back?”
then Mr. Burkett gave him the direct, the so direct look in the eye, playing at having SOUL. you were supposed to LOVE to do, so very hard to do, and only Mr. Burkett didn’t realize this.
“it just wasn’t any good, Burkett. that’s all.”
Burkett tapped his cigarette out in the ashtray. now, he rammed it out, jamming it and twisting it in the tray. then he lit another cigarette, and holding the match out in front of him, flaming, he said:
“hey, listen, man, don’t give me that SHIT!”
“it was terrible writing, Jimmy.”
“I said only my FRIENDS call me ‘Jimmy’!”
“it was shitty writing, Mr. Burkett, in our opinion, only, of course.”
“listen, man, I KNOW this game! you SUCK up right and you’re in! but you’ve got to SUCK! and I don’t SUCK, man! my work stands alone!”
“it certainly does, Mr. Burkett.”
“if I were a Jew or a fag or a commy or black it would be all over, man, I’d be in.”
“there was a black writer in here yesterday who told me that if his skin were white he’d be a millionaire.”
“all right, how about the fags?”
“some fags write pretty good.”
“like Genet, huh?”
“like Genet.”
“I gotta suck dick, huh? I gotta write about sucking dick, huh?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“listen, man, all I need is a little promotion. a little promotion and I’ll go. people will LOVE me! all they gotta do is SEE my stuff!”
“listen, Mr. Burkett, this is a business. if we published every writer who demanded that we do so because his stuff was so great, we wouldn’t be here very long. we have to make the judgment. if we’re wrong too many times we’re finished. it’s as simple as that. we print good writing that sells and we print bad writing that sells. we’re in the selling market. we’re not a charity, and frankly, we don’t worry too much about the betterment of the soul or the betterment of the world.”
“but my stuff will GO, Henry …”
“ ‘Mr. Mason,’ please! only my friends …”
“what are you trying to do, get SHITTY with me?”
“look, Burkett, you’re a pusher. as a pusher, you’re great. why don’t you sell mops or insurance or something?”
“what’s wrong with my writing?”
“you can’t push and write at the same time. only Hemingway was able to do that, and then even he forgot how to write.”
“I mean, man, what don’t you like about my writing? I mean, be DEFINITE! don’t give me a lot of shit about Hemingway, man!”
“1955.”
“1955? Whacha mean?”
“I mean, you were good then, but the needle’s stuck. you’re still playing 1955 over and over again.”
“hell, life is life and I’m still writing about LIFE, man! there isn’t anything else! what the hell you giving me?”
Henry Mason let out a long slow sigh and leaned back. artists were intolerably dull. and near-sighted. if they made it they believed in their own greatness no matter how bad they were. if they didn’t make it they still believed in their greatness no matter how bad they were. if they didn’t make it, it was somebody else’s fault. it wasn’t because they didn’t have talent; no matter how they stank they always believed in their genius. they could always trot out Van Gogh or Mozart or two dozen more who went to their graves before having their little asses lacquered with Fame. but for each Mozart there were 50,000 intolerable idiots who would keep on puking out rotten work. only the good quit the game — like Rimbaud or Rossini.
Burkett lit another cigarette, once again holding the flaming match in front of him as he spoke:
“listen, you print Bukowski. and he’s slipped. you know he’s slipped. admit it, man! hasn’t Bukowski slipped, huh? hasn’t he?”
“so, he’s slipped.”
“he writes SHIT!”
“if shit sells then we’ll sell it. listen, Mr. Burkett, we aren’t the only publishing house. why don’t you try somebody else? just don’t accept our judgment.”
Burkett stood up. “what the hell’s the use? you guys are all alike! you can’t use good writing! the world has no use for REAL writing! you couldn’t tell a human being from a fly! because you’re dead! DEAD, ya hear? ALL YOU FUCKERS ARE DEAD! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!”
Burkett threw his burning cigarette on the rug, turned about, walked to the door, SLAMMED it and was gone.
Henry Mason got up, picked up the cigarette, put it in the tray, sat down, lit one of his own. no way of giving up smoking on a job like this, he thought. he leaned back and inhaled, so glad that Burkett was gone — those guys were dangerous — absolutely insane and vicious — especially those who were always writing about LOVE or SEX or the BETTER WORLD. jesus, jesus. he exhaled. the intercom buzzer rang.
he picked up the phone.
“a Mr. Ainsworth Hockley to see you?”
“what’s he want? we sent him his check for LUSTS AND BUSTS ON THE CAMPUS.”
“he says he has a new story.”
“fine. tell him to leave it with you.”
“he says he hasn’t written it.”
“o.k., have him leave the outline. I’ll check it out.”
“he says he doesn’t have an outline.”
/>
“wutz he want, then?”
“he wants to see you personally.”
“you can’t get rid of him?”
“no, he just keeps staring at my legs and grinning.”
“then, for Christ’s sake. pull your dress down!”
“it’s too short.”
“all right. send him in.”
in came Ainsworth Hockley.
“sit down,” he told him.
Hockley sat down. then jumped up. lit a cigar. Hockley carried dozens of cigars. he was afraid of being a homosexual. that is, he didn’t know whether he was a homosexual or not, so he smoked the cigars because he thought it was manly and also dynamic, but he still wasn’t sure of where he was. he thought he liked women too. it was a mix-up.
“listen,” said Hockley, “I just sucked a 36 inch COCK! gigantic!”
“listen, Hockley, this is a business. I just got rid of one nut. what do you want with me?”
“I want to suck your COCK, man! THAT’S what I want!”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
the room was already smoggy with cigar smoke. Hockley really shot it out. he jumped out of the chair. walked around. sat down. jumped out of the chair. walked around.
“I think I’m going crazy,” said Ainsworth Hockley. “I keep thinking of cock. I used to live with this 14 year old kid. huge COCK! god. HUGE! he beat his meat right in front of me once, I’ll never forget it! and when I was in college, all these guys walking around the locker rooms, real cool-like ya know? why one guy even had BALLS down to his KNEES! we used to call him BEACHBALLS HARRY. after BEACHBALLS HARRY came, baby, it was all OVER! like a waterhose spurting curdled cream! when that stuff dried … why, man in the morning he’d have to beat the sheets with a baseball bat, shake the flakes off before he sent it to the laundry …”
“you’re crazy, Ainsworth.”
“I know, I know, that’s what I’m telling YA! have a cigar!”
Hockley poked a cigar at his lips.
“no, no, thank you.”
“maybe you’d like to suck MY cock?”
“I don’t have the slightest desire. now what do you want?”
“I’ve got this idea for a story, man.”
“o.k., write it.”