Pulp - Charles Bukowski [73]
“Like what?”
“Well, float up through the ceiling, things like that…”
“You a drinking man, Grovers?”
“Sure. How about you?”
“Wouldn’t do without it…Now, listen, Grovers, before we go any further you’ll have to get down here in person. It’s the third floor of the Ajax Building. Knock before you enter.”
“Any special knock?”
“Yeah, Shave-and-a-Haircut, Six-Bits, then I’ll know it’s you…”
“All right, Mr. Belane…”
I killed four flies while waiting. Damn, death was everywhere. Man, bird, beast, reptile, rodent, insect, fish didn’t have a chance. The fix was in. I didn’t know what to do about it. I got depressed. You know, I see a box boy at the supermarket, he’s packing my groceries, then I see him sticking himself into his own grave along with the toilet paper, the beer and the chicken breasts.
Then the secret knock came at the door and I said, “Please enter, Mr. Grovers.”
He walked in. Not much to him. Four feet eight, 158 pounds, 38 years old, greengray eyes with a tic in the left eye, small ugly yellow mustache, same color as hair which was thinning on top of his too round head. He walked with his toes out, sat down.
We sat looking at each other. That’s all we did. Five minutes went by. Finally I got pissed.
“Grovers, why don’t you say something?”
“I was waiting for you to speak first.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I leaned back in my chair, lit a cigar, put my feet on the table, inhaled, exhaled, and blew out a perfect smoke ring.
“Grovers, this woman, this…space alien…tell me a bit about her…”
“She calls herself Jeannie Nitro…”
“Tell me more, Mr. Grovers.”
“You won’t laugh at me like the police did?”
“Nobody laughs like the police, Mr. Grovers.”
“Well…she’s a hot number from outer space.”
“Why do you want to get rid of a hot number?”
“I’m afraid of her, she controls my mind.”
“Like how?”
“Like anything she says, I have to do.”
“Suppose she told you to eat your poo-poo, would you do that?”
“I think I would…”
“Grovers, you’re just pussy-whipped. Lot of men like that.”
“No, it’s the tricks she does, they’re frightening.”
“I’ve seen all the tricks, Grovers, and then some…”
“You haven’t seen her appear out of nowhere, you haven’t seen her vanish through the ceiling.”
“You’re boring me, Grovers, this is a bunch of crap.”
“No, it ain’t, Mr. Belane.”
“‘Ain’t’? Where the hell you come from Grovers? You talk like a backwoodsman.”
“And you don’t look like a detective, Mr. Belane.”
“Huh? What? Then what do I look like?”
“Well, let’s see, let me think…”
“Don’t take too fucking long. This is costing you 6 dollars an hour.”
“Well, you look like…a plumber.”
“A plumber? A plumber. O.k. What would you do without a plumber? Can you think of anybody more important than a plumber?”
“The president.”
“The president? There you go, wrong! Wrong again! Everytime you open your mouth you say something wrong!”
“I’m not wrong.”
“There you see! You did it again!”
I put out my cigar and lit a cigarette. This guy was a pure piece of crap. But he was a client. I looked at him a long time. It was hard work looking at him. I stopped looking. I looked over his left ear.
“O.k. what do you want me to do? With this space alien? This Jeannie Nitro?”
“Get rid of her.”
“I’m no hit man, Grovers.”
“Just get her out of my life one way or the other.”
“You had sex yet?”
“You mean today?”
“I mean, with her.”
“No.”
“You got a place of residence on this bimbo? Phone number? Occupation? Tattoo? Hobby? Peculiar habits?”
“Only the last…”
“Like what?”
“Like she floats through the ceiling and all that.”
“Grovers, you’re crazy. You don’t need me, you need a shrink.”
“I’ve been to the shrinks.”
“And what do they say?”
“Nothing. Only they charge more than 6 dollars an hour.”
“What do they charge?”
“One-hundred-seventy-five dollars an hour.”
“That proves you’re crazy.”
“Why?”
“Anybody pays that has got to be crazy.”
Then we just sat there looking at each other. It seemed pretty dumb. I was trying to think. My temples hurt.
Then the door swung open. And in walked this woman. Now all that I can tell you is