Charles Bukowski - Factotum

That scene in the office stayed with me. Those cigars, the fine clothes. I thought of good steaks, long rides up winding driveways that led to beautiful homes. Ease. Trips to Europe. Fine women. Were they that much more clever than I? The only difference was money, and the desire to accumulate it.

I'd do it too! I'd save my pennies. I'd get an idea, I'd spring a loan. I'd hire and fire. I'd keep whiskey in my desk drawer. I'd have a wife with size 40 breasts and an ass that would make the paperboy on the corner come in his pants when he saw it wobble. I'd cheat on her and she'd know it and keep silent in order to live in my house with my wealth. I'd fire men just to see the look of dismay on their faces. I'd fire women who didn't deserve to be fired.

That was all a man needed: hope. It was lack of hope that discouraged a man. I remembered my New Orleans days, living on two five-cent candy bars a day for weeks at a time in order to have leisure to write. But starvation, unfortunately, didn't improve art. It only hindered it. A man's soul was rooted in his stomach. A man could write much better after eating a porterhouse steak and drinking a pint of whiskey than he could ever write after eating a nickel candy bar. The myth of the starving artist was a hoax. Once you realized that everything was a hoax you got wise and began to bleed and burn your fellow man. I'd build an empire upon the broken bodies and lives of helpless men, women, and children-I'd shove it to them all the way. _I'd show them!_

I was at my rooming house. I walked up the stairway to the door of my room. I unlocked the door, turned on the light. Mrs. Downing had put the mail by my door. There was a large brown envelope from Gladmore. I picked it up. It was heavy with rejected manuscripts. I sat down and opened the envelope.

Dear Mr. Chinaski:

We are returning these four stories but we are keeping _My Beerdrunk Soul is Sadder Than All The Dead Christmas Trees Of The World_. We have been watching your work for a long time and we are most happy to accept this story.

Sincerely, Clay Gladmore.

I got up from the chair still holding my acceptance slip. MY FIRST. From the number one literary magazine in America. Never had the world looked so good, so full of promise. I walked over to the bed, sat down, read it again. I studied each curve in the handwriting of Gladmore's signature. I got up, walked the acceptance slip over to the dresser, propped it there. Then I undressed, turned out the lights and went to bed. I couldn't sleep. I got up, turned on the light, walked over to the dresser and read it again.

Dear Mr. Chinaski…

I often saw Gertrude in the hall. We talked but I didn't ask her out again. She stood very close to me, gently swaying, now and then staggering, as if drunk, upon her very high heels. One Sunday morning I found myself on the front lawn with Gertrude and Hilda. The girls made snowballs, laughed and screamed, threw them at me. Never having lived in snow country I was slow at first but I soon found out how to make a snowball and hurl it. Gertrude fired up, screamed. She was delicious. She was all flare and lightning. For a moment I felt like walking across the lawn and grabbing her. Then I gave up, walked away down the street with the snowballs whizzing past me.

Tens of thousands of young men were fighting in Europe and China, in the Pacific Islands. When they came back she'd find one. She wouldn't have any problem. Not with that body. Not with those eyes. Even Hilda wouldn't have any difficulty.

I began to feel that it was time for me to leave St. Louis. I decided to go back to Los Angeles; meanwhile I kept hand-printing short stories by the score, got drunk, listened to Beethoven's Fifth, Brahms' Second…

One particular night after work I stopped at a local bar.

I sat and drank five or six beers, got up and walked the block or so to my rooming house. Gertrude's door was open as I walked past. "Henry…"

"Hello." I walked up to the door, looked at her. "Gertrude, I'm leaving town. I gave notice at work today."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"You people have been nice to me."

"Listen, before you leave I want you to meet my boyfriend."

"Your boyfriend?"

"Yes, he just moved in, right down the hall."

I followed her. She knocked and I stood behind her. The door opened: gray and white striped pants; longsleeved checked shirt; necktie. A thin moustache. Vacant eyes. Out of one of his nostrils streamed a nearly invisible thread of snot that had finally gathered into a little gleaming ball. The ball had settled in the moustache and was gathering to drip off, but meanwhile it sat there and reflected the light.

"Joey," she said, "I want you to meet Henry."

We shook hands. Gertrude went in. The door closed. I walked back to my room and began packing. Packing was always a good time.

When I got back to Los Angeles I found a cheap hotel just off Hoover Street and stayed in bed and drank. I drank for some time, three or four days. I couldn't get myself to read the want ads. The thought of sitting in front of a man behind a desk and telling him that I wanted a job, that I was qualified for a job, was too much for me. Frankly, I was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep, and keep himself clothed. So I stayed in bed and drank. When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn't have you by the throat.

I got out of bed one night, dressed and walked up town. I found myself on Alvarado Street. I walked along until I came to an inviting bar and went in. It was crowded. There was only one seat left at the bar. I sat in it. I ordered a scotch and water. To my right sat a rather dark blonde, gone a bit to fat, neck and cheeks now flabby, obviously a drunk; but there was a certain lingering beauty to her features, and her body still looked firm and young and well-shaped. In fact, her legs were long and lovely. When the lady finished her drink I asked her if she wanted another. She said yes. I bought her one.

"Buncha damn fools in here," she said.

"Everywhere, but especially in here," I said.

I paid for three or four more rounds. We didn't speak. Then I told the lady, "That drink was it. I'm broke."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a place to stay?"

"An apartment, two or three days left on the rent."

"And you don't have any money? Or anything to drink?"

"No."

"Come with me."

I followed her out of the bar. I noticed that she had a very nice behind. I walked with her to the nearest liquor store. She told the clerk what she wanted: two fifths of Grand Dad, a sixpack of beer, two packs of cigarettes, some chips, some mixed nuts, some alka-seltzer, a good cigar. The clerk tabbed it up. "Charge it," she said, "to Wilbur Oxnard." "Wait," he said, "I'll have to phone." The clerk dialed a number and spoke over the phone. Then he hung up. "It's all right," he said. I helped her with her bags and we walked out.

"Where are we going with this stuff?"

"To your place. Do you have a car?"

I took her to my car. I had bought one off a lot in Compton for thirty-five dollars. It had broken springs and a leaking radiator, but it ran.

We got to my place and I put the stuff in the refrigerator, poured two drinks, brought them out, sat down and lit my cigar. She sat on the couch across from me, her legs crossed. She had on green earrings. "Swell," she said.

"What?"

"You think you're Swell, you think you're Hot Shit!"

"No."

"Yes, you do. I can tell by the way you act. I still like you. I liked you right off."

"Pull your dress a little higher."

"You like legs?"

"Yeh. Pull your dress a little higher."

She did. "Oh, Jesus, now higher, higher yet!"