You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense - Charles Bukowski [18]
one
but the fresh
droppings
kept
appearing.
it was one night
while I was
reading the
stock market
quotations
that I
looked up
and
there stood
the
lion
in the bedroom
doorway.
I was
in bed
propped up
with a
couple of
pillows
and drinking a
hot
chocolate.
now
nobody
can believe
a lion
in a
bedroom—
at least
not
in a city
of any
size.
so
I just kept
looking at the
lion
and not
quite
believing.
then
it turned and
walked down the
stairway.
I
followed it—
a good
18 feet
behind—
clutching my
baseball bat
in one
hand
and my
4-inch knife
in the
other.
I watched the
lion
go down the
stairway
then walk
across the front
room
it paused
before the large
plate glass
sliding
doors
which faced the
yard and the
street.
they were
closed.
the lion
emitted an
impatient
growl
and
leaped through the
glass
crashing through
into the
night.
I sat
on the couch
in the
dark
still unable
to believe
what
I had
seen.
then
I heard
a scream
of such utter
agony and
terror
that
for a
moment
I could
neither
see
breathe nor
comprehend.
I rose,
turned to
barricade myself
in the
bedroom
only to see
3 small
lion cubs
trundling
down
the stairway—
cute
devilish
felines
as the
mother
returned
through the
night and the
shattered glass
door
half dragging
half carrying
a bloodied
man
across the
rug
leaving a
red
trail
the cubs
rushed
forward
and the
moon
came through
to light
the
whirling
feast.
hard times
as I got out of my car down at the docks
two men started walking toward
me.
one looked old and mean and the other was
big and smiling.
they were both wearing
caps.
they kept walking toward me.
I got ready.
“something bothering you guys?”
“no,” said the old
guy.
they both stopped.
“don’t you remember us?”
“I’m not sure…”
“we painted your house.”
“oh, yeah…come on, I’ll buy you a
beer…”
we walked toward a cafe.
“you were one of the nicest guys we ever
worked for…”
“yeah?”
“yeah, you kept bringing us beer…”
we sat at one of those rough tables
overlooking the harbor. we
sucked at our
beers.
“you still live with that young
woman?” asked the old
guy.
“yeah. how you guys doing?”
“there’s no work now…”
I took out a ten and handed it to the old
one.
“listen, I forgot to tip you guys…”
“thanks.”
we sat with our beer.
the canneries had shut down.
Todd Shipyard had failed
and was
phasing them
out.
San Pedro was back in the
30’s.
I finished my beer.
“well, you guys, I gotta go.”
“where ya gonna go?”
“gonna buy some fish…”
I walked off toward the fish market,
turned halfway there
gave them
thumb-up
right hand.
they both took their caps off and
waved them.
I laughed, turned, walked
off.
sometimes it’s hard to know
what to
do.
longshot
of course, I had lost much blood
maybe it was a different kind of
dying
but I still had enough left to wonder
about
the absence of fear.
it was going to be easy: they had
put me in a special ward they had
in that place
for the poor who were
dying.
—the doors were a little thicker
—the windows a little smaller
and there was much
wheeling in and out of
bodies
plus
the presence of the priest
giving last
rites.
you saw the priest all the time
but you seldom saw a
doctor.
it was always nice to see a
nurse—
they rather took the place of
angels
for those who
believed in that sort of
thing.
the priest kept bugging me.
“no offense, Father, but I’d
rather die without
it,” I whispered.
“but on your entrance application you
stated ‘Catholic.’”
“that was just to be
social…”
“my son, once a Catholic, always a
Catholic!”
“Father,” I whispered, “that’s not
true…”
the nicest thing about the place were
the Mexican girls who came in to
change the sheets, they giggled, they
joked with the dying and
they were
beautiful.
and the worst thing was
the Salvation Army Band who
came around at
5:30 a.m.
Easter Morning
and gave us the old
religious feeling—horns and drums
and all, much
brass and