Charles Bukowski - Factotum

"Big Angel probably stuck his thumb in her eye," I said.

The day before New Year's after the afternoon break, Morris called me over and said, "I want to talk to you."

"O.K."

"Over here."

Morris walked me over to a dark corner next to a row of stacked packing boxes. "Listen, we're going to have to let you go."

"All right. This is my last day?"

"Yes."

"Will the check be ready?"

"No, we'll mail it."

"All right."

National Bakery Goods was located nearby. They gave me a white smock and a locker. They made cookies, biscuits, cupcakes and so forth. Because I had claimed two years of college on my application, I got the job as Coconut Man. The Coconut Man stood up on a perch, scooped his shovel into the shredded coconut barrel and dumped the white flakes into a machine. The machine did the rest: it spit coconut on the cakes and other sundry items passing below. It was an easy job and a dignified one. There I was, dressed in white, scooping white shredded coconut into a machine. On the other side of the room were dozens of young girls, also dressed in white, with white caps on. I wasn't quite sure what they were doing but they were busy. We worked nights.

It happened my second night. It began slowly, a couple of the girls began singing, "Oh, Henry, oh Henry, how you can love! Oh, Henry, oh Henry, heaven's above!" More and more girls joined in. Soon they were all singing. I thought, surely, they were singing to me.

The girls' supervisor rushed up screaming, "_All right, all right, girls, that's enough!_"

I dipped my shovel calmly into the shredded coconut and accepted it all…

I had been there two or three weeks when a bell rang during the late shift. A voice came over the intercom. "All the men come to the rear of the building."

A man in a business suit walked toward us. "Gather around me," he said. He had a clipboard with a sheet of paper on it. The men circled him. We were all dressed in white smocks. I stood at the edge of the circle.

"We are entering our slack period," said the man. "I'm sorry to say that we're going to have to let all of you go until things pick up. Now, if you'll line up in front of me, I'll take your names, phone numbers and addresses. When things get better, you'll be the first to know."

The men began to form a line but with much jostling and cursing. I didn't get into line. I looked at all my fellow workers dutifully giving their names and addresses. These, I thought, are the men who dance beautifully at parties. I walked back to my locker, hung up the white smock, left my shovel leaning against the door, and walked out.

The Hotel Sans was the best in the city of Los Angeles. It was an old hotel but it had class and a charm missing from the newer places. It was directly across from the park downtown.

It was renowned for businessmens' conventions and expensive hookers of almost legendary talent-who at the end of a lucrative evening had even been known to give the bellboys a little. There also were stories of bellboys who had become millionaires-bloody bellboys with eleven inch dicks who had had the good fortune to meet and marry some rich, elderly guest. And the _food_, the LOBSTER, the huge black chefs in very tall white hats who knew everything, not only about food but about Life and about me and about everything.

I was assigned to the loading dock. That loading dock had _style_: for each truck that came in there were ten guys to unload it when it only took two at the most. I wore my best clothes. I never touched anything.

We unloaded (they unloaded) everything that came into the hotel and most of it was foodstuffs. My guess was that the rich ate more lobster than anything else. Crates and crates of them would come in, deliciously pink and large, waving their claws and feelers.

"You like those things, don't you, Chinaski?"

"Yeah. Oh yeah," I'd drool.

One day the lady in the employment office called me over. The employment office was at the rear of the loading dock. "I want you to manage this office on Sundays, Chinaski." "What do I do?" "Just answer the phone and hire the Sunday dishwashers." "All right!"

The first Sunday was nice. I just sat there. Soon an old guy walked in. "Yeah, buddy?" I asked. He had on an expensive suit, but it was wrinkled and a little dirty; and the cuffs were just starting to go. He was holding his hat in his hand. "Listen," he asked, "do you need somebody who is a good conversationalist? Somebody who can meet and talk to people? I have a certain amount of charm, I tell gracious stories, I can make people laugh."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yes."

"Make me laugh."

"Oh, you don't understand. The setting has to be right, the mood, the _decor_, you know…"

"Make me laugh."

"Sir…"

"Can't use you, you're a stiff!"

The dishwashers were hired at noon. I stepped out of the office. Forty bums stood there. "All right now, we need five good men! Five _good_ ones! No winos, perverts, communists, or child-molestors! And you've got to have a social security card! All right now, get them out and hold them up in the air!"

Out came the cards. They waved them.

"Hey, I got one!"

"Hey, buddy, over here! Give a guy a break!"

I slowly looked them over. "O.K., you with the shit-stain on your collar," I pointed. "Step forward."

"That's no shit stain, sir. That's gravy."

"Well, I don't know, buddy, looks to me like you been eatin' more crotch than roast beef!"

"Ah, hahaha," went the bums, "Ah, hahaha!"

"O.K., now, I need _four_ good dishwashers! I have four pennies here in my hand. I'm going to toss them up. The four men who bring me back a penny get to wash dishes today!"

I tossed the pennies high into the air above the crowd. Bodies jumped and fell, clothing ripped, there were curses, one man screamed, there were several fistfights. Then the lucky four came forward, one at a time, breathing heavily, each with a penny. I gave them their work cards and waved them toward the employee's cafeteria where they would first be fed. The other bums retreated slowly down the loading ramp, jumped off, and walked down the alley into the wasteland of downtown Los Angeles on a Sunday.

Sundays were best because I was alone and soon I began to take a pint of whiskey to work with me. One Sunday after a hard night's drinking the bottle got to me; I blacked-out. I vaguely remembered some unusual activity that evening after I went home but it was unclear. I told Jan about it the next morning before I went back to work. "I think I fucked up. But maybe it's my imagination."

I went in and walked up to the timeclock. My timecard was not in the rack. I turned and walked over to the old lady who ran the employment office. When she saw me she looked nervous. "Mrs. Farrington, my timecard is missing."

"Henry, I always thought you were such a nice boy."

"Yes?"

"You don't remember what you did, do you?" she asked, looking nervously around.

"No, Ma'am."

"You were drunk. You cornered Mr. Pelvington in the men's locker room and you wouldn't let him out. You held him captive for thirty minutes."

"What did I do to him?"

"You wouldn't let him out."

"Who is he?"

"The Assistant Manager of this hotel."

"What else did I do?"

"You were lecturing him on how to run this hotel. Mr. Pelvington has been in the hotel business for thirty years. You suggested that prostitutes be registered on the first floor only and that they should be given regular physical examinations. There are no prostitutes in this hotel, Mr. Chinaski."

"Oh, I know that, Mrs. Pelvington."

"Farrington."

"Mrs. Farrington."

"You also told Mr. Pelvington that only two men were needed on the loading dock instead of ten, and that it would cut down on the theft if each employee was given one live lobster to take home each night in a specially constructed cage that could be carried on buses and streetcars."