Come on In! - Charles Bukowski [17]
of different ways and just missed both
times.
let me tell you that the police weren’t much
help, they picked her up but she somehow convinced
them that I was at fault.
“there’s nothing wrong with that lady,” they told me,
both times.
two squads of officers.
maybe she had sex with the whole gang of
them?
fortunately, as the months went on she gradually abandoned her
terrorist attacks until finally it was just a weepy
phone call or two and then a letter or two, then
silence.
she probably found somebody who could perform all the tricks that
she had taught me and could probably perform them
better. I hope
so.
and I just hope he likes sex
62 times a
month.
to the ladies no longer here
it’s just as well
you should see me now
driving to the racetrack
a tiny German flag decorating the rear
window.
I dislike the heavy traffic on the
boulevard and
I drive through the back streets of the black
ghetto.
the years have gone by
quickly.
Death sits in the seat next to
me.
we make a lovely
couple.
a man finds consolation while driving
and waiting.
one consolation is
how lucky I am
that I never settled down permanently
with any one of the
ladies.
driving along, that thought comes back to
me and falls at my feet.
Death picks it up
looks at me
shudders
and quickly fastens his
seat belt.
the nude dancer
she’s got a 6- month-old baby
and a 9- year-old
son,
but
she said
it sure beats the factories.
why do those guys just sit there and
stare at that thing
when a woman’s dancing? I
asked.
they memorize it, she said, then they
go home and flog off. I danced last
night and nobody watched me.
they were all watching some movie
where this woman was fingering
herself, and
after I finished my dance
I stood there and told them,
you guys are going to go crazy watching that
shit. you don’t know where you’re at
anymore.
you know, some of those guys freaked
out? about 7 of them got up and
left.
no shit, I said.
no shit, she said. I’ve worked 3 different places
since I’ve seen you
last. but it beats the factories and
it beats the
streets.
at least you can catch a drink
once in a while.
yes, that’s right,
I told her,
that’s right.
Ma Barker loves me
lying in the sack in the dark
sick from days of drinking.
head hurting
tongue thick.
watching tv
phone off the hook.
tired of trying to relate to the
female,
I watch tv.
the walls stacked up around me
like shields.
I watch these guys blasting holes
in people
with their submachineguns.
they need money
they have trouble with their molls
things keep
screwing up.
I get up to piss during a tire
commercial.
when I get back the main guy is
lying out in a field with his
moll.
there’s a stream below them.
it’s peaceful but he has a cigar
stuck into his mouth and a .357 magnum
resting in his shoulder holster.
the moll leans over him
she has blonde wispy hair which flicks
in the wind.
she says, “Johnny, why don’t you give
it up?”
“give what up?” he asks.
“you know, Johnny,” she says, “killing
people and all that …”
“now, baby,” he says, “I’m just trying
to get by.”
“you could give all that up, Johnny, we
could settle down in a nice little place
with a picket fence and have babies …”
“ah, now, baby, that life ain’t for
me.”
“well, Johnny,” she smiles, “it’s either
give it up or lose me …”
he sits up
pushes her away:
“no, baby! you don’t mean that?”
“yes,” she says, “I do , Johnny!”
“I’m not going to live without you,
baby,” he says
takes out the .357
jams it between her legs and
pulls the trigger.
I get up
go to the refrigerator and
get a beer.
when I come back
there’s a shaving cream commercial
on.
I drain the beer
toss it in the basket
put the phone back on the hook
dial a number.
she answers and I say, “listen,
baby, I can’t have you around
anymore, you
get in the way.
sorry.”
I hang up
take the phone back
off the hook.
time for another beer.
I like gangster movies
best.
here we go