Come on In! - Charles Bukowski [24]
minutes and was hired.”
“uh …”
“he began in the mailroom and in 12 months he
was making package deals for tv programs
and movies.
nobody ever got out of the mailroom that
fast, and next he married a rich girl
just out of law school.”
“yeah?”
“after that he spent most of his
time putting golf balls into a water glass
in his office.
he made the work look easy …”
“listen,” I asked, “what time is it? the
battery in my watch went dead.”
“… and in another year
he was promoted to upper management and
a year later he took over the whole place.
he was
the youngest CEO in America.”
“you buy the next round,” I told him.
“sure, well, he doubled his work hours and
after a while his wife left him—women don’t
understand.”
“what?”
“guys like him.”
“oh …”
“he didn’t contest the divorce.
he just moved on. it didn’t faze him one bit.
it was amazing, you’d
see him having dinner with congressmen, with
the mayor.”
“are you going to get the next round?”
he told the barkeep, who brought two more.
“then he began working 16- and 18-hour
days and after work he’d frequent
after-hour places above the Sunset Strip, to relax,
to try to unwind.”
“a place like this, huh?”
“this was the place. he didn’t try to close
deals, he just wanted to relax with the
actors, the artists, the screenwriters, the
directors, the producers, the investors
and so forth. and, of course, there were also the
beautiful girls.”
“here?”
“yes, look around …”
I did.
“well, it was just a matter of time until he discovered
coke, then more coke, mostly with his new friends
after the after-hour places closed.”
“flying, what?”
“yes, but professionally he
continued to function well until
he began doing crank.”
“it really keeps you awake, huh? my
round to buy …”
I ordered two more.
“after some months he felt more and more
depressed, he took 6 weeks off and went to
Hawaii, resting, laying in the sun.”
“did he screw?”
“he told me that he tried. anyhow, he came back
and he used to talk to me here just like you’re
doing now.”
“oh.”
“then he became obsessed with some Mexican Real
Estate Dream
which
he would bankroll
with a Mexican friend
who was powerful in politics there.
the master plan was that
within 8 years they would control
a real estate empire and
several banks before the
government could stop them.
“drink up,” I suggested.
“well, they didn’t quite get it rolling.
he lost everything.
at the office he became difficult and unreasonable,
smashing ashtrays, throwing the phone out the window,
once pouring a can of Tab down his secretary’s
blouse. yet somehow he managed to retain an
obnoxious brilliance and he remained almost functional
which was better than most of the others there.”
“most others don’t have much.”
“that’s true. anyhow, one day he arrived at work
dressed in a house painter’s outfit, you know, the
white overalls, the little white cap, carrying a brush and a
bucket of paint. that’s when the Board of Directors
insisted on a 3-month leave of absence.”
“BARKEEP!” I yelled. “COUPLE MORE!”
“he sold his house and moved into an apartment
on Fountain Avenue. his friends came by for
a while, then they stopped.”
“suckerfish like winners.”
“yes, and then there was a period when he tried to
get back with his x-wife but she didn’t want any more
of that. she was with a young sculptor from Boston
who was immensely talented and who taught
at an Ivy League university.”
“a rough turn of events,” I said.
“anyhow, our friend had this apartment
on Fountain Avenue and
one day the manager who lived in the apartment
below noticed water coming down through the
ceiling …”
“oh?”
“he ran upstairs and knocked on the door, there
was no answer, he took out his key and opened it, went
in and there was Randy standing there like a statue,
his head down in the bathroom sink, the water
running and overflowing,
running over the floor, and the manager wasn’t sure what
to think, it looked so strange, and he went over and
saw that the head was wedged there in the sink,
and