Pulp - Charles Bukowski [78]
I got up and walked to the bathroom. I hated to look in that mirror but I did. And I saw depression and defeat. Sagging dark pouches under the eyes. Little cowardly eyes, the eyes of a rodent trapped by the frigging cat. My flesh looked like it wasn’t trying. It looked like it hated being part of me. My eyebrows hung down, twisted, they looked as if they were demented, demented eyebrow hairs. Horrible. I looked disgusting. And I wasn’t even ready for a bowel movement. I was all plugged up. I walked over to the toilet to piss. I aimed properly but somehow it came out sideways and splashed on the floor. I tried to re-aim and pissed all over the toilet seat which I had forgotten to lift. I ripped off some toilet paper and mopped up. Cleaned the seat. Tossed the paper into the can and flushed. I walked to the window and looked out and saw a cat shit on the roof next door. Then I turned back, found my toothbrush, squeezed the tube. Too much came out. It flopped wearily against my brush and fell into the sink. It was green. It was like a green worm. I stuck my finger into it, stuck some of it on the brush and began brushing. Teeth. What goddamned things they were. We had to eat. And eat and eat again. We were all disgusting, doomed to our dirty little tasks. Eating and farting and scratching and smiling and celebrating holidays.
I finished brushing my teeth and went back to bed. I had no kick left, no zing. I was a thumbtack, I was a piece of linoleum.
I decided to stay in bed until noon. Maybe by then half the world would be dead and it would only be half as hard to take. Maybe if I got up at noon I’d look better, feel better. I knew a guy once who didn’t excrete for days. He finally just exploded. Really. Shit flew out of his belly.
Then the phone rang. I let it ring. I never answered the phone in the morning. It rang 5 times and stopped. There. I was alone with myself. And disgusting as I was it was better than being with somebody else, anybody else, all of them out there doing their pitiful little tricks and handsprings. I pulled the covers up to my neck and waited.
23
I got to the track for the 4th race. I had to break through somewhere. All my leads were stalled. I pulled out the list. I had it all written down:
Find out if Celine is Celine. Inform Lady Death of findings.
Locate the Red Sparrow.
Find out if Cindy is screwing around on Bass. If so, nail her ass.
Get the Space Alien off of Grovers’ back.
I folded the list and put it back in my pocket. I opened the Form. They were coming out on the track for the 4th. It was a warm easy day. Everything seemed in a dream state. Then I heard a sound behind me. There was somebody sitting behind me. I turned. It was Celine. He smiled at me.
“Nice day,” he said.
“What the hell you doing here?” I asked him.
“Paid my way in. They didn’t ask any questions,” said Celine.
“You tailing me, motherfucker?” I asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he said.
“There are a lot of things I don’t understand,” I told him.
“Me neither,” he said. Then he climbed over the seat and sat down next to me. “We’re going to talk,” he said.
“Sure,” I said, “now, first off, what’s your name? Your real name?”
I felt the snub-nosed revolver poking me in the side. He was holding it under his coat.
“You got a permit for that thing?” I asked.
“I’ll ask the questions here,” he said, giving me a little poke with the firearm.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Who put the tail on me?”
“Lady Death.”
“Lady Death?” he laughed. “Don’t give me that crap!”
“I crap you not. That’s what she calls herself, ‘Lady Death.’”
“Some nut, huh?”
“Maybe.”
“Where can I find this bitch?”
“I don’t know. She only contacts me.”
“You expect me to buy that?”
“I don’t know, it’s all I got to sell.”
“What’s she want?”
“She wants to know if you’re the real Celine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Who do you like in this