Charles Bukowski - Factotum

The second set went slower. My hands collected more cuts. I doubt that those blinds had been cleaned in ten years. I won another quarter at the pinball then Billy-Boy hollered at me to go back to work.

Helen walked by on her way to the women's crapper.

"Helen, I'll give you five bucks when I'm finished. Will that cover?"

"Sure, but you won't be able to get it up after all that work."

"I'll get it up."

"I'll be here at closing. If you can still stand up, then you can have it for nothing!"

"I'll be standing tall, baby."

Helen walked back to the crapper.

"Shot of whiskey, Tommy."

"Hey, take it easy," said Billy-Boy, "or you'll never finish that job tonight."

"Billy, if I don't finish you keep your five."

"It's a deal. All you people hear that?"

"We heard you, Billy, you cheap ass."

"One for the road, Tommy."

Tommy gave me the whiskey. I drank it and went to work. I drove myself on. After a number of whiskeys I had the three sets of blinds up and shining.

"All right, Billy, pay up."

"You're not finished."

"What?"

"There's three more windows in the back room."

"The back room?"

"The back room. The party room."

Billy-Boy showed me the back room. There were three more windows, three more sets of blinds.

"I'll settle for two-fifty, Billy."

"No, you got to do them all or no pay."

I got my buckets, dumped the water, put in clean water, soap, then took down a set of blinds. I pulled the slats out, put them on a table and stared at them.

Jim stopped on his way to the crapper. "What's the matter?"

"I can't go another slat."

When Jim came out of the crapper he went to the bar and brought back his beer. He began cleaning the blinds.

"Jim, forget it."

I went to the bar, got another whiskey. When I got back one of the girls was taking down a set of blinds. "Be careful, don't cut yourself," I told her.

A few minutes later there were four or five people back there talking and laughing, even Helen. They were all working on the blinds. Soon nearly everybody in the bar was back there. I worked in two more whiskeys. Finally the blinds were finished and hanging. It hadn't taken very long. They sparkled. Billy-Boy came in:

"I don't have to pay you."

"The job's finished."

"But you didn't finish it."

"Don't be a cheap shit, Billy," somebody said.

Billy-Boy dug out the $5 and I took it. We moved to the bar. "A drink for everybody!" I laid the $5 down. "And one for me too."

Tommy went around pouring drinks.

I drank my drink and Tommy picked up the $5.

"You owe the bar $3.15."

"Put it on the tab."

"O.K., what's your last name?"

"Chinaski."

"You heard the one about the Polack who went to the outhouse?"

"Yes."

Drinks came my way until closing time. After the last one I looked around. Helen had slipped out. Helen had lied.

Just like a bitch, I thought, afraid of the long hard ride…

I got up and walked back to my rooming house. The moonlight was bright. My footsteps echoed in the empty street and it sounded as if somebody was following me. I looked around. I was mistaken. I was quite alone.

When I arrived in St. Louis it was very cold, about to snow, and I found a room in a nice clean place, a room on the second floor, in the back. It was early evening and I was having one of my depressive fits so I went to bed early and somehow managed to sleep.

When I awakened in the morning it was very cold. I was shivering uncontrollably. I got up and found that one of the windows was open. I closed the window and went back to bed. I began to feel nauseated. I managed to sleep another hour, then awakened. I got up, dressed, barely made it to the hall bathroom and vomited. I undressed and got back into bed. Soon there was a knock on the door. I didn't answer. The knocking continued. "Yes?" I asked.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"Can we come in?"

"Come in."

There were two girls. One was a bit on the fat side but scrubbed, shining, in a flowery pink dress. She had a kind face. The other wore a wide tight belt that accentuated her very good figure. Her hair was long, dark, and she had a cute nose; she wore high heels, had perfect legs, and wore a white low cut blouse. Her eyes were dark brown, very dark, and they kept looking at me, amused, very amused. "I'm Gertrude," she said, "and this is Hilda."

Hilda managed to blush as Gertrude moved across the room toward my bed. "We heard you in the bathroom. Are you sick?"

"Yes. But it's nothing serious, I'm sure. An open window."

"Mrs. Downing, the landlady, is making you some soup."

"No, it's all right."

"It'll do you good."

Gertrude moved nearer my bed. Hilda remained where she was, pink and scrubbed and blushing. Gertrude pivoted back and forth on her very high heels. "Are you new in town?"

"Yes."

"You're not in the army?"

"No."

"What do you do?"

"Nothing."

"No work?"

"No work."

"Yes," said Gertrude to Hilda, "look at his hands. He has the most beautiful hands. You can see that he has never worked."

The landlady, Mrs. Downing, knocked. She was large and pleasant. I imagined that her husband was dead and that she was religious. She carried a large bowl of beef broth, holding it high in the air. I could see the steam rising. I took the bowl. We exchanged pleasantries. Yes, her husband was dead. She was very religious. There were crackers, plus salt and pepper.

"Thank you."

Mrs. Downing looked at both of the girls. "We'll all be going now. We hope you get well soon. And I hope the girls haven't bothered you too much?"

"Oh no!" I grinned into the broth. She liked that.

"Come on, girls."

Mrs. Downing left the door open. Hilda managed one last blush, gave me the tiniest smile, then left. Gertrude remained. She watched me spoon the broth in. "Is it good?"

"I want to thank all you people. All this… is very unusual."

"I'm going." She turned and walked very slowly toward the door. Her buttocks moved under her tight black skirt; her legs were golden. At the doorway she stopped and turned, rested her dark eyes on me once again, held me. I was transfixed, glowing. The moment she felt my response she tossed her head and laughed. She had a lovely neck, and all that dark hair. She walked off down the hall, leaving the door ajar.

I took the salt and pepper, seasoned the broth, broke the crackers into it, and spooned it into my illness.

I found a job as a shipping clerk in a ladies' dresswear shop. Even during World War II when there was supposed to be a manpower shortage there were four or five applicants for each job. (At least for the menial jobs.) We waited with our application forms filled out. Born? Single? Married? Draft status? Last job? Last jobs? Why did you leave? I had filled out so many job forms that long ago I had memorized the right answers. Having gotten out of bed quite late that morning I was the last to be called. A bald man with strange tufts of hair over each ear interviewed me.

"Yes?" he asked, looking at me over the sheet.

"I'm a writer temporarily down on my inspirations."

"Oh, a _writer_, eh?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"No, I'm not."

"What do you write?"

"Short stories mostly. And I'm halfway through a novel."

"A novel, eh?"

"Yes."

"What's the name of it?"

"'The Leaky Faucet of My Doom.'"

"Oh, I like that. What's it about?"

"Everything."

"Everything? You mean, for instance, it's about cancer?"

"Yes."

"How about my wife?"

"She's in there too."

"You don't say. Why do you want to work in a ladies' dress shop?"

"I've always liked ladies in ladies' dresses."