Pulp - Charles Bukowski [103]
I ignored that one.
“Maybe we’ll stick your head up your ass,” said one of the others.
Boring damned people. All over the earth. Propagating more boring damned people. What a horror show. The earth swarmed with them.
“Maybe we’ll make you suck a carrot,” said one of them.
“Maybe he’d like to suck three carrots,” said one of the others.
I didn’t say anything. I drained my scotch, had a water, stood up, nodded to the back of the bar.
“Oh, look he wants to see us outside!”
“Maybe he wants our carrots!”
“Let’s go see!”
I walked out toward the back. I heard them behind me. Then I heard the click of a switch blade opening. I turned in time to kick it out of his hand. Then I gave him a chop behind the ear. He dropped and I stepped over him. The other two turned and started running. They ran down through the bar and out the front entrance. I let them go. I walked back to the other kid. He was still out. I picked him up, carried him over my shoulder, took him outside. I stretched him out on a bus bench on his back. Then I took off his shoes and threw them down a storm drain. Ditto his wallet. Then I went back inside, went back and got the switch blade, pocketed it, went back to my stool, ordered another drink.
I heard the babe cough. She was lighting a cigarette.
“Mister,” she said, “I liked that. I like real men.”
I ignored that.
“I’m Trachea,” she said.
She picked up her drink and came and sat down next to me. She had on too much perfume and a week’s worth of lipstick.
“We could get to know each other,” she said.
“It wouldn’t pay off, it would only be stupid.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Experience.”
“Maybe you met all the wrong kinds of women?”
“Maybe I’m attached to that.”
“I could be the right one.”
“Sure.”
“Buy me a drink.”
Mine was arriving.
“A drink for Trachea,” I told the barkeep.
“Gin and tonic, Bobby…”
Bobby toddled off.
“You haven’t told me your name?” she lisped.
“David.”
“Oh, I like that. I once knew a David.”
“What happened to him?”
“I forget.”
Trachea leaned her flank against me. She was about 25 pounds overweight.
“You’re cute,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Ah, I dunno…” She paused. “You like me?”
“Well, not really.”
“You should. I’m good.”
“What at? You take shorthand?”
“No, but I make short things long.”
“Like what?”
“You know!”
“No, I don’t.”
“Guess.”
“Balloons?”
“You’re funny.”
“I’ve been told.”
Her drink arrived. She took a sip.
The more I looked at her the less enamored I became.
“Damn it,” she said, “my lighter!”
She opened her purse and began pulling things out. A beer bottle opener. Three shades of lipstick. Chewing gum. A whistle. And…what?
“I found it!” she said, holding up the lighter. She tapped out a cigarette, lit it.
“What’s that thing there?”
“Where?”
“There. On the bar. That red thing.”
I pointed.
“Oh,” she said, “that’s my sparrow.”
“Is it alive? Was it alive? Ever?”
“No, silly, it’s stuffed. I got it at a pet shop today. It’s for my kitty. It’s my catnip sparrow. Kitty loves them.”
“Oh, hell, put it away.”
“David, you got excited there for a minute! Do birds turn you on?”
“Just the Red Sparrow.”
“You want it?”
“No, it’s all right.”
“I got some more catnip sparrows at my place. You can meet my kitty.”
“No, it’s all right, Trachea. I’ve got to get going.”
“All right, David, but you don’t know what you’re missing.”
I got up, walked down the bar, tossed some bills to the bartender and walked out. The punk was no longer on the bench. I got into my car, pulled out and headed into traffic. It was about ten p.m. The moon was up and my life was slowly going nowhere.
47
The next day I was sitting in the office. The door kicked open and there was Harry Sanderson and his two monkeys. This time Sanderson was dressed in a light purple suit. His taste in colors was freaky. I knew a babe like that once, she had a way of wearing those weird colors. Like we’d go out to a restaurant to eat and everybody would turn and look at her. Problem was, she wasn’t much to look at. Even with a hangover and a 3-day beard I looked better than she did.