Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [99]
“Pour me a drink, buddy,” I said, “let’s think this thing over.”
“Get up,” said Becker, “that was just chapter one.”
I got up and moved toward Becker. I blocked his jab, caught his right on my elbow, and punched a short straight right to his nose. Becker stepped back. We both had bloody noses.
I rushed him. We were both swinging blindly. I caught some good shots. He hit me with another good right to the belly. I doubled over but came up with an uppercut. It landed. It was a beautiful shot, a lucky shot. Becker lurched backwards and fell against the dresser. The back of his head hit the mirror. The mirror shattered. He was stunned. I had him. I grabbed him by the shirt front and hit him with a hard right behind his left ear. He dropped on the rug, and knelt there on all fours. I walked over and unsteadily poured myself a drink.
“Becker,” I told him, “I kick ass around here about twice a week. You just showed up on the wrong day.”
I emptied my glass. Becker got up. He stood a while looking at me. Then he came forward.
“Becker,” I said, “listen…”
He started a right lead, pulled it back and slammed a left to my mouth. We started in again. There wasn’t much defense. It was just punch, punch, punch. He pushed me over a chair and the chair flattened. I got up, caught him coming in. He stumbled backwards and I landed another right. He crashed backwards into the wall and the whole room shook. He bounced off and landed a right high on my forehead and I saw lights: green, yellow, red…Then he landed a left to the ribs and a right to the face. I swung and missed.
God damn, I thought, doesn’t anybody hear all this noise? Why don’t they come and stop it? Why don’t they call the police?
Becker rushed me again. I missed a roundhouse right and then that was it for me…
When I regained consciousness it was dark, it was night. I was under the bed, just my head was sticking out. I must have crawled under there. I was a coward. I had puked all over myself. I crawled out from under the bed.
I looked at the smashed dresser mirror and the chair. The table was upside down. I walked over and tried to set it upright. It fell over. Two of the legs wouldn’t hold. I tried to fix them as best I could. I set the table up. It stood a moment, then fell over again. The rug was wet with wine and puke. I found a wine bottle lying on its side. There was a bit left. I drank that down and then looked around for more. There was nothing. There was nothing to drink. I put the chain on the door. I found a cigarette, lit it and stood in the window, staring down at Temple Street. It was a nice night out.
Then there was a knock on the door. “Mr. Chinaski?” It was Mrs. Kansas. She wasn’t alone. I heard other voices whispering. She was with her little dark friends.
“Mr. Chinaski?”
“Yes?”
“I want to come into your room.”
“What for?”
“I want to change the sheets.”
“I’m sick now. I can’t let you in.”
“I just want to change the sheets. I’ll be just a few minutes.”
“No, I can’t let you in. Come in the morning.”
I heard them whispering. Then I heard them walking down the hall. I went over and sat on the bed. I needed a drink, bad. It was a Saturday night, the whole town was drunk.
Maybe I could sneak out?
I walked to the door and opened it a crack, leaving the chain on, and I peeked out. At the top of the stairway there was a Filipino, one of Mrs. Kansas’ friends. He had a hammer in his hand. He was down on his knees. He looked up at me, grinned, and then pounded a nail into the rug. He was pretending to fix the rug. I closed the door.
I really needed a drink. I paced the floor. Why could everybody in the world have a drink but me? How long was I going to have to stay in that god-damned room? I opened the door again. It was the same. He looked up at me, grinned, then hammered another nail into the floor. I closed the door.
I got out my suitcase and began