The Most Beautiful Woman in Town (8 page)

“GET THAT WOMAN OUT OF MY HOUSE!” she screamed.

COPS! I couldn't believe it. I pulled the sheet over my pulsating and throbbing and giant sexual organ and pretended to be asleep. it looked like I had a cucumber under there.

Margy was screaming back: “I know you, Vicki, this ain't your god damned house! this guy EARNS his way by licking your asshole hairs! he gets you babbling to heaven in Morse code with that long sandpaper tongue of his, and you're nothing but a WHORE, a true blue turdy-gulping 2-dollar whore. and THAT went out with Franky D., and you were 48 THEN!”

hearing that, my cucumber went down. both of these broads must have been 80 years old. singly, that is, together they might have reached back to suck-off Abe Lincoln. something like that. suck-off General Robert E. Lee, Patrick Henry. Mozart. Dr. Samuel Johnson. Robespierre. Napoleon. Machiavelli? wine preserves. God endures. the whores blow on.

and Vicki screamed back: “WHO'S A WHORE? WHO'S A WHORE, HUH? YOU'RE A WHORE, THAT'S WHO! YOU'VE BEEN SELLING THAT CLAPPED HOLE OF YOURS UP AND DOWN ALVARADO STREET FOR 30 YEARS! A BLIND RAT WOULD BACK UP 4 TIMES IF HE RAN INTO THERE ONCE! AND YOU HOLLERING TOW! POW!' WHEN YOU'RE LUCKY ENOUGH TO GET A GUY TO COME! AND
THAT
WENT OUT WHEN CONFUCIUS FUCKED HIS MOTHER!”

“WHY YOU CHEAP BITCH. YOU'VE GIVEN OUT MORE BLUE BALLS THAN A SILVER CHRISTMAS TREE IN DISNEYLAND. WHY YOU …”

“listen, ladies,” said one of the cops. “I will have to ask you to watch your remarks and lower the volume. understanding and kindness are the keynotes of Democratic thought. oh, I just DO love the way Bobby Kennedy wears that tickling blobbing knot of raunchy hair over one side of his darling head don't you just?”

“why you fuckin' queer,” said Margy, “is that why you wear them tight pants, to make your asshole sweeter? god, it DOES look NICE! I'd kinda like to, do you in myself. I see you shits bending over into car windows giving out tickets on the freeways and I always feel like pinching your tight little asses.”

the cop suddenly got a brilliant flare in his dead eyes, he unhitched his club and tapped Margy along the side of the neck with it. she fell to the floor.

then he slipped the bracelets on her. I could hear those clicks, and the bastards ALWAYS snapped them too tight. but they felt almost GOOD once you got them on, kind of forceful and heavy and you felt like Christ or something dramatic.

I kept my eyes closed so I couldn't see whether they threw a robe or something over her.

then the cop who snapped the bracelets said to the other cop, “I'll take her on the elevator. we'll go on the elevator.”

and I couldn't hear very well, but I listened as they went down, and I heard Margy screaming, “oooooh, oooooooh, you bastard. let go of me, let go of me!”

and he kept saying, “shut up, shut up, shut up! you're only getting what you deserve! and you haven't seen ANYTHING yet! this .. . is just the … beginning!”

then she really screamed.

then the other cop walked over to me. through one narrowed eye I could see him put his big black shiny shoe up on the mattress, up on the sheet.

he looked down at me.

“is this guy a fag? he looks like a fag, sure as hell.”

“I don't THINK he is. he might be. he can sure ball a broad, though.”

“you want me to run him in?” he asked Vicki.

I had my eyes closed. it was a long wait. god, it was a long wait. that big foot there on my sheets. the electric light shining down.

then she spoke. finally. “no, he's … o.k. leave him there.”

the cop took his foot down. I heard him walk across the room, then wait at the door. he spoke to Vicki:

“I'm going to have to charge you 5 bucks more for your protection next month. you're getting a bit harder to watch out for.”

then he was gone. I mean, out into the hall. I waited for him to get into the elevator. I heard it go down to the first floor. I counted to 64. then, I LEAPED OUT OF BED.

my nostrils were flaring like Gregory Peck in heat.

“YOU ROTTEN BITCH. YOU EVER DO THAT AGAIN AND I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!”

“NO, NO, NO!!!!”

I raised my hand to give her the old backhand.

“I TOLD HIM NOT TO TAKE YOU!” she screamed at me.

“ummm. that's right. I've got to consider that.”

I lowered my hand.

then there was some whiskey left and some wine too. I got up and put the chain on the door.

we turned off the lights and sat there and drank and smoked and talked about things. this, and that. easy and casual. then, like old times, we looked at the same red horse that flew and flew in red neon on the side of a building just downtown to our east. it flew and flew on the side of this building all night. no matter what happened. you know what it was, a kind of red horse with red wings of neon. but I told you that. a winged horse. anyhow. like always, we counted: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. the wings always flapped 7 times. then the horse, everything, stood still. then, it started again. our whole apartment would be in this red glow. then when the horse stopped flying, somehow things would get white for a flash. I don't know why. I think that it was caused by an advertisement beneath the red winged horse. it said, some kind of product, buy this or buy that, in this WHITE. anyhow.

we sat and talked and drank and smoked.

later we went to bed together. she kissed very nicely, her tongue was kind of an apologetic sadness.

then we fucked. we fucked as the red horse flew.

7 times the wings flapped. and in the center of the rug the 3 chickens were still there. watching. the chickens turned red, the chickens turned white, the chickens turned red. 7 times they turned red. then they turned white. 14 times they turned red. then they turned white. 21 times they turned red. then they turned white. 28 times.…

it had ended a better night than most.

TEN JACK-OFFS

old Sanchez is a genius but I am the only one who knows it and it's always good to go see him. there are very few people I can stay in a room with more than 5 minutes without feeling gutted. Sanchez passes my tests, and I am very test, hehehehe, oh my god, anyhow, I go to see him now and then in his hand-built two story shack. he installed his own plumbing, has a free-feed line from a high-power voltage line, has connected himself up a telephone which feeds underground from a neighbor's installation, but he explains to me that he cannot call long distance or out of the city without exposing his sycophancy. he even lives with a young woman who says very little, paints, walks about looking sexy and makes love to him and him to her, of course. he bought the ground for very little and although the place is some distance from Los Angeles, you might call this an advantage. he sits among wires, popular mechanics magazines, tape recording sets, shelves and shelves of books on all subjects. he is concise, never rude; he is humourous and magic, he writes very well but is not interested in fame. once in a great while he will out from his cave and read his poetry at some university, and it is said that the walls and the ivy tremble and shake for weeks afterwards along with the co-eds. he has taped 10,000 tapes of conversation, sounds, music … dull and undull, usual and otherwise. the walls are covered with photos, advertisements, drawings, hunks of rock, snake skins, skulls, dried rubbers, soot, silver and spots of golddust.

“I'm afraid I'm cracking,” I tell him, “eleven years on the same job, the hours dragging over me like wet shit, wow, and all the faces melted down to zeros, yapping, laughing at nothing. I'm no snob, Sanchez, but sometimes it gets to be a real horror show and the only end is death or madness.”

“sanity is an imperfection,” he says, dropping a couple of pills into his mouth.

“jesus, I mean, I'm taught at several universities, some prof is writing a book on me … I've been translated into several languages .. .”

“we all have. you're getting old, Bukowski, you're weakening. keep your moxie. Victory or Death.”

“Adolph.”

“Adolph.”

“large gamble, large loss.”

“right, or invert it for the common man.”

“well, fuck.”

“yeah.”

it gets quiet for a while. then he says, “you can come live with us.”

“thanks, sure, man. but I think I'll try a little more moxie first.”

“your game.”

Over his head is a black sign upon which he has pasted in white type:

“A BOY HAS NEVER WEPT, NOR DASHED A THOUSAND KIM.”

–
Dutch Schultz, on his deathbed
.

WITH ME, GRAND OPERA IS THE BERRIES.”

–
Al Capone

“NE CRAIGNEZ POINT, MONSIEUR, LE TORTUE.”

–
Leibnetz
.

“THERE IS NO MORE.”

–
Motto of Sitting Bull

“THE POLICEMAN'S CLIENT IS THE ELECTRIC CHAIR.”

–
George Jessel
.

“FAST AND LOOSE IN ONE THING
,

FAST AND LOOSE IN EVERYTHING
.

I NEVER KNEW IT FAIR. NO MORE

WILL YOU. NOR NO ONE
.

–
Detective Bucket
.

“AMEN IS THE INFLUENCE OF NUMBERS.”

–
Pico Della Mirandola,
in his kabbalistic conclusions

“SUCCESS AS THE RESULT OF INDUSTRY IS A PEASANT IDEAL.”

–
Wallace Stevens

“TO ME, MY SHIT STINKS BETTER EXCEPT THAN A DOG'S.”

–
Charles Bukowski
.

“NOW THE PORNOGRAPHERS WERE ASSEMBLED WITHIN THE CREMATORIUM.”

–
Anthony Bloomfield
.

“ADAGE OF SPONTANEITY – THE BACHELOR GRINDS HIS CHOCOLA TE HIMSELF.”

–
Marcel Duchamp
.

“KISS THE HAND YOU CANNOT SEVER.”

–
Taureg saying
.

“WE ALL, IN OUR DAY, WERE SMART FELLOWS.”

–
Admiral St. Vincent
.

“MY DREAM IS TO SAVE THEM FROM NATURE.'

–
Christian Dior
.

“OPEN SESAME –I WANT OUT.”

–
Stanislas Jerzy Lec
.

“A YARDSTICK DOES NOT SAY THAT

THE OBJECT TO BE MEASURED

IS ONE YARD LONG.”

–
Ludwig Wittgenstein
.

I am a bit gone on beer. “Say, I like that last one: ‘the object to be murdered does not have to be a yard long.' ”

“I think that's even better but it's not what is said.”

“all right. how's Kaakaa? that's baby-language for shit. and a more sexy woman I've never seen.”

“I know. and it started with Kafka. she used to like Kafka and I called her that. then she changed it herself.” he gets up and walks to a photo. “come 'ere, Bukowski.” I flip my beercan into the trashcan and walk on over. “what's this?” asks Sanchez.

I look at the photo. it is a very good photo.

“well, it looks like a cock.”

“what kinda cock?”

“a stiff cock. a big one.”

“it's mine.”

“so?”

“don't you notice?”

“what?”

“the sperm.”

“yes, I see it. I didn't want to say .. .”

“why not? what the hell's wrong with you?”

“I don't understand.”

“I mean, do you see the sperm or don't you?”

“what do you mean?”

“I mean, I'm JACKING OFF, can't you understand how hard that is to do?”

“it's not hard, Sanchez, I do it all the time ..

“oh, you ox! I mean I had the camera rigged-up with a string. Do you realize what an enactment it was to remain quietly in focus, ejaculate and trigger the camera at the same time?”

“I don't use a camera.”

“how many men do? you miss the point, as usual. who the hell you are translated into the German, the Spanish, the French and so forth, I'll never know! look, do you realize that it took me THREE DAYS to make this SIMPLE photograph? do you know how many times I had to JACKOFF?”

“4 times?”

“TEN TIMES!”

“oh, Lord! how about Kaakaa?”

“she
liked
the photo.”

“I mean . ..”

“good god, boy, I don't have the tongue to answer your simplicity.”

He goes on around back there and plops himself in his chair again among his wires and pliers and translations and his huge BITTER-LEAP notebook, Adolph's nose glued to the black front with edgeworks of the Berlin bunker in the background.

“I'm working on something now,” I tell him, “story about me walking in to interview the great composer. he's drunk. I get drunk, there's a maid. we're on the wine. he leans forward and tells me, ‘The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth,' — ”

“yeah?”

“and then he says, ‘translated that means that the stupid have the greatest persistency.' ”

“kind of lousy,” he says, “but it's all right for you.”

“but I don't know what to do with the story. I've got this maid walking around in a very short thing and I don't know what to do with her. the composer gets drunk, I get drunk and she walks around flashing her ass, hot as hell, and I don't know what to do with it. I thought I might save the story by whiplashing the maid with my belt buckle and then sucking the composer's dick. but I've never sucked dick, never felt like it, I'm square, so I left the story in the center and never finished it.”

“every man is a homo, a dick-sucker; every woman is a dyke. why do you worry so much?”

“because if I'm not happy I'm no good and I don't want to be no good.”

We sit there a while and then she comes from upstairs, this flaxen straight string hair.

it's the first woman I could eat, I think.

but she walks past Sanchez and his tongue licks his lips just a bit, she walks past me like separate ball-bearings of magic wavering crazy flesh, may the heavens kiss my balls if it is not so, and she waves through it all glorious as avalanche smashed by sun …

“hello, Hank,” she says.

“Kaakaa,” I laugh.

she goes behind her table and begins her bits of painting and he sits there, Sanchez, beard blacker than black power, but calm calm, no claims. I begin to get drunk, say nasty things, say anything. then I begin to get dull. I mumble, I murmur. “Oh, sorry … ta spoil yr evening … so sorry, fuckers .. . ya … I'm a killer but I won't kill anybody. I got class. I'm Bukowski! translated into SEVEN LANGUAGES! I AM the ONE! BUKOWSKI!”

I fall forward trying to look at the jack off picture again, pitch over something. it is one of my own shoes. I have this god damn bad habit of taking off my own shoes.

“Hank,” she says, “be careful.”

“Bukowski?” he asks, “you all right?”

he lifts me up. “man, I think you better stay here tonight.”

“NO GOD DAMN IT, I'M GOING TO THE WOOD-CHOPPERS BALL!”

next thing I know he's got me over his shoulder, Sanchez has and he's carrying me to his upstairs pad, you know, where he and his woman do the thing, and then I'm down on the bed, he's gone, door closed, and then I hear some kind of music downstairs, and laughter, the both of them, but kind laughter, no malice, and I did not know what to do, one did not expect the best, luck or people, everybody failed you finally, well, and then the door opened, a pop of light, and there was Sanchez —

“hey, Bubu, a bottle of good French wine … sip it slowly, do you most good. you'll sleep. be happy. I won't say we love you, that's too easy. and if you want to come downstairs, dance and sing, talk, o.k. do what you want. here's the wine.”

he hands me the bottle. I lift it like some crazy cornet, again and again. through a ripped curtain a part of the worn moon leaps. it is a perfectly good night; it is not jail; it is far from that. ..

in the morning when I awaken, go down to piss, come out from pissing, I find them both asleep on that narrow couch hardly enough for one body, but they are not one body and their faces together and asleep their bodies together and asleep, why be corny??? I only feel the tiny clutch at the throat, the automatic transmission blues of loveliness, that somebody has it, that they don't even hate me … that they even wish me what? …

I walk out staunching and griefing and feeling and sick and blue and bukowski, old, starlit sun, my god, reaching into the final corner, the last midnight blast, cold Mr. C., big H, Mary Mary, clean as a bug on the wall, the heat of December a brainweb across my everlasting spine, Mercy like Kerouac's dead baby sprawled across Mexican railroad tracks in the everlasting July of suck-off tombs, I leave them in their there thar, the genius and his love, both better than I, but Meaning, itself, shitting, shifting, sanding down, until, I maybe writing this down by myself, leaving a few things out (I have been threatened by various powerful forces for doing things that are only normal and gaga gladful to do)

and I get into my eleven year old car

and now I have driven away

find myself here

and write you here a little illegal story of

love

beyond myself

but, perhaps, understandable to

you.

yours truly,

Sanchez and Bukowski

p.s. — this time the Heat missed. don't keep more than you can swallow: love, heat or hate.