Come on In! - Charles Bukowski [14]
high speed ratings, especially at comparative
distances.”
“but shit,” she screamed, “why doesn’t it work?
the horse that ran faster last time, why doesn’t
he win against the slower ones?”
“anybody can take a short price on exposed form,”
I said. “it’s self-defeating.”
“goddamn you!” she screamed. “I hate you and I hate horses!”
and she swung her purse around and around on its
long strap.
then there was a hard harsh thud:
she had just hit the man on the head
who was walking behind us.
the poor soul was badly staggered.
an elderly Mexican.
I held him up by the arm.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said,
“it was an accident!
she didn’t mean to hit you with her
purse!
she has lost a great deal of money today
and she’s a little crazy!
I’m very sorry!”
“it’s all right,” the fellow said.
I let go of his arm and we turned and
walked on.
“what’s the matter?” she screamed.
“are you afraid of that man?
are you afraid of a real fight?”
“of course I am,” I told her.
“I thought so!” she screamed. “let’s
get the hell out of here!”
it was when we got to the car
and after I got it started that
this thought
went through my mind:
baby, I don’t know why the hell
I’m living with you!
I stopped at the first light.
then as we drove up Huntington Drive
she said to me,
“you know, I don’t know why the hell
I’m living with you!”
I kept on driving up Huntington.
then I turned on the car radio.
we had been together one and one-half
years.
it’s always easier to meet than
to part.
I know
because after that day at the track
we managed to live together for another
year.
hello there!
when death comes with its last cold kiss
I’ll be ready.
(I’ve already experienced my share of
deathly
kisses.)
the mad ladies who helped me
consume my hours
my years
have readied me for the
dark.
when death comes with its last cold kiss
I’ll be ready:
just another whore
come to
shake me
down.
the fuck-master
Arnie was ahead of all of us, he began shaving
first and then he flashed rubbers at us
in their mysterious tin cases
and he was the first one with his own automobile
and he always had some girl in his
car, always a new one,
sitting there quiet and frightened
and we knew he was fucking her
and
he knew where to get gin, he’d get them
drunk on gin and then he’d do it to
them!
all that was in jr. high
but when we went on to
high school
Arnie kept going back to jr. high
to pick up the jr. high school girls
in his car (it was almost like he was stuck
back there in jr.
high).
well, time passed and then Arnie
dropped out of high school and
I forgot about
him.
two years later I was walking
home after classes one afternoon
and here came
Arnie.
Christ, he looked all wizened, almost
vanished.
I had gotten bigger and wiser meanwhile
and I was more comfortable with
things.
I slapped him on the back, “hey, Arnie, you
FUCKER, how ya
doin’?”
“hi, Hank,” he
said.
we shook hands and his hand was trembling
and sweaty.
I let go of
it.
we stood and looked at each other.
“well, see you around, cousin,” I
said.
and I
left him standing there.
the poor guy had fucked himself away, completely
fucked himself
away.
and I still had all mine
left!
my personal psychologist
you’re a screwed-up Romantic, she said,
you read all the old philosophers and you
listen to Wagner and Mahler and you think
the ancient Chinese poets were hot shit, yet
you’re depraved, you’re at the racetrack
every day and you know that’s sick, and
all that wine you drink, it’s eating
your brain away, and when you get drunk
you talk about what a great fighter you
used to be, even though you admit you
took more beatings than you gave.
you dislike people and love animals.
I really don’t know what the hell you’re
all about—you just grab at things, you rely
solely on instinct and your prejudices
and sometimes I think you’re retarded.
it was your childhood, you didn’t get any
love so it’s hard for you to give any,
you just get drunk and call every woman