Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [98]
Becker sat in a chair as I poured the wine. He had on a Marine uniform.
“I see they sucked you in,” I said.
“I lost my Western Union job. It was all that was left.”
I handed him his drink. “You’re not a patriot then?”
“Hell no.”
“Why the Marines?”
“I heard about boot camp. I wanted to see if I could get through it.”
“And you did.”
“I did. There are some crazy guys there. There’s a fight almost every night. Nobody stops it. They almost kill each other.”
“I like that.”
“Why don’t you join?”
“I don’t like to get up early in the morning and I don’t like to take orders.”
“How are you going to make it?”
“I don’t know. When I get down to my last dime I’ll just walk over to skid row.”
“There are some real weirdos down there.”
“They’re everywhere.”
I poured Becker another wine.
“The problem is,” he said, “that there’s not much time to write.”
“You still want to be a writer?”
“Sure. How about you?”
“Yeah,” I said, “but it’s pretty hopeless.”
“You mean you’re not good enough?”
“No, they’re not good enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“You read the magazines? The ‘Best Short Stories of the Year’ books? There are at least a dozen of them.”
“Yeah, I read them…”
“You read The New Yorker? Harper’s? The Atlantic?”
“Yeah…”
“This is 1940. They’re still publishing 19th Century stuff, heavy, labored, pretentious. You either get a headache reading the stuff or you fall asleep.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s a trick, it’s a con, a little inside game.”
“Sounds like you’ve been rejected.”
“I knew I would be. Why waste the stamps? I need wine.”
“I’m going to break through,” said Becker. “You’ll see my books on the library shelves one day.”
“Let’s not talk about writing.”
“I’ve read your stuff,” said Becker. “You’re too bitter and you hate everything.”
“Let’s not talk about writing.”
“Now you take Thomas Wolfe…”
“God damn Thomas Wolfe! He sounds like an old woman on the telephone!”
“O.K., who’s your boy?”
“James Thurber.”
“All that upper-middle-class folderol…”
“He knows that everyone is crazy.”
“Thomas Wolfe is of the earth…”
“Only assholes talk about writing…”
“You calling me an asshole?”
“Yes…”
I poured him another wine and myself another wine.
“You’re a fool for getting into that uniform.”
“You call me an asshole and you call me a fool. I thought we were friends.”
“We are. I just don’t think you’re protecting yourself.”
“Every time I see you you have a drink in your hand. You call that protecting yourself?”
“It’s the best way I know. Without drink I would have long ago cut my god-damned throat.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Nothing’s bullshit that works. The Pershing Square preachers have their God. I have the blood of my god!”
I raised my glass and drained it.
“You’re just hiding from reality,” Becker said.
“Why not?”
“You’ll never be a writer if you hide from reality.”
“What are you talking about? That’s what writers do!”
Becker stood up. “When you talk to me, don’t raise your voice.”
“What do you want to do, raise my dick?”
“You don’t have a dick!”
I caught him unexpectedly with a right that landed behind his ear. The glass flew out of his hand and he staggered across the room. Becker was a powerful man, much stronger than I was. He hit the edge of the dresser, turned, and I landed another straight right to the side of his face. He staggered over near the window which was open and I was afraid to hit him then because he might fall into the street.
Becker gathered himself together and shook his head to clear it.
“All right now,” I said, “let’s have a little drink. Violence nauseates me.”
“O.K.,” said Becker.
He walked over and picked up his glass. The cheap wine I drank didn’t have corks, the tops just unscrewed. I unscrewed a new bottle. Becker held out his glass and I poured him one. I poured myself one, set the bottle down. Becker emptied his. I emptied mine.
“No hard feelings,” I said.
“Hell, no, buddy,” said Becker, putting down his glass. Then he