Charles Bukowski: The Captain Is Out to Lunch

I got down to my car, got my jacket, put it on, took the escalator back up. That made me feel more like a playboy, a hustler-leaving the place and then coming back. I felt as if I had consulted some special secret source.

Well, I played out the card, had some luck. By the 13th race it was dark and beginning to rain. I bet ten minutes early and left. Traffic was cautious. Rain scares the hell out of L.A. drivers. I got on the freeway behind the mass of red taillights. I didn't turn on the radio. I wanted silence. A title ran through my brain: Bible for the Disenchanted. No, no good. I remebered some of the best titles. I mean, ot other writers. Bow Down to Wood and Stone. Great title, lousy writer. Notes from the Underground. Great title. Great writer. Also, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. Carson McCullers, a very underrated writer. Of all my dozens of titles the one I liked best was Confessions of a Man Insane Enough to Live with Beasts. But I blew that one away on a little mimeo pamphled. Too bad.

Then the freeway stopped and I just sat there. No title. My head was empty. I felt like sleeping for a week. I was glad I had put the trash cans out. I was tired. Now I didn't have to do it. Trash cans. One night I had slept, drunk, on top of trash cans. New York City. I was awakened by a big rat sitting on my belly. We both, at once, leaped about 3 feet into the air. I was trying to be a writer. Now I was supposed to be one and I couldn't think of a title. I was a fake. Traffic began to move and I followed it along. Nobody knew who anybody else was and it was great. Then a great flash of lightning crashed above the freeway and for the first time that day I felt pretty good.

So, after some days of blank-braining it, I awakened this morning and there was the title, it had come to me in my sleep: The Last Night of the Earth Poems. It fit the content, poems of finality, sickness and death. Mixed with others, of course. Even some humor. But the title works for this book and this time. Once you a title, it locks everything in, the poems find their order. And I like the title. If I saw a book with a title like that I would pick it up and try to read a few pages. Some titles exaggerate to attrat attention. They don't work because the lie doesn't work.

Well, I'm done with that. Now what? Back to the novel and more poems. Whatever happened to the short story? It has left me. Here's a reason but I don't know what it is. If I worked at it I could find the reason but working at it wouldn't help anything. I mean, that time could be used for the novel or the poem. Or to cut my toenails.

You know, somebody ought to invent a decent toenail clipper. I'm sure it can be done. The ones they give us to work with are really awkward and disheartening. I read where a guy on skid row tried to hold up a liquor store with a pair of toenail clippers. It didn't work there either. How did Dostoevsky cut his toenails? Van Gogh? Beethoven? Did they? I don't believe it. I used to let Linda do mine. She did an excellent job – only now and then she got a little piece of flesh. Me, I've had enough pain. Of any kind.

I know that I'm going to die soon and it seems very strange to me. I'm selfish, I'd just like to keep my ass writting more words. It puts the glow in me, tosses me through golden air. But really, how much longer can I go on? It's not right to keep going on. Hell, death is the gasoline in the tank anyhow. We need it. I need it. You need it. We trash up the place if we stay too long.

Strangest thing, I think, after people die is looking at their shoes. That's the saddest thing. It's as if most of their personality remains in their shoes. The clothes, no. It's in who has just died. You put their hat, their gloves and their shoes on the bed and look at them and you'll go crazy. Don't do it. Anyhow, now they know something that you don't. Maybe.

Last day of racing today. I played inter-track wagering, at Hollywood Park, betting Fairplex Park. Bet all 13 races. Had a lucky day. Came out totally refreshed and strong. Wasn't even bored out there today. Felt jaunty, in touch. When you're up, it's great. You notice things. Like driving back, you notice steering wheel on your car. The instrument panel. You feel like you're in a goddamned space ship. You weave in and out of traffic, neatly, not rudely – working distances and speeds. Stupid stuff. But not today. You're up and you stay up. How odd. But you don't fight it. Because you know it won't last. Off day tomorrow. Oaktree Meet, Oct. 2. The meets go around and around, thousands of horses running. As sensible as the tides, a part of them.

Even caught the cop car tailing me on the Harbor freeway south. In time. I slowed it to 60. Suddenly, he dropped way back. I held it at 60. He'd almost clocked me at 75. They hate Acuras. I stayed at 60. For 5 minutes. He roared past me doing a good 90. Bye, bye friend. I hate getting a ticket like anybody else. You have to keep using the rear view mirror. It's simple. But you're bound to get tagged finally. And when you do, be glad you're not drunk or packing drugs. If you're not. Anyhow, the title's in.

And now I'm up here with the Macintosh and there is a wonderous space before me. Terrible music on the radio but you can't expect a 100 percent day. If you get 51, you've won. Today was a 97.

I see where Mailer has written a huge new novel about the CIA and etc. Norman is a professional writer. He asked my wife once, „Hank doesn't like my writing, does he?“ Norman, few writers like other writers' works. The only time they like them is when they are dead or if they have been for a long time. Writers only like to sniff their own turds. I am one of those. I don't even like to talk to writers, look at them or worse, listen to them. And the worst is to drink with them, they slobber all over themselves, really look piteous, look like they are serching for the wing of the mother.

I'd rather think about death than about writers. Far more pleasant.

I'm going to turn this radio off. The composers also sometimes screw it up. If I had to talk to somebody I think I'd much prefer a computer repairman or a mortician. With or without drinking. Preferably with.

Death comes to those who wait and to those who don't. Burning day today, burning dumb day. Came out of the post office and my car wouldn't kick over. Well, I am a decent citizen. I belong to the Auto Club. So, I needed a telephone. Forty years ago telephones were everywhere. Telephones and clocks. You could always look somewhere and see what time it was. No more. No more free time. And public telephones are vanishing.

I went by instinct. I went into the post office, took a stairway down and there in a dark corner, all alone and unannounced was a telephone. A sticky dirty dark telephone. There was not another within two miles. I knew how to work a telephone. Maybe. Information. The operator's voice came through and I felt saved. It was a calm and boring voice and asked what city I wanted. I named the city and the Auto Club. (You have to know how to do all the little things and you have to do them over and over again or you are dead. Dead in the streets. Unattended, unwanted.) The lady gave me a number but it was a wrong number. For the business office. Then I got he garage. A macho voice, cool, weary yet combative. Wonderful I gave him the info. „30 minutes,“ he said.

I went back to the car, opened a letter. It was a poem. Christ. It was about me. And him. We had met, it seemed, twice, about 15 years ago. He had also published me in his magazine. I was a great poet, he said, but I drank. And had lived a miserable down-and-out life. Now yong poets were drinking and living miserable and down-and-out because they thought that was the way to make it. Also, I had attacked other people in my poems, including him. And I had imagined that he had written unflattering poems about me. Not true. He was really a nice person, he said he had published many other poets in his magazine for 15 years. And I was not a nice person. I was a great writer but not a nice person. And he never would have ever „paled“ around with me. That's what he wrote: „paled.“ And he kept spelling „you're“ as „your.“ He wasn't a good speller.