as unconscious- The nurse was angry. "You bastard," she said, "I told you not to take down the sides of your bed. You fuckin' creeps sure make my night a drag!" "your pussy stinks," I told her, "you belong in a Tijuana whore house." She lifted my head by the hair and slapped me hard across the left side of my face and then backhanded me across the right. "Take that back!" she said. "Take that back!" "Florence Nightingale," I said, "I love you." She put my head back down and walked out of the room. She was a lady of true spirit and fire; I liked that. I rolled over into my own blood, getting my smock wet. That'd teach her. Florence Nightingale came back with another female sadist and they put me in a chair and slid the chair across the room toward my bed. "Too much god damned noise!" said the old man. He was right. They got me back into bed and Florence put the bed side back up. "Son of a bitch," she said. "stay in there now or next time I'm gonna lay on you." "Suck me off," I said, "suck me off before you leave." She leaned over the railing and looked into my face. I have a very tragic face. It attracts some women. Her eyes were wide and passionate and looked into mine. I pulled the sheet down and pulled up my smock. She spit into my face, then walked out- Then the head nurse was there. "Mr. Bukowski," she said, "we can't let you have any blood. You don't have any blood credit." She smiled. She was letting me know that they were going to let me die. "All right," I said. "Do you want to see the priest?" "What for?" "We have on your admissions card that you are a Catholic." "I just put that down." "Why?" "I used to be. You put down 'no religion', people always ask a lot of questions." "We have you down as Catholic, Mr. Bukowski." "Listen, it's hard for me to talk. I'm dying. All right, all right, I'm a Catholic, have it your way." "We can't let you have any blood, Mr. Bukowski." "Listen, my father works for the county. I think they have a blood program. L.A. County Museum. A Mr. Henry Bukowski. He hates me." "We'll check it out." There was something about my papers going down while I was upstairs. I didn't see a doctor until the fourth day and by then they found that my father who hated me was a good guy who had a job and who had a drunken dying son without a job and the good guy had given blood to the blood program and so they hooked up a bottle and poured it to me. 13 pints of blood and 13 pints of glucose without stop. The nurse ran out of places to stick the needle- I awakened once and the priest was standing over me. "Father," I said, "please go away. I can die without this." "You want me to leave, my son?" "Yes, Father." "Have you lost the faith?" "Once a Catholic always a Catholic, my son." "Bullshit, Father." An old man in the next bed said, "Father, Father, I'll talk to you. You talk to me, Father." The priest went over there. I waited to die. You know god damned well I didn't die then or I wouldn't be telling you this now- They moved me into a room with a black guy and a white guy. The white guy kept getting fresh roses every day. He raised roses which he sold to florists. He wasn't raising any roses right then. The black guy had busted open like me. The white guy had a bad heart, a very bad heart. We lay around and the white guy talked about breed- ing roses and raising roses and how he could sure use a cigarette, my god, how he needed a cigarette. I had stopped vomiting blood. Now I was just shitting blood. I felt like I had it made. I had just emptied a pint of blood and they had taken the needle out. "I'll get you some smokes, Harry." "God, thanks, Hank." I got out of bed. "Give me some money." Harry gave me some change. "If he smokes he'll die," said Charley. Charley was the black guy. "Bullshit, Charley, a couple of little smokes never hurt any- body." I walked out of the room and down the hall. There was a cigarette machine in the waiting lobby. I got a pack and walked back. Then Charley and Harry and I lay there smoking cigarettes. That was morning. About noon the doctor came by and put a ma- chine on Harry. The machine spit and farted and roared. "You've been smoking, haven't you?" the doctor asked Harry. "No doctor, honest, I haven't been smoking." "Which one of you guys bought him these smokes?" Charley looked at the ceiling. I looked at the ceiling. "You smoke another cigarette and you're dead," said the doc- tor. Then he took his machine and walked out. As soon as he left I took the pack out from under the pillow. "Lemme have one," said Harry. "You heard what the doctor said," said Charley. "Yeah," I said, exhaling a sheath of beautiful blue smoke, "you heard what the doctor said: 'You smoke another cigarette and you're dead.'" "I'd rather die happy than live in misery," said Harry. "I can't be responsible for your death, Harry," I said, "I'm going to pass these cigarettes to Charley and if he wants to give you one he can." I passed them over to Charley who had the center bed. "All right, Charley," said Harry, "let's have 'em." "I can't do it, Harry, I can't kill you Harry." Charley passed the cigarettes back to me. "Come on, Hank, lemme have a smoke." "No, Harry." "Please, I beg you, man, just one smoke just one!" "Oh, for Christ's sake!" I threw him the whole pack. His had trembled as he took one out. "I don't have any matches. Who's got matches?" "Oh, for Christ's sake," I said. I threw him the matches- They came in and hooked me to another bottle. About ten minutes my father arrived. Vicky was with him, so drunk she could hardly stand up. "Lover!" she said, "Lover boy!" She staggered up against the edge of the bed. I looked at the old man. "You son of a bitch," I said, "you didn't have to bring her up here drunk." "I warned you not to get involved with a woman like that." "She's broke. You bastard, you bought her whiskey, got her drunk and brought her up here." "I told you she was no good, Henry. I told you she was a bad woman." "Don't you love me anymore, lover boy?" "Get her out of here- NOW!" I told the old man. "No, no, I want you to see what kind of a woman you have." "I know what kind of woman I have. Now get her out of here now, or so help me Christ I'm going to pull this needle out of my arm and whip your ass!" The old man moved her out. I fell back on my pillow. "She's a looker," said Harry. "I know," I said, "I know." I stopped shitting blood and I was given a list of what to eat and I was told that the first drink would kill me. They had also told me that I would die without an operation. I had had a terrible argument with a female Japanese doctor about operation and death. I had said "No operation" and she had walked out, shaking her ass at me in anger. Harry was still alive when I left, nursing his cigarettes. I walked along in the sunlight to see how it felt. It felt all right. The traffic went by. The sidewalk was as sidewalks had always been. I was wondering whether to take a bus in or try to phone somebody to come and get me. I walked into this place to phone. I sat down first and had a smoke. The bartender walked up and I ordered a bottle of beer. "What's new?" he asked. "Nothing much," I said. He walked off. I poured the beer into a glass, then I looked at the glass a while and then I emptied half of it. Somebody put a coin in the juke box and we had some music. life looked a little better. I finished that glass, poured another and wondered if my pecker would ever stand up again. I looked around the bar: no women. I did the next best thing: I picked up the glass and drained it -charles bukowski - from the books: The Most Beautiful Woman in Town and Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness === **BEER AND POETS AND TALK** it was a hell of a night. Willie had slept in the weeds outside Bakersfield the night before. Dutch was there, and a buddy, the beer was on me. I made sandwiches. Dutch kept talking about literature, poetry; I tried to get him off it but he laid right in there. Dutch runs a bookshop around Pasadena or Glendale or somewhere. then talk about the riots came up. they asked me what I thought about the riots and I told them that I was waiting, that the thoughts would have to come by themselves. it was nice to be able to wait. Willie picked up one of my cigars, took the paper off, lit it. Somebody said, "how come you're writing a column? you used to laugh at Lipton for writing a column, now you're doing the same thing." "Lipton writes a kind of left-wind Walter Winchell thing. I create Art. There's a difference." "hey, man, you got any ore of these green onions?" asked Willie. I went into the kitchen for more green onions and beer. Willie was one right out of the book---a book that hadn't been written yet. he was a mass of hair, head and beard. bluejeans with patches. one week he was in Frisco. 2 weeks later he was in Albuquerque. then, somewhere else. He carried with him, everywhere, this batch of poems he had accepted for his magazine. whether the crazy maga zine ever evolved or not was anybody's guess. Willie the Wire, slim, bouncy, immortal. he wrote very well. even when he put the knock on somebody it was a kind of without hatred knock. he just laid the statement down, then it was yours. a graceful carelessness. I cracked some new beers. Dutch was still on literature. he had just published "18th Dynasty Egyptian Automobile Turnon" by D. R. Wagner. and a nice job too. Dutch's young buddy just listened --- he was the new breed: quiet but very much there. Willie worked on an onion. "I talked to Neal Cassady. he's gone completely crazy." "yeah, he's begging for busts. it's stupid. building a forced myth. being in Kerouac's book screwed up his mind." "man," I said, "there's nothing like a bit of dirty literary gossip, is there?" "sure," said Dutch, "let's talk shop. everybody talks shop." "listen, Bukowski, do you think that there's any poetry being written now? by anybody? Lowell made time, you know." "almost all the great names have died recently --- Frost, cum- mings, Jeffers, W.C. Williams, T.S. Eliot, the rest. a couple of nights ago, Sandburg. in a very short period, they all seemed to die to- gether, throw in Vietnam and the ever-riots and it has been a very strange and quick and festering and new age. look at those skirts now, almost up around the ass. we are moving quickly and I like it, it is not bad. but the Establishment is worried about its culture. culture is a steadier. there's nothing as good as a museum, a Verdi opera or a stiff-neck poet to hold back progress. Lowell was rushed into the breach, after a careful check of credentials. Lowell is interesting enough not to put you to sleep but diffuse enough so as not to be dangerous. the first thoughts you have after reading his work is, this baby has never missed a meal or even had a flat tire or toothache. Creeley is a near similarity, and I imagine the Establish- ment balanced Creely and Lowell for some time but had to finally come up with Lowell because Creeley just didn't seem like such a very good dull guy, and you couldn't trust him as much --- he might even show up at the president's lawn party and tickle the guests with his beard, so, it had to be Lowell, and so it's Lowell we've got." "so who's writing it? where are they?" "not in America. and there are only 2 that I can think of. Harold Norse who is nursing his melancholia-hypochondria in Switz- erland, taking handouts from rich backers, and having the running shits, fainting spells, the fear of ants, so forth. and writing very little now, kind of going crazy like the rest of us. but then WHEN he writes, it's all there. the other guy is Al Purdy. not Al Purdy the novelist, I mean Al Purdy the poet. they are not the same people. Al Purdy lives in Canada and grows his own grapes which he squeezes Into his own wine. he is a drunk, an old hulk of a man who must now be somewhere in his mid-forties. his wife supports him so he can write his poetry, which, you've got to admit, is some wonderful kind of wife. I've never met one like that or have you. but, anyhow, the Canadian government is always laying some kind of grant on him, $4,000 here and there, and they send him up to the Pole to write about life there, and he does it, crazy clear poems about birds and people and dogs. god damn, he wrote a book of poems once called "Songs for All the Annettes" and I almost cried all the qay through the book reading it. it's nice to look up sometimes, it's nice to have heroes, it's nice to have somebody else carrying some of the load." "don't you think you write as well as they?" "only at times. most of the time, no." the beer ran out and I had to take a shit. I gave Willie a five and told him it'd be good if he got 2 six packs, tall, Schlitz (this is an advertisement), and all 3 of them left and I went in and sat down. it wasn't bad to be more or less asked questions of the age. it was better yet to be doing what I was doing. I thought about the hospi- tals, the racetracks, some of the women I used to know, some of the women I had buried, outdrunk, outfucked but not outargued. the lcoholic madwomen who had brought love to me especially and in their own way. then I heard it though the wall: "listen, Johnny, you ain't even kissed me in a week. what's wrong, Johnny? listen, talk to me, I want you to talk to me." "god damn you, get away from me. I don't want to talk to you. LEAVE ME ALONE, WILL YOU? GOD DAMN YOU, LEAVE ME ALONE!" "listen, Johnny, I just want you to talk to me, I can't stand it. you don't have to touch me, just talk to me, jesus christ Johnny I can't stand it, I CAN'T STAND IT, JESUS!" "GOD DAMN IT, I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE ME ALONE! LEAVE ME ALONE, GOD DAMN YOU, LEAVE ME ALONE, LEAVE ME ALONE, LEAVE ME ALONE, WILL YOU?" "Johnny-" he hit her a good one, a real good one. open hand. I almost fell off the stool. I heard her choking the crap and walking off. then Dutch and Willie and crew were back. they ripped open the cans. I finished my business and walked back in. "I'm gonna get up an anthology," said Dutch, "an anthology of the best living poets, I mean the real best." "sure," said Willie, "why not?" then he saw me: "enjoy your crap?" "not too much." "no?" "no." "you need more roughage. you ought to eat more green onions." "you think so?" "yeah." I reached over and got 2 of them, jammed them down. maybe next time would be better. meanwhile there were riots, beer, talk, literature, and the lovely young ladies were making the fat million- aires happy. I reached over, got one of my own cigars, took off the paper, took off the cigar band, jammed the thing into my screwed- up and complex face, then lit it, the cigar. bad writing's like bad women: there's just not much you can do about it. === **THE GREAT ZEN WEDDING** I was in the rear, stuck in with the Rumanian bread, liverwurst, beer, soft drink; wearing a green necktie, first necktie since the death of my father a decade ago. Now I was to be best man at a Zen wedding, Hollis driving 85 m.p.h., Roy's four-foot beard flowing into my face. It was my '62 Comet, only I couldn't drive--- no insurance, two drunk-driving raps, and already getting drunk. Hollis and Roy had lived unmarried for three years, Hollis support- ing Roy. I sat in the back and sucked at my beer. Roy was explain- ing Hollis' family to me one by one. Roy was better with the intel- lectual shit. Or the tongue. The walls of their place were covered with these many photos of guys bending into the muff and chewing. Also a snap of Roy reaching climax while jacking off. Roy had done it alone. I mean, tripped the camera. Himself. String. Wire. Some arrangement. Roy claimed he had to jackoff six times in order to get the perfect snap. A whole day's work: there it was: this milky glob: a work of art. Hollis turned off the freeway. It wasn't too far. Some of the rich have driveways a mile long. This one wasn't too bad: a quarter of a mile. We got out. Tropical gardens. Four or five dogs. Big black woolly stupid slobbering-at- the-mouth beasts. We never reached the door---there he was, the rich one, standing on the veranda, looking down, drink in hand. And Roy yelled, "Oh, Har- vey, you bastard, so good to see you!" Harvey smiled the little smile: "Good to see you too, Roy." One of the big black woollies was gobbling at my left leg. "Call your dog off, Harvey, bastard, good to see you!" I screamed. "Aristotle, now STOP that!" Aristotle left off, just in time. And. We went up and down the steps with the salami, the Hungarian pickled catfish, the shrimp. Lobstertails. Bagels. Minced dove ass- holes. Then we had it all in there. I sat down and grabbed a beer. I was the only one with a necktie. I was also the only one who had bought a wedding gift. I hid it between the wall and the Aristotle- chewed leg. "Charles Bukowski-" I stood up. "Oh, Charles Bukowski!" "Uh huh." Then: "This is Marty." "Hello, Marty." "And this is Elsie." "Hello, Elsie." "Do you really, she asked, "break up furniture and windows, slash your hands, all that, when you're drunk?" "Uh huh." "You're a little old for that." "Now listen, Elsie, don't give me any shit-" "And this is Tina." "Hello, Tina." I sat down. Names! I had been married to my first wife for two-and-one- half years. One night some people came in. I had told my wife: "This is Louie the half- ass and this is Marie, Queen of the Quick Suck, and this is Nick, the half- hobble." Then I had turned to them and said, "This is my wife- this is my wife-this is-" I finally had to look at her and ask: "WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR NAME ANYHOW?" "Barbara." "This is Barbara," I had told them- The Zen master hadn't arrived. I sat and sucked at my beer. Then here came more people. On and on up the steps. All Hollis' family. Roy didn't seem to have a family. Poor Roy. Never worked a day in his life. I got another beer. They kept coming up the steps: ex-cons, sharpies, cripples, Dealers in various subterfuges, Family and friends. Dozens of them. No wedding presents. No neckties. I pushed further back into my corner. One guy was pretty badly fucked-up. It took him 25 minutes to get up the stairway. He had especially-made crutches, very power- ful looking things with round bands for the arms. Special grips here and there. Aluminum and rubber. No wood for that baby. I figured it: watered-down stuff or a bad payoff. He had taken the slugs in the old barber chair with the hot and wet shaving towel over his face. Only they'd missed a few vital spots. There were others. Somebody taught class at UCLA. Some- body else ran in shit through Chinese fishermen's boats via San Pedro Harbor. I was introduced to the greatest killers and dealers of the century. Me, I was between jobs. Then Harvey walked up. "Bukowski, care for a bit of scotch and water?" "Sure, Harvey, sure." We walked toward the kitchen. "What's the necktie for?" "The top of the zipper on my pants is broken. And my shorts are too tight. End of necktie covers stinkhairs just above my cock." I think that you are the modern living master of the short story. Nobody touches you." "Sure, Harvey. Where's the scotch. "I always drink this kind since you always mention it in your short stories." "But I've switched brands now, Harv. I found some better stuff." "What's the name of it?" "Damned if I can remember." I found a tall water glass, poured in half scotch, half water. "For the nerves," I told him. "You know?" "Sure, Bukowski." I drank it straight down. "How about a refill?" "Sure." I took the refill and walked to the front room, sat in my corner. Meanwhile there was a new excitement: The Zen master had ARRIVED! The Zen master had on this very fancy outfit and kept his eyes very narrow. Or maybe that's the way they were. The Zen master needed tables. Roy ran around looking for tables. Meanwhile, the Zen master was very calm, very gracious. I downed my drink, went in for a refill. Came back. A golden-haired kid ran in. About eleven years old. "Bukowski, I've read some of your stories. I think that you are the greatest writer I have ever read!" Long blond curls. Glasses. Slim body. "Okay, baby. You get old enough. We'll get married. Live off of your money. I'm getting tired. You an just parade me around in a kind of glass cage with little airholes in it. I'll let the young boys have you. I'll even watch." "Bukowski! Just because I have long hair, you think I'm a girl! My name is Paul! We were introduced! Don't you remember?" Paul's father, Harvey, was looking at me. I saw his eyes. Then I knew that he had decided that I was not such a good writer after all. maybe even a bad writer. Well, no man can hide forever. But the little boy was all right: "That's okay, Bukowski! You are still the greatest writer I have ever read! Daddy has let me read some of your stories-" Then all the lights went out. That's what the kid deserved for his big mouth- But there were candles everywhere. Everybody was finding candles, walking around finding candles and lighting them. "Shit, it's just a fuse. Replace the fuse," I said. Somebody said it wasn't the fuse, it was something else, so I gave up and while all the candle-lighting went on I walked into the kitchen for more scotch. Shit, there was Harvey standing there. "Ya got a beautiful son, Harvey. Your boy, Peter-" "Paul." "Sorry. The Biblical." "I understand." (The rich understand; they just don't do anything about it.) Harvey uncorked a new fifth. We talked about Kafka. Dos. Turgenev, Gogel. All that dull shit. Then there were candles every-where. The Zen master wanted to get on with it. Roy had given me the two rings. I felt. They were still there. Everybody was waiting on us. I was waiting for Harvey to drop to the floor from drinking all that scotch. It wasn't any good. He had matched me one drink for two and was still standing. That isn't done too often. We had knocked off half a fifth in the ten minutes of candle- lighting. We went out to the crowd. I dumped the rings on Roy. Roy had com- municated, days earlier, to the Zen master that I was a drunk --- unreliable --- either faint-hearted or vicious ---therefore, during the ceremony, don't ask Bukowski for the rings because Bukowski might not be there. Or he might lose the rings, or vomit, or lose Bukowski. So here it was, finally. The Zen master began playing with his little black book. It didn't look too thick. Around 150 pages, I'd say. "I ask," said the Zen, "no drinking or smoking during the ceremony." I drained my drink. I stood to Roy's right. Drinks were being drained all over the place. Then the Zen master gave a little chickenshit smile. I knew Christian wedding ceremonies by the sad note of experience. And the Zen ceremony actually resembled the Christian, with a small amount of horseshit thrown in. Somewhere along the way, three small sticks were lit. Zen had a whole box of the things --- two or three hundred. After the lighting, one stick was places in the center of a jar of sand. That was the Zen stick. Then Roy was asked to place his burning stick upon one side of the Zen stick, Hollis asked to place hers on the other. But the sticks weren't quite right. The Zen master, smiling a bit, had to reach forward and adjust the sticks to new depths and elevations. Then the Zen master dug out a circle of brown beads. He handed the circle of beads to Roy. "Now?" asked Roy. Damn, I thought, Roy always read up on everything else. Why not his own wedding? Zen reached forward, placed Hollis' right hand within Roy's left. And the beads encircled both hands that way. "Do you-" "I do-" (This was Zen? I thought.) "And do you, Hollis-" "I do-" Meanwhile, in the candlelight, there was some asshole taking hundreds of photos of the ceremony. It made me nervous. It could have been the F.B.I. "Plick! Plick! Plick!" Of course, we were all clean. But it was irritating because it was careless. Then I noticed the Zen master's ears in the candlelight. The candlelight shone through them as if they were made of the thinnest of toilet paper. The Zen master had the thinnest ears of any man I had ever seen. That was what made him holy! I had to have those ears! For my wallet or my tomcat or my memory. Or for under the pillow. Of course, I knew that it was all the scotch and water and all the beer talking to me, and then, in another way, I didn't know that at all. I kept staring at the Zen master's ears. And there were more words. "-and you Roy, promise not to take any drugs while in your relationship with Hollis?" There seemed to be an embarrassing pause. Then, their hands locked together in the brown beads: "I promise," said Roy, "not to-" Soon it was over. Or seemed over. The Zen master stood straight up, smiling just a touch of a smile. I touched Roy upon a shoulder: "Congratulations." Then I leaned over. Took hold of Hollis' head, kissed her beautiful lips. Still everybody sat there. A nation of subnormals. Nobody moved. The candles glowed like subnormal candles. I walked over to the Zen master. Shook his hand: "Thank you. you did the ceremony quite well." He seemed really pleased, which made me feel a little better. but the rest of those gangsters --- old Tammany Hall and the Mafia: they were too proud and stupid to shake hands with an Oriental. Only one other kissed Hollis. Only one other shook the hand of the Zen master. It could have been a shotgun wedding. All that family! Well, I'd be the last to know or the last to be told. Now that the wedding was over, it seemed very cold in there. They just sat and stared at each other. I could never comprehend the human race, but somebody had to play clown. I ripped off my green necktie, flipped it into the air: "HEY! YOU COCKSUCKERS! ISN'T ANYBODY HUN- GRY?" I walked over and started grabbing at cheese, pickled-pigs' feet and chicken cunt. A few stiffly warmed up, walked over and grabbed at the food, not knowing what else to do. I got them to nibbling. Then I left and hit for the scotch and water. As I was in the kitchen, refilling, I heard the Zen master say, "I must leave now." "Oooh, don't leave-" I heard an old, squeaky and female voice from among the greatest gangland gathering in three years. And even she didn't sound as if she meant it. What was I doing in with these? Or the UCLA prof? No, the UCLA prof belonged there. There must be a repentance. Or something. Some action to humanize the proceedings. As soon as I heard the Zen master close the front door, I drained my waterglass full of scotch. Then I ran out through the candlelit room of jabbering bastards, found the door (that was a job, for a moment), and I opened the door, closed it, and there I was- about 15 steps behind Mr. Zen. We still had 45 or 50 steps to go to get down to the parking lot. I gained upon him, lurching, two steps to his one. I screamed: "Hey, Masta!" Zen turned. "Yes, old man?" Old man? We both stopped and looked at each other on that winding stairway there in the moonlit tropical garden. It seemed like a time for a closer relationship. Then I told him: "I either want bother your motherfucking ears or your motherfucking outfit --- that neon-lighted bathrobe you're wearing!" "old man, you are crazy!" "I thought Zen had more moxie than to make unmitigated and offhand statements. You disappoint me, Masta!" Zen placed his palms together and looked upward. I told him, "I either want you motherfucking outfit or your motherfucking ears!" He kept his palms together, while looking upward. I plunged down the steps, missing a few but still flying for- ward, which kept me from cracking my head open, and as I fell downward toward him, I tried to swing, but I was all momentum, like something cut loose without direction. Zen caught me and straightened me. "My son, my son-" We were in close. I swung. Caught a good part of him. I heard him hiss. He stepped one step back. I swung again. Missed. Went way wide left. Fell into some imported plants from hell. I got up. Moved toward him again. And in the moonlight, I saw the front of my own pants --- splattered with blood, candle-drippings and puke. "You've met you master, bastard!" I notified him as I moved toward him. He waited. The years of working as a factotum had not left muscles entirely lax. I gave him one deeply into the gut, all 230 pounds of my body behind it. Zen let out a short gasp, once again supplicated the sky, said something in the Oriental, gave me a short karate chop, kindly, and left me wrapped within a series of senseless Mexican cacti and what appeared to be, from my eye, man-eating plants from the inner Brazilian jungles. I relaxed in the moonlight until this purple flower seemed to gather toward my nose and began to delicately pinch out my breathing. Shit, it took at least 150 years to break into the Harvard Classics. There wasn't any choice: I broke loose from the thing and started crawling up the stairway again. Near the top, I mounted to my feet, opened the door and entered. Nobody noticed me. They were still talking shit. I flopped into my corner. The karate shot had opened a cut over my left eyebrow. I found my handkerchief. "Shit! I need a drink!" I hollered. Harvey came up with one. All scotch. I drained it. Why was it that the buzz of human beings talking could be so senseless? I no- ticed the woman who had been introduced to me as the bride's mother was now showing plenty of leg, and it didn't look bad, all that long nylon with the expensive stiletto heels, plus the little jewel tips down near the toes. It could give an idiot the hots, and I was only half-idiot. I got up, walked over to the bride's mother, ripped her skirt back to her thighs, kissed her quickly upon her pretty knees and began to kiss my way upward. The candlelight helped. Everything. "Hey!" she awakened suddenly, "whatcha think you're do- ing?" "I'm going to fuck the shit out of you, I am going to fuck you until the shit falls outa your ass! Whatch thinka that?" She pushed and I fell backwards upon the rug. Then I was flat upon my back, thrashing, trying to get up. "Damned Amazon!" I screamed at her. Finally, three or four minutes later I managed to get to my feet. Somebody laughed. The, finding my feet flat upon the floor again, I made for the kitchen. Poured a drink, drained it. Then poured a refill and walked out. There they were: all the goddamned relatives. "Roy or Hollis?" I asked. "Why don't you open your wedding gift?" "Sure," said Roy, "why not?" The gift was wrapped in 45 yards of tinfoil. Roy just kept unrolling the foil Finally, he got it all undone. "Happy marriage!" I shouted. They all saw it. The room was very quiet. It was a little handcrafted coffin done by the best artisans in Spain. It even had the pinkish-red felt bottom. It was the exact replica of a larger coffin, except perhaps it was done with more love. Roy gave me his killer's look, ripped off the tag of instructions on how to keep the wood polished, threw it inside the coffin and closed the lid. It was very quiet. The only gift hadn't gone over. But they soon gathered themselves and began talking shit again. I became silent. I had really been proud of my little casket. I had looked for hours for a gift. I had almost gone crazy. Then I had seen it on the shelf, all alone. Touched the outsides, turned it up- side-down, then looked inside. The price was height but I was paying for the perfect craftsmanship. The wood. The little hinges. All. At the same time, I needed some ant-killer spray. I found some Black Flag in the back of the store. The ants had built a nest under my front door. I took the stuff to the counter. There was a young girl there, I set the stuff in front of her. I pointed to the casket. "You know what that is?" "What?" "That's a casket!" I opened it up and showed it to her. "These ants are driving me crazy. Ya know what I'm going to do?" "What?" "I'm going to kill all those ants and put them in this casket and bury them!" She laughed. "You've saved my whole day!" You can't put it past the young ones anymore; they are an entirely superior breed. I paid and got out of there- But now, at the wedding, nobody laughed. A pressure cooker done up with a red ribbon would have left them happy. Or would it have? Harvey, the rich one, finally, was kindest of all. Maybe because he could afford to be kind? Then I remembered something out of my readings, something from the ancient Chinese: "Would you rather be rich or an artist?" "I'd rather be rich, for it seems that the artist is always sitting on the doorsteps of the rich." I sucked at the fifth and didn't care anymore. Somehow, the next thing I knew, it was over. I was in the back seat of my own car, Hollis driving again, the beard of Roy flowing into my face again. I sucked at my fifth. "Look, did you guys throw my little casket away? I love you both, you know that! Why did you throw my little casket away?" "Look, Bukowski! Here's your casket!" Roy held it up to me, showed it to me. "Ah, fine!" "You want it back?" "No! No! My gift to you! Your only gift! Keep it! Please!" "All right." The remainder of the drive was fairly quiet. I lived in a front court near Hollywood (of course). Parking was mean. Then they found a space about a half a block from where I lived. They parked my car, handed me the keys. Then I saw them walk across the street toward their own car. I watched them, turned to walk toward my place, and while still watching them and holding to the remainder of Harvey's fifth, I tripped one shoe into a pantscuff and went down. As I fell backwards, my first instinct was to protect the remainder of that good fifth from smashing against the cement (mother with baby), and as I fell backwards I tried to hit with my shoulders, holding both head and bottle up. I saved the bottle but the head flipped back into the sidewalk, BASH! They both stood and watched me fall. I was stunned almost into insensibility but managed to scream across the street at them: "Roy! Hollis! Help me to my front door, please I'm hurt!" They stood a moment, looking at me. Then they got into their car, started the engine, leaned back and neatly drove off. I was being repaid for something. The casket? Whatever it had been --- the use of my car, or me as clown and/or best man-my use had been outworn. The human race had always disgusted me. essentially, what made them disgusting was the family-relationship illness, which included marriage, exchange of power and aid, which neighborhood, your district, your city, your county, your state, your nation-everybody grabbing each other's assholes in the Honeycomb of survival out of a fear-animalistic stupidity. I got it all there, I understood it as they left me there, pleading. Five more minutes, I thought. If I can lay here five more minutes without being bothered I'll get up and make it toward my place, get inside. I was the last of the outlaws. Billy the Kid had nothing on me. Five more minutes. Just let me get to my cave. I'll mend. Next time I'm asked to one of their functions, I'll tell them where to put it. Five minutes. That's all I need. Two women walked by. They turned and looked at me. "Oh, look at him. What's wrong?" "He's drunk." "He's not sick, is he?" "No, look how he holds to that bottle. Like a little baby." Oh shit. I screamed up at them: "I'LL SUCK BOTH YOUR SNATCHES! I'LL SUCK BOTH YOUR SNATCHES DRY, YOU CUNTS!" "Ooooooh!" They both ran into the high-rise glass apartment. Through the glass door. And I was outside unable to get up, best man to some- thing. All I had to do was make it to my place --- 30 yards away, as close as three million light years. Thirty yards from a rented front door. Tow more minutes and I could get up. Each time I tried it, I got stronger. An old drunk would always make it, given enough time. One minute. One minute more. I could have made it. Then there they were. Part of the insane family structure of the World. Madmen, really, hardly questioning what made them do what they did. They left their double-red light burning as they parked. Then got out. One had a flashlight. "Bukowski," said the one with the flashlight, "you just can't seem to keep out of trouble, can you?" He knew my name from somewhere, other times. "Look," I said, "I just stumbled. Hit my head. I never lose my sense of my coherence. I'm not dangerous. Why don't you guys help me to my doorway? It's 30 yards away. Just let me fall upon my bed and sleep it off. Don't you think, really, that would be the really decent thing to do?" "Sir, two ladies reported you as trying to rape them." "Gentlemen, I would never attempt to rape two ladies at the same time." The one cop kept flashing his stupid flashlight into my face. It gave him a great feeling of superiority. "Just 30 yards to Freedom! Can't you guys understand that?" "You're the funniest show in town, Bukowski! Give us a better alibi than that." "Well, let's see - this thing you see sprawled here on the pavement is the end-product of a wedding, a Zen wedding." "You mean some woman really tried to marry you?" "Not me, you asshole-" The cop with the flashlight brought it down across my nose. "We ask respect toward officers of the law." "Sorry. For a moment I forgot." The blood ran down along my throat and then toward and upon my shirt. I was very tired - of everything. "Bukowski," asked the one who had just used the flashlight, "why can't you stay out of trouble?" "Just forget the horseshit," I said, "let's go off to jail." They put on the cuffs and threw me into the back seat. Same sad old scene. They drove along slowly, speaking of various possible and in- sane things - like, about having the front porch widened, or a pool, or an extra room in the back for Granny. And when it came to sports - these were real men - the Dodgers still had a chance, even with the two or three other teams right in there with them. Back to the family - if the Dodgers won, they won. If a man landed on the moon, they landed on the moon. But let a starving man ask them a dime - no identification, fuck you, shithead. I mean, when they were in civvies. There hasn't been a starving man yet who ever asked a cop for a dime. Our record is clear. Then I was, once again, in this type of long line of the some- how guilty. The young guys didn't know what was coming. They were mixed up with this thing called THE CONSTITUTION and their RIGHTS. The young cops, both in the city tank and the coun- ty tank, got their training on the drunks. They had