Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [96]
I walked over to the sink and pissed. We had finished the bottle of wine. I opened the closet door. “I got another bottle of wine in here,” I told them.
I took most of the bills out of my pocket and threw them into the closet. I came out, opened the bottle, poured drinks all around.
“Shit,” said Fastshoes looking into his wallet, “I’m almost broke.”
“Me too,” said Jimmy.
“I wonder who’s got the money?” I asked.
They weren’t very good drinkers. Mixing the wine and the whiskey was bad for them. They were weaving a bit.
Fastshoes fell back against the dresser knocking an ashtray to the floor. It broke in half.
“Pick it up,” I said.
“I won’t pick up shit,” he said.
“I said, ‘pick it up’!”
“I won’t pick up shit.”
Jimmy reached and picked up the broken ashtray.
“You guys get out of here,” I said.
“You can’t make me go,” said Fastshoes.
“All right,” I said, “just open your mouth one more time, say one word and you won’t be able to separate your head from your asshole!”
“Let’s go, Fastshoes,” said Jimmy.
I opened the door and they filed past unsteadily. I followed them down the hall to the head of the stairway. We stood there.
“Hank,” said Jimmy, “I’ll see you again. Take it easy.”
“All right, Jim…”
“Listen,” Fastshoes said to me, “You…”
I shot a straight right into his mouth. He fell backward down the stairway, twisting and bouncing. He was about my size, six feet and one-eighty, and you could hear the sound of him for a block. Two Filipinos and the blond landlady were in the lobby. They looked at Fastshoes laying there but they didn’t move toward him.
“You killed him!” said Jimmy.
He ran down the stairway and turned Fastshoes over. Fastshoes had a bloody nose and mouth. Jimmy held his head. Jimmy looked up at me.
“That wasn’t right, Hank…”
“Yeah, what ya gonna do?”
“I think,” said Jimmy, “that we’re going to come back and get you…”
“Wait a minute,” I said.
I walked back to my room and poured myself a wine. I hadn’t liked Jimmy’s paper cups and I had been drinking out of a used jelly glass. The paper label was still on the side, stained with dirt and wine. I walked back out.
Fastshoes was reviving. Jimmy was helping him to his feet. Then he put Fastshoes’ arm around his neck. They were standing there.
“Now what did you say?” I asked.
“You’re an ugly man, Hank. You need to be taught a lesson.”
“You mean I’m not pretty?”
“I mean, you act ugly…”
“Take your friend out of here before I come down there and finish him off!”
Fastshoes raised his bloody head. He had on a flowered Hawaiian shirt, only now many of the colors were stained with red.
He looked at me. Then he spoke. I could barely hear him. But I heard it. He said, “I’m going to kill you…”
“Yeah,” said Jimmy, “we’ll get you.”
“YEAH, FUCKERS?” I screamed. “I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE! ANYTIME YOU WANT TO FIND ME I’LL BE IN ROOM 5! I’LL BE WAITING! ROOM 5, GOT IT? AND THE DOOR WILL BE OPEN!”
I lifted the jelly glass full of wine and drained it. Then I hurled that jelly glass at them. I threw the son-of-a-bitch, hard. But my aim was bad. It hit the side of the stairway wall, glanced off and shot into the lobby between the landlady and her two Filipino friends.
Jimmy turned Fastshoes toward the exit door and began slowly walking him out. It was a tedious, agonizing journey. I heard Fastshoes again, half moaning, half weeping, “I’ll kill him…I’ll kill him…”
Then Jimmy had him out the doorway. They were gone.
The blond landlady and the two Filipinos were still standing in the lobby, looking up at me. I was barefooted, and had gone five or six days without a shave. I needed a haircut. I only combed my hair once, in the morning, then didn’t bother again. My gym teachers were always after me about my posture: “Pull your shoulders back! Why are you looking at the ground? What’s down there?”
I would never set any trends or styles. My white t-shirt was stained with wine, burned, with many cigarettes and cigar holes, spotted with blood and vomit. It was too small, it rode up exposing my gut and belly button. And my pants were too small. They gripped