Pulp - Charles Bukowski [67]
Then I went about my business of drinking. I suppose about 45 minutes passed and the mailman began to move. He rolled over, spit out a shard of glass and began crawling toward the door. He looked pitiful. He crawled right up to the door. I opened it and he crawled out and down toward his apartment. I’d have to watch him in the future.
I closed the door.
I sat down and found half a dead cigar in the ashtray. I lit it up, took a drag, gagged. Tried it again. Not too bad.
I felt introspective.
I decided not to do any more that day.
Life wore a man out, wore a man thin.
Tomorrow would be a better day.
14
The next day I was back at Red’s bookstore. I was on the Celine case again. The racetrack was closed and it was a cloudy day. Red was marking up the prices on some rare items.
“How about Musso’s?” he asked.
“I can’t, Red. I seem to be eating all the time. Look at me.”
I pulled back my coat. My gut was pushing out through my shirt. A button had popped off.
“You better get that fat sucked out. You’ll have a heart attack. They suck the fat out through a tube. You can put it in a jar and look at it, it’ll remind you to lay off the jelly donuts.”
“I’ll think about it. You want some grapefruit?”
“Grapefruit? That’s not fattening.”
“I know but I fell over one when I got up this morning, they’re dangerous.”
“Where’d you sleep, in the refrigerator?”
I sighed.
“Look, let’s change the subject. You know this guy who looks like Celine?”
“Oh, him…”
“Him. He been in lately?”
“Not since you were here. You trailing this bird?”
“You might say so.”
Then, just like that, he walked in. Celine.
He slid past us and went down the aisle and plucked up a book.
I walked over close to him. Real close. He had the signed copy of As I Lay Dying. Then he noticed me.
“In the old days,” he said, “writers’ lives were more interesting than their writing. Now-a-days neither the lives nor the writing is interesting.”
He slid Faulkner back into place.
“You live around here?” I asked.
“Maybe. How about you?”
“You once had a French accent, didn’t you?” I asked.
“Maybe. How about you?”
“Oh, nothing like that. Listen, did anybody ever tell you that you resembled somebody else?”
“We all, more or less, resemble somebody else. Look, do you have a cigarette?”
“Of course.”
I dug for my pack.
“Please,” he said, “take one and light it, smoke it. It will keep you busy.”
He began to walk away.
I lit my cigarette, took a drag. Then I followed him. I gave Red a goodbye nod, then stepped into the street. Just in time to see him get into an ‘89 Fiat at the curb. And who was parked right behind him? My Bug was parked right behind him. What luck! Talk about fornicating the odds! First time I had found curb parking in months! I leaped in, gunned out and followed him.
He went east down Hollywood Boulevard.
Lady Death, I thought, watch me, at your service.
Then I almost lost him at the next signal, but I sliced through the beginning of a red light. No problem except for a little old lady in a Caddy who called me a dirty name. I smiled.
Soon Celine and I were on the Hollywood Freeway as the sun burned through the clouds. I kept Celine in my sights. I felt good. Maybe I’d get the fat sucked out through a tube. I was still a young man. My life was before me.
Then Celine was on the Harbor Freeway.
Then he was on the Santa Monica.
Then he was on the San Diego. South.
Then Celine took a turnoff and I followed him along. The territory seemed to look familiar. I followed along about half a block back. I hoped he wasn’t checking his rear view too much.
Then I saw him slow, pull over and stop. I slid over to the curb, parked and watched.
He got out of his car and walked down a few houses, then he crossed the street while looking over his shoulder. He stopped, looked around again, then went up a walkway to this house. He stepped onto the porch, looked around and knocked. It was a large