Charles Bukowski - Factotum

"Well, we still want to interview some more applicants."

"It's all right. I didn't expect to take this job. I just dropped in because it was nearby. You have my phone number on the application. But once I go to work at Jones-Hammer, it wouldn't be fair for me to leave them."

"You're married?"

"Yes. With one child. A boy. Tommy, age 3."

"All right. We'll let you know."

The phone rang at 6:30 p.m. that evening. "Mr. Chinaski?"

"Yes?"

"Do you still want the job?"

"Where?"

"At the Graphic Cherub Art Supply."

"Well, yes."

"Then report at 8:30 a.m."

Business didn't seem to be too good. Outgoing orders were few and small. The manager, Bud, walked back to where I was leaning against the shipping table smoking a cigar. "When things are slow you can go get yourself a cup of coffee at the cafe around the corner. But be sure you're back here when the trucks come by for the pickups."

"Sure."

"And keep your squeegie rack filled. Keep a good supply of squeegies."

"All right."

"Also keep your eyes peeled and see that nobody comes in from the back and steals our stock. We got a lotta winos roaming these alleys."

"O.K."

"You got plenty of FRAGILE labels?"

"Yes."

"Don't be afraid to use plenty of FRAGILE labels. If you run out, let me know. Pack the stuff good, especially the paints in glass."

"I'll take care of everything."

"O.K. And when things get slow you walk down the alley and get yourself a cup of coffee. It's Montie's Cafe. They got a waitress there with big tits, you ought to see them. She wears low-cut blouses and bends over all the time. And the pie is fresh."

"O.K."

Mary Lou was one of the girls in the front office. Mary Lou had style. She drove a three year old Cadillac and lived with her mother. She entertained members of the L.A. Philharmonic, movie directors, cameramen, lawyers, real estate agents, chiropractors, holy men, ex-aviators, ballet dancers and other entertainment figures such as wrestlers and defensive left ends. But she had never married and she had never gotten out of the front office of Graphic Cherub Art Supply, except now and then for a quickie fuck with Bud in the ladies' room, giggling, with the door bolted after she thought the rest of us had gone home. Also, she was religious and loved to play the horses, but preferably from a reserved seat and preferably at Santa Anita. She looked down on Hollywood Park. She was desperate and she was choosey at the same time and, in a way, beautiful, but she didn't have quite enough going for her to become what she imagined herself to be.

One of her jobs was to bring a copy of the orders back to me after she had typed them. The clerks picked up another copy of the same orders out of the basket to fill when they weren't waiting on customers, and I'd match them up before I packed the stuff. The first time she came back with some orders she wore a tight black skirt, high heels, a white blouse, and a gold and black scarf around her neck. She had a cute turned-up nose, a marvelous behind and fine breasts. She was tall. Class.

"Bud tells me you paint," she said.

"A bit."

"Oh, I think that's marvelous. We have such interesting people working here."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we have a janitor, an old man, Maurice, he's from France. He comes once a week and cleans the store. He paints too. He buys all his paints and brushes and canvas from us. But he's strange. He never speaks, just nods and points. He just points to things he wants to buy."

"Uh huh."

"He's strange."

"Uh huh."

"Last week I went into the ladies' room, and he was there, mopping up in the dark. He'd been in there an hour."

"Uh."

"You don't talk either."

"Oh yes. I'm all right."

Mary Lou turned and walked away. I watched the buttocks work on that tall body. Magic. Some women were magic.

I had packed a few orders when this old guy came walking down the aisle. He had a grubby gray mustache that drooped around his mouth. He was small and bent. He was dressed in black, had a red scarf tied around his throat, and he wore a blue beret. Out from under the blue beret came much long gray hair, uncombed.

Maurice's eyes were the most distinctive thing about him; they were a vivid green and seemed to look out from deep within his head. He had bushy eyebrows. He was smoking a long thin cigar. "Hi, kid," he said. Maurice didn't have much of a French accent. He sat on the end of the packing table and crossed his legs.

"I thought you didn't talk?"

"Oh, that. Balls. I wouldn't piss on a fly for them. Why bother?"

"How come you clean the crapper in the dark?"

"That's Mary Lou. I look at her. Then I go in there and come all over the floor. I mop it up. She knows."

"You paint?"

"Yes, I'm working on a canvas in my room now. As big as this wall. Not a mural. A canvas. I am painting a man's life-from his birth through the vagina, through all the years of his existence, then finally into the grave. I look at people in the park. I use them. That Mary Lou, she'd make one good fuck, what?"

"Maybe. It could be a mirage."

"I lived in France. I met Picasso."

"Did you really?"

"Shit, I did. He's O.K."

"How'd you meet him?"

"I knocked on his door."

"Was he pissed?"

"No. No, he wasn't pissed."

"Some people don't like him."

"Some people don't like anybody who is famous."

"And some people don't like anybody who isn't."

"People don't count. I wouldn't piss on a fly for them."

"What'd Picasso say?"

"Well, I asked him. I said, 'Master, what can I do to make my work better?'"

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"What'd he say?"

"He said, 'I can't tell you anything about your work. You must do it all by yourself.'"

"Ha."

"Yes."

"Pretty good."

"Yes. Got a match?"

I gave him some. His cigar had gone out.

"My brother is rich," said Maurice. "He has disowned me. He doesn't like my drinking. He doesn't like my painting."

"But your brother never met Picasso."

Maurice stood up and smiled.

"No, he never met Picasso."

Maurice walked back down the aisle toward the front of the store, cigar smoke curling back over his shoulder. He had kept my book of matches.

Bud came back pushing three one gallon cans of paint on the order wagon. He put them on the packing table. They were labeled _crimson_. He handed me three labels. The labels said _vermillion_.

"We're out of vermillion," he said. "Soak off these labels and paste on the _vermillion_ labels."

"There's quite a difference between crimson and vermillion," I said.

"Just do it."

Bud left me some rags and a razor blade. I soaked the rags in water and wrapped them around the cans. Then I scraped off the old labels and glued on the new ones.

He came back a few minutes later. He had a can of _ultramarine_ and a label for _cobalt blue_. Well, he was getting closer…

Paul was one of the clerks. He was fat, about 28. His eyes were very large, bulging. He was on pills. He showed me a handful. They were all different sizes and colors.

"Want some?"

"No."

"Go ahead. Take one."

"All right."

I took a yellow.

"I take 'em all," he said. "Damn things. Some want to take me up, some want to take me down. I let them fight over me."

"That's supposed to be rough on you."

"I know. Say, why don't you come to my place after work?"

"I've got a woman."

"We've all got women. I've got something better."

"What?"

"My girlfriend bought me this reducing machine for my birthday. We fuck on it. It moves up and down, we don't have to do any work. The machine does all the work."