ke that ridiculous artificial cock off-" she unhooked the thing and put it back in the top dresser drawer. I got out of bed and sat in a straight-backed chair, drinking the wine. she found another chair, and there we sat across from each other, naked, passing the wine. "this reminds me somehow of an old Leslie Howard movie, although they wouldn't shoot this part. wasn't Howard in the Somerset Maugham thing? OF HUMAN BONDAGE?" "I don't know those people." "that's right. you're too young." "did you like this Howard, this Maugham?" "they both had style. plenty of style. but, somehow, with both of them, hours or days or years later, you felt gypped, finally." "but they had this thing you call 'style'?" "now you're learning." then I got back into bed. she came on in. I tried it again. I couldn't make it. "you suck?" I asked. "sure." she took it in her mouth and got it out of me. I gave her another five, dressed, took another drink of wine, and made it down the stairway, across the street to the gas station. the battery was fully-charged. I paid the attendant and then backed on out, hit up 8th ave. a cop on the bike finally gave up and tailed after a Jap who made a sudden left turn without blinkers or hand signal on Wilshire blvd. they deserved each other. when I got to my place the woman was asleep and the little girl wanted me to read to her from a book called BABY SUSAN'S CHICKEN. it was terrible. Bobby found a cardboard carton for the chicks to sleep in. he set it in a corner behind the kitchen stove. and Bobby put some of Baby Susan's cereal in a little dish and set it carefully in the carton, so the little chicks could have some dinner, and Baby Susan laughed and clapped her fat little hands. it turns out later that the 2 other chicks are roosters and Baby Susan is a hen, a hen who lays a most wondrous egg. I'll say. I put the little girl down and went into the bathroom and let the hot water run into the tub. then I got into the tub and thought, the next time I get a dead battery I'll go to a movie. then I stretched out into the hot water and forgot everything. almost. === **THE COPULATING MERMAID OF VENICE, CALIFORNIA** The bar had closed and they still had to make the walk to therooming house, and there it was --- the hearse had driven up across the street where the Stomach Hospital was. "I think this is THE night," said Tony "I can feel it in my blood, I really can!" "The night for what?" asked Bill. "Look," said Tony, "we know their operation well by now. Let's get one! What the fuck? You got the guts?" "Whatsa matta? You think I'm coward because that runtysailor whipped my ass?" "I didn't say that, Bill." "You're the coward! I can whip you, easy-" "yeah. I know. I'm not talking about that. I say, let's grab a stiff just for laughs." "Shit! Let's grab TEN stiffs! "Wait. You're drunk now. Let's wait. We know the operation.We know how they operate. We been watching every night." "And you're not drunk, eh? You wouldn't have the GUTS otherwise!" "Quiet now! Watch! Here they come. They've got a stiff. Some poor guy. Look at that sheet pulled over his head. It's sad." "I am looking. And it is sad-" "Okay, we know the operation: if it's just one stiff, they toss him in, light their cigarettes and drive off. But if it's two stiffs, they don't bother locking the hearse door twice. They're real cool boys. It's just old stuff with them. If it's two stiffs, they just leave the guy on the roller there behind the hearse, go in and get the other stiff, then toss them in together. How many nights have we watched it?" "I dunno," said Bill, "sixty, at least." "Okay, now there's the one stiff. If they go back for another --- that stiff belongs to us. You game for grabs if they go in for another stifff?" "I'm game! I got double your guts!" "okay, then, watch. We'll know in a minute-Oops, there they go! They're going in for another stiff!" said Tony. "You game?" "Game," said Bill. They sprinted across the street and grabbed the corpse by the head and feet. Tony had the head, that sad head wrapped so tight in the sheet, while Bill grabbed the feet. Then they ran across the street, the pure white sheet of the corpse floating in the momentum --- sometimes you could see an ankle, an elbow, a thigh of flesh, and then they ran it up the room- ing house front steps, got to the door and Bill said, "Jesus Christ, who's got the key? Look, I'm scared!" "We don't have much time! Those bastards are gonna be out soon with the other stiff! Throw him in the hammock! Quick! We gotta find a goddamned key!" They tossed the stiff into the hammock. It rocked back and forth in the hammock under the moonlight. "Can't we take the body back?" asked Bill. "Good God oh Mother o Mighty, can't we take the body back?" "No time! Too late! They'd see us. HEY! WAIT!" yelled Tony. "I found the key!" "THANK JESUS!" They unlocked the door, then grabbed the thing on the hammock and ran up the stairway with it. Tony's room was closest. second floor. There was quite a bit of bumping with the corpse along the stairway wall and railing. Then they had it outside Tony's door and stretched it out while Tony looked for his door key. They got the door open, plopped the stiff on the bed and then went to the refrigerator and got hold of Tony's cheap gallon of muscatel, had half a waterglass full each, then refilled, came back to the bedroom, sat down and looked at the stiff. "Do you suppose anybody saw us?" asked Bill. "If they had, I think the cops would be up here by now." "Do you think they'll search the neighborhood?" "How can they? How can they go knocking on doors at this time of the morning, asking, 'Do you have a dead body?'" "Shit, I guess you're right." "Sure, I'm right," said Tony, "still, I can't help wondering how those two guys felt when they came back and saw the body gone? It must have been kind of funny." "Yeah," said Bill, "it musta been." "Well, funny or not, we've got the stiff. There he is, right on the bed." They looked at the thing under the sheet, had another drink. "I wonder when they begin to stiffen up? I wonder when they begin to stink?" "That rigor mortis takes a bit of time, I think," said Tony. "But he'll probably begin to stink pretty soon. It's just like garbage left in the sink. I don't think they drain the blood until they reach the mortuary." So, two drunks, they went on drinking the muscatel; they even forgot at times about the body, and they spoke of those vague and important other things in their rather inarticulate way. Then it was back to the body again. The body was still there. "What we gonna do with it?" asked Bill. "Stand it up in the closet after it stiffens up. It seemed pretty loose when we were carrying it. Probably died about a half and hour ago or so." "So, okay, we stand it up in the closet. Then what do we do when it starts to stink?" "I never thought about that part," said Tony. "Think about it," said Bill, pouring a good one. Tony tried to think about it. "You know, we might go to jail for this. If we get caught." "Sure, so?" "Well, I think we made a mistake, but it's too late." "Too late," repeated Bill. "So," said Tony, pouring a tall one, "if we are stuck with this stiff we might as well have a look at him." "Look at him?" "Yeah, look at him." "You got the guts?" asked Bill. "I dunno." "You scared?" "Sure. No training in this sort of thing," said Tony. "All right. You pull the sheet back," said Bill, "only fill my glass first. Fill my glass, then pull the sheet back." "Okay," said Tony. He filled Bill's glass. Then walked over. "All right," said Tony, "here GOES!" Tony pulled the sheet straight back over the body. He kept his eyes closed. "Good GOD!" said Bill, "it's a woman! A young woman!" Tony opened his eyes. "Yeah. Was young. Christ, look at that long blonde hair, goes way down past her asshole. But she's DEAD! terribly and finally dead, forever. What a shame! I don't understand it." "How old you figure she was?" "She doesn't look dead to me," said bill. "She is." "But look at those breasts! Those thighs! That pussy! That pussy: it still looks alive!" "Yeah," said Tony, "the pussy, they say: it's the first thing to come and the last thing to go." Tony walked over to the pussy, touched it. then he lifted a breast, kissed the damned dead thing. "It's so sad, everything is so sad --- that we live all our lives like idiots and then finally die." "You shouldn't touch the body," said Bill. "She's beautiful," said Tony, "even dead, she's beautiful." "Yeah, but if she were alive she wouldn't even look at a bum like you twice. You know that, don't you?" "Sure! And that's just the point! Now she can't say, 'NO!'" "What the hell are you talking about?" "I mean," said Tony, "that my cock is hard. VERY HARD!" Tony walked over and poured a glassful from the jug. Drank it down. Then he walked over to the bed, began kissing the breasts, running his hands through her long hair, and then finally kissingthat dead mouth in a kiss from the living to the dead. And then he mounted. It was GOOD. Tony rammed and jammed. Never such a fuck as this in all his days! He came. Then rolled off, toweled himself with the sheet. Bill had watched the whole thing, lifting the gallon muscatel jug in the dim lamplight. "Christ, Bill, it was beautiful, beautiful!" "You're crazy! You just fucked a dead woman!" "And you've been fucking dead women all your life --- deadwomen with dead souls and dead pussies --- only you didn't know it! I'm sorry, Bill, she was a beautiful buck. I have no shame." "Was she that good?" asked Bill. "You'll never believe it." Tony walked to the bathroom to take a piss. When he got back, Bill had mounted the body. Bill was going good. Moaning and groaning a bit. Then he reached over, kissed that dead mouth, and came. Bill rolled off, hit the edge of the sheet, wiped off. "You're right. Best fuck I ever had!" Then they both sat in their chairs and looked at her. "Wonder what her name was?" asked Tony. "I'm in love." Bill laughed. "Now I know you're drunk! Only a damn fool falls in love with a living woman; now you gotta get hooked on a dead one." "Okay, I'm hooked," said Tony. "All right, you're hooked," said bill, "whatta we do now?" "Get her the hell outa here!" answered Tony. "How?" "Same way we got her in --- down the stairway." "Then?" "Then into your car. We drive her down to Venice Beach, throw her into the ocean." "That's cold." "She won't feel it any more than she felt your cock." "And how about your cock?" asked Bill. "She didn't feel that either," answered Tony. There she was, double-fucked, dead-laid on the sheets. "Let's make it, baby!" screamed Tony. Tony grabbed the feet and waited. Bill grabbed the head. As they rushed out of Tony's room the doorway was still open. Tony kicked it shut with his left foot as they moved toward the top of the stairway, the sheet no longer wound about the body but, more or less, flopped over it. Like a wet dishrag over a kitchen faucet. And again, there was much bumping of her head and her thighs and her big ass against the stariway walls and stairway railings. They threw her into the back seat of Bill's car. "Wait, wait, baby!" screamed Tony. "What for?" The muscatel jug, asshole!" "Oh, sure." Bill sat waiting with the dead cunt in the back seat. Tony was a man of his word. He came running out with the jug of muski. They got on the freeway, passing the jug back and forth, drinking good mouthfuls. It was a warm and beautiful night and the Moon was full, of course. But it wasn't exactly night. By then it was 4:15 a.m. A good time anyhow. They parked. Then had another drink of the good muscatel, got the body out and carried it that long sandy dandy walk toward the sea. Then they got down to that part of the sand where the sea reached now and then, that part of the sand that was wet, soaked, full of little sand crabs and airholes. They put the body down and drank from the jug. Now and then an excessive wave rolled a bit over all of them: Bill, Tony, the dead Cunt. Bill had to get up to piss and having been taught nineteenth century morals he walked a bit up the shore to piss. As his friend did so, Tony pulled back the sheet and looked at the dead face in the seaweed twist and swirl, in the salty morning air. Tony looked at the face as Bill was pissing offshore. A lovely kind face, nose a little too sharp, but a very good mouth, and then with her body stiffening already, he leaned forward and kissed her very gently upon the mouth and said, "I love you, dead bitch." Then he covered her with the sheet. Bill finished pissing, came back. "I need another drink." "Go ahead. I'll take one too." Tony said, "I'm going to swim her out." "Can you swim good?" "Not too well." "I'm a good swimmer. I'll swim her out." "NO! NO!" screamed Tony. "Goddamn it, stop yelling!" "I'm going to swim her out!" "All right! All right!" Tony took another drink, pulled the sheet aside, picked her up and carried her step by step toward the breakers. He was drunker than he figured. Several times the big waves knocked them both down, knocked her out of his arms, and he had to get to his feet, run, swim, struggle to find the body. Then he'd see her --- that long long hair. She was just like a mermaid. Maybe she was a mermaid. finally Tony floated her out beyond the breakers. It was quiet. halfway between moon and sunrise. He floated with her some moments. It was very quiet. A time within time and a time beyond time. Finally, he gave the body a little shove. She floated off, half underwater, the strands of long hair whirling about the body. She was still beautiful, dead or whatever she was. She began to float away from him, caught in some tide. The sea had her. Then suddenly he turned from her, tried to swim back toward the shore. It seemed very far away. He made it in with the last stroke of his strength, rolling in with the force of the last breaker. He picked himself up, fell, got up, walked forward, sat down beside Bill. "So, she's gone," said Bill. "Yeh. Shark meat." "Do you think we'll ever be caught?" "No. Give me a drink." "Go easy. We're getting close to the bottom." "Yeah." They got back to the car. Bill drove. They argued over the final drinks on the way home, then Tony thought about the mer- maid. He put his head down and began to cry. "You were always chickenshit," said Bill, "always chickenshit." They made it back to the rooming house. Bill went to his room. Tony to his. The sun was coming up. The world was awakening. Some were awakening with hangovers. some were awakening with thoughts of church. Most were still asleep. A Sunday morning. And the mermaid, the mermaid with that dead sweet tail, she was well out to sea. While somewhere a pelican dove, came up with a glittering, guitar-shaped fish. -charles bukowski - from the books: The Most Beautiful Woman in Town and Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness === **ALL THE GREAT WRITERS** Mason had her on the phone. "yeh, well, listen, I was drunk. I don't remember WHAT I said to you! maybe it was true and maybe it wasn't! no, I'm NOT sorry, I'm tired of being sorry-you what? you won't? well, god damn you then!" Henry Mason hung up. it was raining again. even in the rain there was always trouble with women, there was always trouble with - it was the intercom buzzer. he picked up the phone. "there's a Mr. Burkett, a James Burkett-" "will you tell him that his manuscripts have been returned? we mailed them back yesterday. so sorry, all that." "but he insists on seeing you personally." "you can't get rid of him?" "no." "all right, send him in." a bunch of damned extroverts. they were worse than clothing salesmen, brush salesmen, they were worse than- in came James Burkett. "sit down, Jimmy." "only my friends call me 'Jimmy.'" "sit down, Mr. Burkett." you could tell by looking at Burkett that he was insane. a great self- love covered him like a neon paint. there was no scrubbing it off. truth wouldn't do it. they didn't know what truth was. "listen," said Burkett, lighting a cigarette and smiling around his cigarette like a temperamental & goofy bitch, "how come ya didn't like my stuff? your secretary out there sez ya sent it back?" then Mr. Burkett gave him the direct, the so direct look in the eye, playing at having SOUL. you were supposed to LOVE to do, so very hard to do, and only Mr. Burkett didn't realize this. "it just wasn't any good, Burkett. that's all." Burkett tapped his cigarette out in the ashtray. now, he rammed it out, jamming it and twisting it in the tray. then he lit another cigarette, and holding the match out in front of him, flam- ing, he said: "hey, listen, man, don't give me that SHIT!" "it was terrible writing, Jimmy." "I said only my FRIENDS call me 'Jimmy'!" "it was shitty writing, Mr. Burkett, in our opinion, only, of course." "listen, man, I KNOW this game! you SUCK up right and you're in! but you've got to SUCK! and I don't SUCK, man! my work stands alone!" "it certainly does, Mr. Burkett." "if I were a Jew or a fag or a commy or black it would be all over, man, I'd be in." "there was a black writer in here yesterday who told me that if his skin were white he'd be a millionaire." "all right, how about the fags?" "some fags write pretty good." "like Genet, huh?" "like Genet." "I gotta suck dick, huh? I gotta write about sucking dick, huh?" "I didn't say that." "listen, man, all I need is a little promotion. a little promotion and I'll go. people will LOVE me! all they gotta do is SEE my stuff!" "listen, Mr. Burkett, this is a business. if we published every writer who demanded that we do so because his stuff was so great, we wouldn't be here very long. we have to make the judgment. if we're wrong too many times we're finished. It's as simple as that. we print good writing that sells and we print bad writing that sells. we're in the selling market. we're not a charity, and frankly, we don't worry too much about the betterment of the soul or the betterment of the world." "but my stuff will GO, Henry-" " 'Mr. Mason,' please! only my friends-" "what are trying to do, get SHITTY with me?" "look, Burkett, you're a pusher. as a pusher, you're great. why don't you sell mops or insurance or something?" "what's wrong with my writing?" "you can't push and write at the same time. only Hemingway was able to do that, and then even he forgot how to write." "I mean, man, what don't you like about my writing? I mean, be DEFINITE! Don't give me a lot of shit about Hemingway, man!" "1955." "1955? whatcha mean?" "I mean, you were good then, but the needle's stuck. you're still playing 1955 over and over again." "hell, life is life and I'm still writing about LIFE, man! there isn't anything else! what the hell you giving me?" Henry Mason let out a long slow sigh and leaned back. artists were intolerably dull. and near-sighted. if they made it they believed in their own greatness no matter how bad they were. if they didn't make it they still believed in their greatness no matter how bad they were. if they didn't make it, it was somebody else's fault. it wasn't because they didn't have talent; no matter how they stank they always believed in their genius. they could always trot out Van Gogh or Mozart or two dozen more who went to their graves before having their little asses lacquered with Fame. but for each Mozart there were 50,000 intolerable idiots who would keep on puking out rotten work. only the good quit the game - like Rimbaud or Rossini. Burkett lit another cigarette, once again holding the flaming match in front of him as he spoke: "listen, you print Bukowski. and he's slipped. you know he's slipped. admit it, man! hasn't Bukowski slipped, huh? hasn't he?" "so, he's slipped." "he writes SHIT!" "if shit sells then we'll sell it. listen, Mr. Burkett, we aren't the only publishing house. why don't you try somebody else? just don't accept our judgment." Burkett stood up. "what the hell's the use? you guys are all alike! you can't use good writing! the world has no use for REAL writing! you couldn't tell a human being from a fly! because you're dead! DEAD, ya hear? ALL YOU FUCKERS ARE DEAD! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!" Burkett threw his burning cigarette on the rug, turned about, walked to the door, SLAMMED it and was gone. Henry Mason got up, picked up the cigarette, put it in the tray, sat down, lit one of his own. no way of giving up smoking on a job like this, he thought. He leaned back and inhaled, so glad that Burkett was gone --- those guys were dangerous --- absolutely insane and vicious --- especially those who were always writing about LOVE or SEX or the BETTER WORLD. Jesus, jesus. he exhaled. the inter- come buzzer rang. he picked up the phone. "a Mr. Ainsworth Hockley to see you?" "what's he want? we sent him his check for LUSTS AND BUSTS ON THE CAMPUS." "he says he has a new story." "fine. tell him to leave it with you." "he says he hasn't written it." "o.k., have him leave the outline. I'll check it out." "he says he doesn't have an outline." "wutz he want, then?" "he wants to see you personally." "you can't get rid of him?" "no, he just keeps staring at my legs and grinning." "then, for Christ's sake. pull your dress down!" "it's too short." "all right. send him in." in came Ainsworth Hockley. "sit down," he told him. Hockley sat down. then jumped up. lit a cigar. Hockley carried dozens of cigars. he was afraid of being a homosexual. that is, he didn't know whether he was a homosexual or not, so he smoked the cigars because he thought it was manly and also dynamic, but he still wasn't sure of where he was. he thought he liked women too. it was a mix-up. "listen," said Hockley, "I just sucked a 36 inch COCK! gigan- tic!" "listen, Hockley, this is a business. I just got rid of one nut. what do you want with me?" "I want to suck your COCK, man! THAT'S what I want!" "I'd rather you didn't." the room was already smoggy with cigar smoke. Hockley really shot it out. he jumped out of the chair. walked around. sat down. jumped out of the chair. walked around. "I think I'm going crazy." said Ainsworth Hockley. "I keep thinking of cock. I used to live with this 14 year old kid. huge COCK! god. HUGE! he beat his meat right in front of me once, I'll never forget it! and when I was in college, all these guys walking around the locker rooms, real cool- like ya know? why one guy even had BALLS down to his KNEES! we used to call him BEACH- BALLS HARRY. after BEACHBALLS HARRY came, baby it was all OVER! like a waterhose spurting curdled cream! when that stuff dried- why, man in the morning he'd have to beat the sheets with a baseball bat, shake the flakes off before he sent it to the laun- dry-" "you're crazy, Ainsworth." "I know, I know, that's what I'm telling YA! have a cigar!" Hockley poked a cigar at his lips. "no, no, thank you." "maybe you'd like to suck MY cock?" "I don't have the slightest desire. now what do you want?" "I've got this idea for a story, man." "o.k., write it." "no, I want you to hear it." Mason was silent. "all right," said Hockley, "this is it." he walked around shooting smoke. "a spaceship, see? 2 guys and 4 women and a computer. here they are shooting through space, see? days, weeks go by. 2 guys, 4 women, the computer. the women are getting real hot. they want it, see? got it? "got it." "but you know what happens?" "no." "the two guys decide that they are homosexuals and begin to play with each other. they ignore the women entirely." "yeah, that's kind of funny. write it." "wait. I'm not done yet. these two guys are playing with each other. it's disgusting. no. it isn't disgusting! anyhow, the women walk over to the computer and open the doors. and inside this computer there are 4 HUGE cock and balls." "crazy. write it." "wait. wait. but before they can get at the cocks, the machine shows up with assholes and mouths and the whole damned machine goes into an orgy with ITSELF. god damn, can you imagine?" "all right. write it. I think we can use it." Ainsworth lit another cigar, walked up and down. "how about an advance?" "one guy already owes us 5 short stories and 2 novels. he keeps falling further and further behind. if it keeps up, he'll own the company." "give me half then, what the hell. half a cock is better than none." "when can we have the story?" "in a week." Mason wrote a check for $75. "thanks, baby," said Hockley, "you're sure now that we don't want to suck each other's cocks?" "I'm sure." then Hockley was gone. Mason walked out to the receptionist. her name was Francine. Mason looked at her legs. "that dress is pretty short, Francine." he kept looking. "that's the style, Mr. Mason. "just call me 'Henry.' I don't believe I ever saw a dress quite that short." "they get shorter and shorter." "you keep giving everybody who comes in here rocks. they come into my office and talk like crazy." "oh, come on, Henry." "you even give me rocks, Francine." she giggled. "come on, let's go to lunch," he said. "but you've never taken me to lunch before." "oh, is there somebody else?" "Oh, no. but it's only 10:30 a.m." "who the hell cares? I'm suddenly hungry. very hungry." "all right. just a moment." Francine got out the mirror, played with the mirror a bit. then they got up and walked to the elevator. they were the only ones on the elevator. on the way down, he grabbed Francine and kissed her. she tasted like raspberry with a slight hint of halitosis. he even pawed one of her buttocks. she offered a token resistance, pushing against him lightly. "Henry! I don't what's gotten into you!" she giggled. "I'm only a man, after all." in the lobby of the building there was a stand which sold candy, newspapers, magazines, cigarettes, cigars- "wait a moment, Francine." Mason bought 5 cigars, huge ones. he lit one and let out an immense spray of smoke. they walked out of the building, looking for a place to eat. It has stopped raining. "do you usually smoke before lunch?" she asked. "before, after and in between." Henry Mason felt as if he were going just a bit insane. all those writers. what the hell was wrong with them? "hey, here's a place!" he held the door open and Francine walked in. he followed her. "Francine, I sure like that dress!" "you do? why thank you! I've got a dozen similar to this one" "you have?" "umm hummm." he pulled up her chair and looked at her legs as she sat down. Mason sat down. "god, I'm hungry. I keep thinking of clams, I wonder why?" "I think you want to fuck me." "WHAT?" "I said, 'I think you want to fuck me.'" "oh." "I'll let you. I think you're a very nice man, a very nice man, really." the waiter came up and waved the smoke away with his menu cards. he handed one to Francine and one to Mason. and waited. and got rocks. how come some guys got nice dolls like that while he had to beat his meat? the waiter took their orders, wrote them down, walked through the swinging doors, handed the orders to the cook. "hey," said the cook, "whatcha got there?" "whadya mean?" "I mean, ya got a horn! In front there! stay away from ME with that thing!" "it's nothing." "nothing? you'll kill somebody with that thing! go throw some cold water on it! it just don't look nice!" the waiter walked into the men's room. some guys got all the broads. he was a writer. he had a whole truck full of manuscripts. 4 novels. 40 short stories. 500 poems. nothing published. a rotten world. they couldn't recognize talent. they kept talent down. you have to have an "in," that's all there was to it. rotten cocksucking world. waiting on stupid people all day. the waiter took his cock out, put it in the hand basin and began splashing cold water on it. === **Life and Death in the Charity Ward** The ambulance was full but they found me a place on top and away we went. I had been vomiting blood from the mouth in large quantities and I was worried that I might vomit upon the people below me. We rode along listening to the siren. It sounded far off, it sounded as if the sound weren't coming from our ambulance. We were on the way to the county hospital, all of us. The poor. The chariy cases. There was something different wrong with all of us and many7 of us would not be coming back. The one thing we had in common was that we were all poor and didn't have much of a chance. We were packed in there. I never realized that an ambulance could hold so many people. "Good Lord, oh good Lord," I heard the voice of a black woman below me, "I never thought this would happen to ME! I never thought nothing like this would Lord-" I didn't feel that way about it. I had been playing with death for some time. I can't say we were the best of friends but we were well acquainted. He had moved a little close a little fast on me that night. There had been warnings: pains like swords stuck in my stom- ach but I had ignored them. I had thought I was a tough guy and pain to me was just like bad luck: I ignored it. I just poured whiskey on top of the pain and went about my business. My business was getting drunk. The whiskey had done it; I should have stayed on the wine. Blood that comes from the inside is not the bright red color that comes, say, from a cut on the finger. The blood from inside is dark, a purple, almost black, and it stinks, it stinks worse than shit. all that life giving fluid, it smelled worse than a beer shit. I felt another vomiting spasm coming on. It was the same feeling as throwing up food and when the blood came out, one felt better. But it was only an illusion-each mouthful out brought one closer to Pappa Death. "O good Lord God, I never thought-" The blood came up and I held it in my mouth. I didn't know what to do. Up there on the upper tier I would have wetted my friends down quite good. I held the blood in my mouth trying to think about what to do. The ambulance turned a corner and the blood began to dribble out the corners of my mouth. Well, a man had to maintain decencies even while he was dying. I got myself together, closed my eyes and swallowed my blood back down. I was sickened. But I had solved the problem. I only hoped we got some- place soon where I could let the next one go. Really, there wasn't any thought of dying; the only thoughts I had were (was) one: this is a terrible convenience, I am no longer in control of what is happening. They narrowed down your choices and pushed you around. The ambulance got there and then I was on a table and they were asking me questions: what was my religion? Where was I born? did I owe the country any $$$ from earlier trips to the hospital? when was I born? Parents alive? Married? all that, you know. They talk to a man as if he had all his faculties; they don't even pretend that you are dying. And they are hardly in a hurry. It does have a calming effect but that's not their reason: they are simply bored and they don't care whether you die, fly or fart. No, they rather you didn't fart. Then I was on an elevator and the door opened into what appeared to be a dark cellar. I was rolled out. They placed me on a bed and left. An orderly appeared out of nowhere and gave me a small white pill. "Take this," he said. I swallowed the pill and he handed me a glass of water and then vanished. It was the kindest thing that had happened to me in some time. I leaned back and noticed my sur- roundings. There were 8 or ten beds, all occupied by male Ameri- cans. We each had a tin bucket of water and a glass on the night stand. The sheets seemed clean. It was very dark in there and cold, much the feeling of an apartment house cellar. There was one small light bulb, unshaded. Next to me was a huge man, he was old, in his mid fifties, but he was huge; although much of the hugeness was fat, he did give off the feeling of much strength. He was strapped down in his bed. He stared straight up and spoke to the ceiling. "-and he was such a nice boy, such a clean nice boy, he needed the job, he said he needed the job, and I said, 'I like your looks, boy, we need a good fry cook, a good honest fry cook, and I can tell an honest face, boy, I can tell character, you work with me and my wife and you got a job here for life, boy-' and he said, 'All right, sir,' just like that he said it and he looked happy about getting' that job and I said, 'Martha, we got us a good boy here, a nice clean cut boy, he ain't gonna tap the till like the rest of those dirty sons of bitches.' Well, I went out and got a good buy on chickens, a real good buy on chickens. Martha can do more things with a chick- en, she's got that magic touch with chicken. Col. Sanders can't touch her with a 90 foot pole. I went out and bought 20 chickens for that weekend. We are going to have a good weekend, a chicken special. 20 chickens I went out and got. We were going to put Col. Sanders out of business. A good weekend like that, you can pull 200 bucks clear profit. That boy even helped us pluck and cut those chickens, he did it on his own time. Martha and I didn't have no children. I was really taking a liking to that boy. Well, Martha fixed the chicken in the back, she got all that chicken ready-we had chicken 19 different ways, we had chicken coming out of our assholes. All the boy had to do was cook up the other stuff like burgers and steak and so forth. The chicken was set. And by god, we had a big weekend. Friday night, Saturday and Sunday. That boy was a good worker, and pleasant too. He was nice to be around. He made these funny jokes. He called me Col. Sanders and I called him son. Col. Sanders and Son, that's what we were. When we closed Saturday night we were all tired but happy. Every damned bit of chicken was gone. The place had been packed, people waitin' on seats, you never saw any- thing like it. I locked the door and got out a 5th of good whiskey and we sat there, tired and happy, having a few drinks. The boy washed all the dishes and swept the floor. He said, 'All right, Col. Sanders, when do I report tomorrow?' He smiled. I told him 6:30 a.m. and he got his cap and left. 'That's a hell of a nice boy, Martha,' I said and then I walked over to the till to count the profits. The till was EMPTY! That's right, I said, 'The til was EMPTY!' And the cigar box with the other 2 days profit, he found that too. Such a clean cut boy-I don't understand it-I said he could have a job for life, that's what I told him. 20 chickens-Martha really knows her chickens-And that boy, that dirty chickenshit, he ran off with all that damned money, that boy-" Then he screamed. I've heard a great many people scream but I've never heard anybody scram like that. He rose up against his straps and screamed. It looked as if those straps were going to break. The whole bed rattled, the wall roared the scream back at us. The man was in total agony. It wasn't a short scream. It was a long one and it went on and on. Then he stopped. We 8 or ten male Ameri- cans, ill, stretched in our beds and enjoyed the silence. Then he began talking again. "He was such a nice boy, I liked his looks. I told him he could have the job for life. He made these funny jokes, he was nice to be around. I went out and got those 20 chickens. 20 chickens. On a good weekend you can clear 200. We had 20 chickens. The boy called me Col. Sanders-" I leaned out of bed and vomited out a mouthful of blood- The next day a nurse came out and got me and helped me on a rolling platform. I was still vomiting up blood and was quite weak. She rolled me on the elevator. The technician got behind his machine. They poked a point into my belly and told me to stand there. I felt very weak. "I'm too weak to stand up," I said. "Just stand there," said the technician. "I don't think I can," I said. "Hold still." I felt myself slowly beginning to fall over backwards. "I'm falling." I said. "Don't fall." He said. "Hold still," said the nurse. I fell over backwards. I felt as if I were made of rubber. There was no feeling when I hit the floor. I felt very light. I probably was. "Oh god damn it!" said the technician. The nurse helped me up and stood me up against the machine with this point jamming into my stomach. "I can't stand it," I said, "I think I'm dying. I can't stand up. I'm sorry but I can't stand up." "Stand still," said the technician, "just stand there." "Stand still," said the nurse. I could feel myself falling. I fell over backwards. "I'm sorry," I said. "God damn you!" the technician screamed, "you made me waste two films! Those god damned films cost money!" "I'm sorry," I said. "Take him out of here," said the technician. The nurse helped my up and put me back on the roller. The humming nurse rolled me back to the elevator, humming. They did take me out of that cellar and put me into a large room, a very large room. There were about 40 people dying in there. The wires to the buttons had been cut and large wooden doors, thick wooden doors coated with slabs of tin on both sides closed up away from the nurses and the doctors. They had put the sides up around my bed and I was asked to use the bedpan but I didn't like the bedpan, especially to vomit blood into and far less to shit into. If a man ever invents a comfortable and usable bedpan he will be hated by doctors and nurses for eternity and beyond. I kept having a desire to shit but not much luck. Of course, all I was getting was milk and the stomach was ripped open so it had offered me some tough roast beef with half-cooked carrots and half-mashed potatoes. I refused. I knew they just wanted another empty bed. Anyhow, there was still this desire to shit. Strange. It was my second or third night in there. I was very weak. I managed to unattach one side and get out of bed. I made it to the crapper and sat there. I strained and sat there and strained. Then I got up. Noth- ing. Just a little whirlpool of blood. Then a merry-go-round started in my head and I leaned against the wall with one hand and vomited up a mouthful of blood. I flushed the toilet and walked out. I got halfway to my bed and another mouthful came up. I fell. Then on the floor I vomited up another mouthful of blood. I didn't know that there was so much blood inside of people. I let go another mouthful. "You son of a bitch," an old man hollered at me from his bed, "shut up so we can get some sleep." "Sorry, comrade," I said, and then I w