Charles Bukowski - Factotum

A good extra ball-bearing man is faceless, sexless, sacrificial; he is always waiting at the door when the first man with the key arrives. Soon he is hosing off the sidewalk, and he greets each person by name as they arrive, always with a bright smile and in a reassuring manner. Obeisant. That makes everybody feel a little better before the bloody grind begins. He sees that toilet paper is plentiful, especially in the ladies' crapper. That wastebaskets never overflow. That no grime coats the windows. That small repairs are promptly made on desks and office chairs. That doors open easily. That clocks are set. That carpeting remains tacked down. That overfed powerful women do not have to carry small packages.

I wasn't very good. My idea was to wander about doing nothing, always avoiding the boss, and avoiding the stoolies who might report to the boss. I wasn't all that clever. It was more instinct than anything else. I always started a job with the feeling that I'd soon quit or be fired, and this gave me a relaxed manner that was mistaken for intelligence or some secret power.

It was a completely self-sufficient, self-contained clothing store, factory and retail business combined. The showroom, the finished product and the salesmen were all downstairs, and the factory was up above. The factory was a maze of catwalks and runways that even the rats couldn't crawl, long narrow lofts with men and women sitting and working under thirty watt bulbs, squinting, treading pedals, threading needles, never looking up or speaking, bent and quiet, doing it.

At one time one of my jobs in New York City had been to take bolts of fabric up to lofts like this. I would roll my hand truck in the busy street, pushing it through traffic, then into an alley behind some grimy building. There would be a dark elevator and I'd have to pull on ropes with stained round wooden spools attached. One rope meant up, another rope signalled down. There was no light and as the elevator climbed slowly I'd watch in the dark for white numbers written on the bare walls-3, 7, 9, scrawled in chalk by some forgotten hand. I'd reach my floor, tug on another rope with my fingers and using all my strength slowly slide open the heavy old metal door, revealing row upon row of old Jewish ladies at their machines, laboring over piecework; the number one seamstress at the #1 machine, bent on maintaining her place; the number two girl at the #2 machine, ready to replace her should she falter. They never looked up or in any way acknowledged my presence as I entered.

In this clothing factory and store in Miami Beach, no deliveries were necessary. Everything was on hand. My first day I walked around the maze of lofts looking at people. Unlike New York, most of the workers were black. I walked up to a black man, quite small-almost tiny, who had a more pleasant face than most. He was doing some close work with a needle. I had a half pint in my pocket. "You got a rotten job there. Care for a drink?"

"Sure," he said. He took a good hit. Then handed the bottle back. He offered me a cigarette. "You new in town?" "Yeah." "Where you from?" " Los Angeles." "Movie star?" "Yes, on vacation." "You shouldn't be talking to the help."

"I know." He fell silent. He looked like a little monkey, an old graceful monkey. For the boys downstairs, he _was_ a monkey. I took a hit. I was feeling good. I watched them all working quietly under their thirty watt bulbs, their hands moving delicately and swiftly. "My name's Henry," I said. "Brad," he answered. "Listen, Brad, I get the deep deep blues watching you people work. Suppose I sing you guys and gals a little song?" "Don't." "You've got a rotten job there. Why do you do it?" "Shit, ain't no other way." "The Lord said there was." "You believe in the Lord?" "No." "What do you believe in?" "Nothing." "We're even."

I talked to some of the others. The men were uncommunicative, some of the women laughed at me. "I'm a spy," I laughed back. "I'm a company spy. I'm watching everybody."

I took another hit. Then I sang them my favorite song, "My Heart is a Hobo." They kept working. Nobody looked up. When I finished they were still working. It was quiet for some time. Then I heard a voice: "Look, white boy, don't come down on us."

I decided to go hose off the front sidewalk.

I don't know how many weeks I worked there. I think six. At one point I was transferred to the receiving section, checking incoming shipments of trousers against the packing lists. These were orders being returned for credit from branch stores, usually out of the state. The packing lists were never wrong probably because the guy at the other end was too frightened for his job to be careless. Usually he is on the seventh of thirty-six payments for his new car, his wife is taking a ceramics class on Monday night, the interest on his mortgage is eating him alive, and each one of his five kids drinks a quart of milk a day.

You know, I'm not a clothes man. Clothes bore me. They are terrible things, cons, like vitamins, astrology, pizzas, skating rinks, pop music, heavyweight championship fights, etc. I was sitting there pretending to count the incoming pants when suddenly I came across something special. There was electricity in the fabric, it clung to my fingers and would not let go. Somebody had finally done something interesting. I examined the fabric. It looked as magical as it felt.

I got up, took the pants with me to the crapper. I went inside, locked the door. I had never stolen anything.

I took my own pants off, flushed the toilet. Then I put the magic pants on. I rolled the magic pantlegs up to just below my knees. Then I put my own pants back over them.

I flushed the toilet again.

Then I walked out. In my nervousness it seemed as if everyone was staring at me. I walked to the front of the store. It was about one and one half hours before quitting time. The boss was standing at a counter near the door. He stared at me. "I have something to take care of, Mr. Silverstein. Just dock my pay…"

I got to my room and took my old pants off. I rolled down the legs of my magic pants, put on a clean shirt, shined my shoes, and walked back out on the street in my new pants. They were a rich brown color, with fancy piping running vertically in the cloth.

The fabric glowed. I stood on the corner and lit a cigarette. A cab pulled up. The driver stuck his head out the window: "Taxi, sir?" "No thanks," I said, tossing the match into the gutter and crossing the street.

I walked around for fifteen or twenty minutes. Three or four cabbies asked me if I wanted a ride. Then I bought a bottle of port and went back to my place. I took my clothes off, hung them up, went to bed, drank the wine and wrote a short story about a poor clerk who worked in a clothing factory in Miami. This poor clerk met a rich society girl on the beach one day during his lunch hour. He deserved her money and she did everything in her power to show that she deserved him…

When I arrived for work in the morning, Mr. Silverstein was standing in front of the counter near the door. He had a check in his hand. He moved the hand toward me. I stepped forward and took the check. Then I walked back out on the street.

It took four days and five nights for the bus to reach Los Angeles. As usual I neither slept nor defecated during the trip. There was some minor excitement when a big blonde got on somewhere in Louisiana. That night she started selling it for $2, and every man and one woman on the bus took advantage of her generosity except me and the bus driver. Business was transacted at night in the back of the bus. Her name was Vera. She wore purple lipstick and laughed a lot. She approached me during a brief stop in a coffee and sandwich shop. She stood behind me and asked, "Whatsa matter, you too good for me?" I didn't reply. "A fag," I heard her mutter disgustedly as she sat down next to one of the regular guys…