Charles Bukowski - Factotum

I kept after her like a horny redneck drunk on beer in a Greyhound bus passing through Texas. She was intrigued-she understood my craziness. I was enchanting her without realizing it.

One day a customer telephoned to ask if we had gallon cans of white glue in stock and she came back to check some cartons stacked in one corner. I saw her and asked if I might help. She said, "I'm looking for a carton of glue stamped 2-G."

"2-G," I said, "huh?"

I put my arm around her waist.

"We're going to make it. You are the wisdom of centuries and I am me. We are meant for each other."

She began to giggle like an American woman. "Japanese girls don't do that. What the hell's the matter with you?"

She rested against me. I noticed a row of paint cartons pushed against the wall. I led her over and gently sat her on the row of cartons. I pushed her down. I climbed on top of her and began kissing her, pulling up her dress. Then Danny, one of the clerks walked in. Danny was a virgin. Danny went to painting class at night and fell asleep during the day. He couldn't separate art from cigarette butts. "What the hell's going on here?" he asked, and then he walked swiftly away toward the front office.

Bud called me into the front office the next day. "You know, we had to let her go too."

"It wasn't her fault."

"She was with you back there."

"I instigated."

"She submitted, according to Danny."

"What does Danny know about submission? The only thing he has ever submitted to is his hand."

"He saw you."

"Saw what? I didn't even have her panties off."

"This is a business house."

"There's Mary Lou."

"I hired you because I thought you were a dependable shipping clerk."

"Thanks. And I end up getting fired for trying to fuck a slant-eyed squaw with a gimp in her left leg on top of forty gallons of auto paint-which, by the way, you've been selling to the L.A. City College Art Department as the real thing. I ought to turn you over to the Better Business Bureau."

"Here's your check. You're finished."

"All right. See you at Santa Anita."

"Sure," he said.

There was an extra day's pay on the check. We shook hands and I walked out.

The next job didn't last long either. It was little more than a stopover. It was a small company specializing in Christmas items: lights, wreaths, Santa Clauses, paper trees, all that. When I was hired they told me that they'd have to let me go the day before Thanksgiving; that there wasn't any business after Thanksgiving. There were a half-dozen of us hired under the same conditions. They called us "warehousemen" and mainly we loaded and unloaded trucks. Also, a warehouseman is a guy who stands around a lot smoking cigarettes, in a dream-like state. But we didn't last until Thanksgiving, the half-dozen of us. It was my idea that we go to a bar everyday for lunch. Our lunch periods became longer and longer. One afternoon we simply didn't return. But the next morning, like good guys, we were all there. We were told we were no longer wanted. "Now," said the manager, "I've got to hire a whole new god damned crew." "And fire them on Thanksgiving," said one of us. "Listen," said the manager, "you guys want to work one more day?" "So you'll have time to interview and hire our replacements?" asked one of us. "Take it or leave it," said the manager. We took it and we worked all day, laughing like hell, throwing cartons through the air. Then we picked up our final checks and went back to our rooms and our drunken women.

It was another fluorescent light fixture house: The Honeybeam Company. Most of the cartons were five or six feet long, and heavy when packed. We worked a ten hour day. The procedure was quite simple-you went out to the assembly line and got your parts, brought them back, and packed them up. Most of the workers were Mexican and black. The blacks worked on me and accused me of having a smart mouth. The Mexicans stood back quietly and watched. Each day was a battle-both for my life and my ability to keep up with the lead packer, Monty. They worked on me all day long.

"Hey, boy. Boy! Come 'ere, boy! Boy, I want to talk to you!"

It was little Eddie. Little Eddie was good at it.

I didn't answer.

"Boy, I'm talking to you!"

"Eddie, how'd you like to have a jack-handle slid up your ass while you're singing 'Old Man River?'"

"How'd you get all those holes in your face, white boy? Fall on a drill while you were asleep?"

"Where'd you get that scar on your lower lip? Your boyfriend keep his razor strapped to his dick?"

I went out at breaktime and traded a few with Big Angel. Big Angel whipped me but I got in some shots, didn't panic, and held my ground. I knew he had only ten minutes to work on me and that helped. What hurt most was a thumb he got in my eye. We walked back in together, huffing and puffing.

"You're no pro," he said.

"Try me sometime when I'm not hungover. I'll run you right off the lot."

"O.K.," he said, "come in some time sweet and clean and we'll try it again."

I decided right then to never come in sweet and clean.

Morris was the foreman. He had terribly flat vibes. It was as if he were made of wood, clear through. I tried not to talk to him more than I had to. He was the son of the owner and had tried to make it as a salesman, outside. He failed and they brought him back inside. He walked up. "What happened to your _eye_? It's all _red_."

"I was walking under a palm tree and I was attacked by a blackbird."

"He got your eye?"

"He got it."

Morris walked off, the crotch of his pants was jammed up into his ass…

The best part was when the assembly line couldn't keep up with us and we stood around waiting. The assembly line was manned mostly by young Mexican girls with beautiful skin and dark eyes; they wore tight bluejeans and tight sweaters and gaudy earrings. They were so young and healthy and efficient and relaxed. They were good workers, and now and then one would look up and say something and then there would be explosions of laughter and glances as I watched them laugh in their tight bluejeans and their tight sweaters and thought, if one of them was in bed with me tonight I could take all this shit a whole lot better. We all were thinking that. And we were also thinking, they all belong to somebody else. Well, what the hell. It didn't make any difference. In fifteen years they'd weigh 185 pounds and it would be their daughters who were beautiful.

I bought an eight-year-old automobile and stayed on the job there through December. Then came the Christmas party. That was December 24th. There were to be drinks, food, music, dancing. I didn't like parties. I didn't know how to dance and people frightened me, especially people at parties. They attempted to be sexy and gay and witty and although they hoped they were good at it, they weren't. They were bad at it. Their trying so hard only made it worse.

So when Jan leaned up against me and said, "Fuck that party, stay home with me. We'll get drunk here," I didn't find that very hard to do.

I heard about the party the day after Christmas. Little Eddie said, "Christine cried when you didn't show up."

"Who?"

"Christine, the cute little Mexican girl."

"Who's that?"

"She works on the back row, in assembly."

"Cut the shit."

"Yeah. She cried and cried. Somebody drew a great big picture of you with your goatee and hung it on the wall and underneath they wrote, 'Give me another drink!'"

"I'm sorry, man. I got tied up."

"It's all right. She finally stopped being mad and danced with me. She got drunk and threw up some cake and she got drunker and danced with all the black guys. She dances real sexy. She finally went home with Big Angel."