Charles Bukowski: The Captain Is Out to Lunch

It was hot in the car. It was 100 degrees, the hottest Oct. first since 1906.

I wasn't going to respond to his letter. He would write again.

Another letter from an agent, enclosing the work of a writer. I glanced. Bad stuff. Of course. „If you have any suggestions on his writing or any publishing leads, we would much appreciate..“ Another letter from a lady thanking me for sending her husband a few lines and a drawing at ther suggestion, that it made him very happy. But now they were divorced and she was frelancing it and could she come by and interview me?

Twice a week I get requests for interviews. There's just not that much to talk about. There are plenty of things to write about but not to talk about.

I remember once, in the old days, some German journalist was interviewing me. I had poured wine into him and had talked for 4 hours. After that, he had leaned forward drunkenly and said, „I am no interviewer. I just wanted an excuse to see you..“ I tossed the mail to the side and sat waiting. Then I saw the tow truck. A young smiling fellow. Nice boy. Sure.

„HEY BABY!“ I yelled, „OVER HERE!“ He backed it around and I got out and told him the problem.

„Tow me into the Acura garage,“ I told him.

„Your warranty still good on that car?“ he asked.

He knew damn well it wasn't. It was 1991 and I was driving a 1989.

„Doesn't matter,“ I said, „tow me to the Acura dealer.“ „Take them a long time to fix it, maybe a week.“ „Hell no, they are very fast.“ „Listen,“ said the boy, „we have our own garage. We can take it down there, maybe fix it today. If not, we'll write you up and give you a call at first opportunity.“ Right there I visualized my car at their garage for a week. To be told that I needed a new camshaft. Or my cylinder heads ground.

„Tow me to Acura,“ I said.

„Wait,“ said the boy, „I gotta call my boss first.“ I waited. He came back.

„He said to jump start you.“ „What?“ „Jump start.“ „All right, let's do it.“ I got in my car let it roll to the back of his truck. He got out the snakes and it started right up. I signed the papers and he drove off and I drove off…

Then I decided to drop the car off at the corner garage. „We know you. You been coming here for years,“ said the manager.

„Good,“ I said, then smiled, „so don't screw me.“ He just looked at me.

„Give us 45 minutes.“ „All right.“ „You need a ride?“ „Sure.“ He pointed. „He'll take you.“ Nice boy standing there. We walked to his car. I gave him the directions. We drove up the hill.

„ You still making movies?“ he asked me.

I was a celebrity, you see.

„No,“ I said, „fuck Hollywood.“ He didn't understand that.

„Stop here,“ I said.

„Oh, that's a big house.“ „I just work there,“ I said.

It was true.

I got out. Gave him 2 dollars. He prostested but took them.

I walked up the driveway. The cats were sprawled about, pooped. In my next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours a day and wait to be fed. To sit around licking my ass. Humans are too miserable and angry and single-minded.

I walked up and sat at the computer. It's my new consoler. My writing has doubled in power and output since I have gotten it. It's a magic thing. I sit in front of it like most people sit in front of their tv sets.

„It's only a glorified typewriter,“ my son-in-law told me once.

But he isn't a writer. He doesn't know what it is when words bite into space, flash into light, when the thoughts that come into the head can be followed at once by words, which encourages more thoughts and more words to follow. With a typewriter it's like walking through mud. With a computer, it's ice skating. It's a blazing blast. Of course, if there's nothing inside you, it doesn't matter. And then there's the clean-up work, the corrections. Hell, I used to have to write everyhing twice. The first time to get it down and the second time to correct the errors and fuckups. This way, it's one run for the fun, the glory and the escape.

I wonder what the next step will be after the computer? You'll probably just press your fingers to your temples and out will come this mass of perfect wordage. Of course, you'll have to fill up before you start but there will always be some lucky ones who can do that. Let's hope.

The phone rang.

„It's the battery,“ he said, „you needed a new battery.“ „Suppose I can't pay?“ „Then we'll hold your spare tire.“ „Be down soon.“ And as soon as I started down the hill I heard my elderly neighbor. He was yelling at me. I climbed his steps. He was dressed in his pajama pants and and old gray sweatshirt. I walked up and shook his hand. „Who are you?“ he asked.

„I'm your neighbor. Been there for ten years.“ „I'm 96,“ he said.

„I know it, Charley.“ „God won't take me because He's afraid I'll take his job.“ „You could.“ „Could take the Devil's job too.“ „You could.“ „How old are you?“ „71.“ „71?“ „Yes.“ „That's old too.“ „Oh, I know it, Charley.“ We shook hands and I went back down his steps and then down the hill, passing the tired plants, the tired houses.

I was on my way to the gas station.

Just another day kicked in the ass.

Today was the second day of inter-track wagering. Where the live horses ran at Oak Tree there were only 7,000 people. Many people don't want to make that long drive to Arcadia. For those living in the south part of town, it means taking hte Harbor Freeway, then the Pasadena Freeway and then after that more driving along surface streets to get the track. It's a long hot drive, coming and going. I always came in from that drive totaly exhausted.

A small-time trainer phoned me. „There was nobody out there. It's the end. I need a new trade. Think I'll get a word processor and become a writer. I'll write about you…“ His voice was on the message machine. I phoned him back and congratulated him for coming in 2nd on a 6-to-1 shot. But he was down.

„The small trainer is finished. This is the end,“ he said.

Well, we'll see what they draw tomorrow. Friday. Probably a thousand more. It's only inter-track wagering, it's the economy. Things are worse than the government or the press will admit. Those who are still alive in the economy are keeping quiet about it. I'd have to guess that the biggest business going is the sale of drugs. Hell, take that away and almost all the young would be unemployed. Me, I'm still making it as a writer but that could be shot through the head overnight. Well, I still have my old age pension: $943.00 a month. They gave me that when I turned 70. But that can die too. Imagine all the old wandering the streets without their pensions. Don't discount it. The national debt can pull us under like a giant octopus. People will be sleeping in the graveyards. At the same time, there is a crust of living rich on top of the rot. Isn't it astonishing? Some people have so damn much money they don't even know how much they have. And I'm talking millions. And look at Hollywood, turning out 60 million dollar movies, as idiotic as the poor fools who go to see them. The rich are still there, they've always found a way to milk the system.

I remember when the racetracks were jammed wtih people, shoulder to shoulder, ass to ass, sweating, screaming, pushing toward the full bars. It was a good time. Have a big day, you'd both be drinking and laughing. We thought those days (and night) would never end. And why should they? Crap games in the parking lots. Fist fights. Bravcado and glory. Electricity. Hell, life was good, life was funny. All us guys were men, we'd take no shit from anybody. And, frankly, it felt good. Booze and a roll in the hay. And plenty of bars, full bars. No tv sets. You talked and got into trouble. If you got picked up for being drunk in the streets they only locked you up overnight to dry out. You lost jobs and found other jobs. No use hanging around the same place. What a time. What a life. Crazy things always happening, followed by more crazy things.