Charles Bukowski - Factotum

"How are you doing fellows?" I asked.

"Oh, everything's all right; everything's fine."

"Are you sure? Nothing bothering you?"

"No, everything's all right."

I went ahead and found the cafe. They served beer there so I exchanged my tickets for beer. The whole track gang was there. When I'd used up my tickets I had just enough change to take a streetcar back to the home of my parents.

My mother screamed when she opened the door. "_Son! Is that you, son?_"

"I need some sleep."

"Your bedroom is always waiting."

I went to the bedroom, undressed and climbed into bed. I was awakened about 6 p.m. by my mother. "Your father is home."

I got up and began to dress. Dinner was on the table when I walked in.

My father was a big man, taller than I was with brown eyes; mine were green. His nose was too large and you couldn't help noticing his ears. His ears wanted to leap away from his head.

"Listen," he said, "if you stay here I am going to charge you room and board plus laundry. When you get a job, what you owe us will be subtracted from your salary until you are paid up."

We ate in silence.

My mother had found a job. She was to start the next day. This left the house to me. After breakfast and after my parents had left for their jobs I took off my clothes and went back to bed. I masturbated and then made a time study in an old school notebook of the airplanes passing overhead. I decorated the time study with some pleasantly obscene drawings. I knew that my father would charge me atrocious prices for room, board and laundry and that he would also be careful to list me as a dependent on his income tax return, but the desire to find a job did not seem to be with me.

As I relaxed in bed I had this strange feeling in my head. It was as if my skull was made of cotton, or was a small balloon filled with air. I could feel _space_ in my skull. I couldn't comprehend it. Soon I stopped wondering about it. I was comfortable, it wasn't agonizing. I listened to symphony music, smoking my father's cigarettes.

I got up and walked into the front room. In the house across the street was a young wife. She had on a short tight brown dress. She sat on the steps of her house which was directly across the street. I could look well up her dress. I watched from behind the drapes of the front window, looking up her dress. I became excited. Finally I masturbated again. I bathed and dressed and sat about smoking more cigarettes. About 5 p.m. I left the house and went for a long walk, walking for almost an hour.

When I returned, both of my parents were home. Dinner was about ready. I went to my bedroom and waited to be called. I was called. I went in.

"Well," said my father, "did you find a job?"

"No."

"Listen, any man who wants work can find work."

"Maybe so."

"I can hardly believe you're my son. You don't have any ambition, you don't have any get-up-and-go. How the hell are you going to make it in this world?"

He put a number of peas into his mouth and spoke again: "What's this cigarette smoke in here? _Pooh!_ I had to open all the windows! The air was _blue!_"

The next day I went back to bed for a while after they were gone. Then I got up and went to the front room and looked out between the drapes. The young housewife was again sitting on her steps across the street. She had on a different, sexier dress. I looked at her a long time. Then I masturbated slowly and at leisure.

I bathed and dressed. I found some empty bottles in the kitchen and cashed them in at the grocery. I found a bar on the Avenue and went in and ordered a draft beer. There were a great many drunks in there playing the juke box, talking loudly and laughing. Now and then a new beer arrived in front of me. Somebody was buying. I drank. I began talking to people.

Then I looked outside. It was evening, almost dark. The beers kept arriving. The fat woman who owned the bar and her boyfriend were friendly.

I went outside once to fight somebody. It wasn't a good fight. We were both too drunk and there were large potholes in the asphalt surface of the parking lot that made our footing difficult. We quit…

I awakened much later in an upholstered red booth at the back of the bar. I got up and looked around. Everybody was gone. The clock said 3:15. I tried the door, it was locked. I went behind the bar and got myself a bottle of beer, opened it, came back and sat down. Then I went and got myself a cigar and a bag of chips. I finished my beer, got up and found a bottle of vodka, one of scotch and sat down again. I mixed them with water; I smoked cigars, and ate beef jerky, chips, and hard-boiled eggs.

I drank until 5 a.m. I cleaned the bar then, put everything away, went to the door, let myself out. As I did I saw a police car approach. They drove along slowly behind me as I walked.

After a block they pulled up alongside. An officer stuck his head out. "Hey, buddy!"

Their lights were in my face.

"What are you doing?"

"Going home."

"You live around here?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

" 2122 Longwood Avenue."

"What were you doing coming out of that bar?"

"I'm the janitor."

"Who owns that bar?"

"A lady named Jewel."

"Get in."

I did.

"Show us where you live."

They drove me home.

"Now, get out and ring the bell."

I walked up the drive. I went up on the porch, rang the bell. There was no answer.

I rang again, several times. Finally the door opened. My mother and father stood there in their pajamas and robes.

"_You're drunk!_" my father screamed.

"Yes."

"Where do you get the money to drink? You don't have any money!"

"I'll get a job."

"_You're drunk! You're drunk! My Son is a Drunk! My Son is a God Damned No-Good Drunk!_"

The hair on my father's head was standing up in crazy tufts. His eyebrows were wild, his face puffed and flushed with sleep.

"You act as if I had murdered somebody."

"It's just as bad!"

"… ooh, shit…"

Suddenly I vomited on their Persian _Tree of Life_ rug. My mother screamed. My father lunged toward me.

"Do you know what we do to a dog when he shits on the rug?"

"Yes."

He grabbed the back of my neck. He pressed down, forcing me to bend at the waist. He was trying to force me to my knees.

"I'll show you."

"Don't…"

My face was almost into it.

"I'll show you what we do to dogs!"

I came up from the floor with the punch. It was a perfect shot. He staggered back all the way across the room and sat down on the couch. I followed him over.

"Get up."

He sat there. I heard my mother. "_You Hit Your Father! You Hit Your Father! You Hit Your Father!_"

She screamed and ripped open one side of my face with her fingernails.

"Get up," I told my father.

"_You Hit Your Father!_"

She scratched my face again. I turned to look at her. She got the other side of my face. Blood was running down my neck, was soaking my shirt, pants, shoes, the rug. She lowered her hands and stared at me.

"Have you finished?"

She didn't answer. I walked back to the bedroom thinking, I better find myself a job.

I stayed in my room until after they left the next morning. Then I took the newspaper and turned to the Help Wanted section. My face hurt; I was still sick. I circled some ads, shaved as best I could, took a few aspirin, dressed, and walked over to the Boulevard. I put my thumb out. The cars went by. Then a car stopped. I got in.

"Hank!"

It was an old friend, Timmy Hunter. We'd gone to Los Angeles City College together.

"What are you doing, Hank?"

"Looking for a job."

"I'm going to Southern Cal now. What happened to your face?"