Sunset and at the signal, red, at Sunset and Vermont, he let go another one. I lit up a cigar. The other drivers stared at the red beard screaming. I thought, he isn't going to stop. I'll have to knock him out. But then as the signal turned green he ended it and I shifted it out of there. He sat there sobbing. I didn't know what to say. There wasn't anything to say. I thought, I'll take him to see Mongo the Giant of the Eternal High. Mongo's full of shit. Maybe he can dump some shit on Hyans. me, I hadn't lived with a woman for four years. I was too far out of it to see it anymore. Next time he screams, I thought, I've got to knock him out. I Can't stand another one of those. "Hey! Where we going?" "Mongo's." "Oh, no! Not Mongo's! I hate that guy! He'll only make fun of me! He's a cruel son of a bitch!" It was true. Mongo had a good mind but a cruel one. It wasn't any good going over there. And I couldn't handle it either. We drove along. "Listen," said Hyans, "I've got a girlfriend around here. Couple blocks north. Drop me off. She understands me." I turned it north. "Listen," I said. "don't shoot the guy." "Why?" "Because you are the only one who will print my column." I drove to the place, let him out, waited until the door opened, then drove off. A good piece of ass might smooth him out. I needed one too-. Next I heard from Hyans, he had moved out of the house. "I couldn't stand it anymore. Why, the other night I took a shower, I was getting ready to fuck her, I wanted to fuck some life into her bones, but you know what?" "What?" "When I walked in on her she ran out of the house. What a bitch!" "Listen, Hyans, I know the game. I can't talk against Cherry because the next thing you know, you'll be back together again and then you'll remember all the dirty things I said about her." "I'm never going back." "Uh huh." "I've decided not to shoot the bastard." "Good." "I'm going to challenge him to a boxing match. Full ring rules. Referee, ring, glove and all." "OK," I said. Two bulls fighting for the cow. And a bony one at that. But in America the loser oftentimes got the cow. Mother instinct? Better wallet? Longer dick? God knows what- While Hyans was going crazy he hired a guy with a pipe and a necktie to keep the paper going. But it was obvious that Open Pussy was on its last fuck. And nobody cared but the twenty-five and thirty-dollar-a-week people and the free help. They enjoyed the paper. It wasn't all that good but it wasn't all that bad either. You see, there was my column: Notes of a Dirty Old Man. And pipe and necktie got the paper out. It looked the same. and meanwhile I kept hearing: "Joe and Cherry are together again. Joey and Cherry split again. Joe and Cherry are back together again./ Joe and Cherry- " Then on chilly blue Wednesday night I went out to a stand to buy a copy of Open Pussy. I had written one of my best columns and wanted to see if they had had the guts to run it. The stand contained last week's Open Pussy. I smelled it in the deathblue air: the game was over. I bought two tall six- packs of Schlitz and went back to my place and drank down the requiem. Always being ready for the end I was not ready when it happened. I walked over and took the poster off the wall and threw it into the trash: "OPEN PUSSY. A WEEKLY REVIEW OF THE LOS ANGELES RENAIS- SANCE." The government wouldn't have to worry anymore. I was a splendid citizen again. Twenty thousand circulation. If we could have made sixty --- without family troubles, without police rouses --- we could have made it. We didn't make it. I phoned the office the next day. The girl at the phone was in tears. "We tried to get you last night, Bukowski, but nobody knew where you lived. It's terrible. It's finished. It's over. The phone keeps ringing. I'm the only one here. We're going to hold a staff meeting next Tuesday night to try to keep the paper going. But Hyans took everything --- all the copy, the mailing list and the IBM machine which didn't belong to him. We're cleaned out. There's nothing left." Oh, you've got a sweet voice, baby, such a sad sad sweet voice, I'd like to fuck you, I thought. "We are thinking of starting a hippie paper. The underground is dead. Please show at Lonny's house Tuesday night." "I'll try." I said, knowing that I wouldn't be there. So there it was - -- almost two years. It was over. The cops had won, the city had won, the government had won. Decency was in the streets again. Maybe the cops would stop giving me tickets every tiem they saw my car. and Cleaver wouldn't be sending us little notes from his hiding place anymore. And you could buy the L.A. Times anywhere. Jesus Christ and Mother in Heaven, Life was Sad. But I gave the girl my address and phone number, thinking we might make it on the springs. (Harriet, you never arrived.) But Barney Palmer, the political writer, did. I let him in and opened up the beers. "Hyans," he said, " put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger." "What happened?" "It jammed. So he sold the gun." "It takes a lot of guts just to try it once." "You're right. Forgive me. Terrible hangover." "You want to hear what happened?" "Sure, it's my death, too." "Well, it was Tuesday night, we were trying to get the paper ready. We had your column and thank Christ it was a long one because we were short of copy. It looked like we couldn't make the pages. Hyans showed, glassy-eyed, drunk on wine. He and Cherry had split again." "Ugh." "Yeh. Anyhow, we couldn't make the pages. And Hyans kept getting in the way. Finally he went upstairs and got on the couch and passed out. The minute he left, the paper began to get together. We made it and had forty- five minutes to get to the printer's. I said I'd drive it down to the printer's. Then you know what happened?" "Hyans woke up." "I'm that way." "Well, he insisted on driving the copy to the printer's himself. He threw the stuff in the car but he never made the printer's. The next day we came in and found the note he left, and the place was cleaned out --- the IBM machine, the mailing list, everything-" "I've heard. Well, let's look at it this way: he started the goddamned thing, so he had a right to end it." "But the IBM machine, he didn't own it. He might get into a jam over it." "Hyans is used to jams. He thrives on them. He gets his nuts. You ought to hear him scream." "But it's all the little people, Buk, The twenty-five-buck-a-week guys who gave up everything to keep the thing going. They guys with cardboard in their shoes. The guys who slept on the floor." "The little guys always get it in the ass, Palmer. That's his- tory." "You sound like Mongo." "Mongo is usually right, even though he is a son of a bitch." We talked a little more, then it was over. A big black kitty walked up to me at work that night. "Hey, brother, I hear your paper folded." "Right, brother, but where did you hear?" "It's in the L.A. Times, first page of the second section. I guess they are rejoicing." "I guess they are." "We liked your paper, man. And your column too. Real tough stuff." "Thank you, brother." At lunchtime (10:24 p.m.) I went out and bought the L.A. Times. I took it across the street to the bar over there, bouthg a dollar pitcher of beer, lit a cigar and walked over to a table under a light: OPEN PUSSY DEEP IN RED Open Pussy, the second largest underground newspaper in Los Angeles, has ceased publication, its editors said Thursday. The newspaper was 10 weeks short of its second anniversary. Heavy debts, distribution problems and a $!,000 fine on an obscenity conviction in October contributed to the demise of the weekly newspaper." Said Mike Engel, the managing editor. He placed final circulation of the newspaper at about 20,000. But Engel and other editorial staff members said they believed That Open Pussy could have continued and that its closing was the decision of Joe Hyans, its 35-year-old-chief-editor. When the staff members arrived at the paper's office at 4369 Melrose Ave. Wednesday morning they found a note from Hyans which declared, in part: "The paper has already fulfilled its artistic purpose. Politically, it was never to effective anyway. What's been taking place in its pages recently is no improvement over what we printed a year ago. "As an artist, I must turn away from a work which does not grow-even though it is a work of my own hand and even though it is bringing in bread (money)." I finished the pitcher of beer and went into my governmental job- A few days later I found a note in my mailbox: 10:45 a.m., Monday Hank--- I found a note in my mailbox this morning from Cherry Hyans. (I was away all day Sunday and Sunday night.) She says she has the kids and is sick and in bad trouble at - - - - Douglas Street. I can't find Douglas on the fucking map, but wanted to let you know about the note. Barney A couple of days later the phone rang. It wasn't a woman with a hot snatch. It was Barney. "Hey, Joe Hyans is in town." "So are you and I," I said. "Joe's back with Cherry." "Yeh?" "They are going to move to San Francisco." "They ought to." "The hippie paper thing fell through." "Yeh. Sorry I couldn't make it. Drunk." "That's OK. But listen, I'm on a writing assignment now. But as soon as I finish, I want to contact you." "What for?" "I've got a backer with fifty grand." "Fifty grand?" "Yeh. Real money. He wants to do it. He wants to start an- other paper." "Keep in touch, Barney. I've always liked you. Remember the time you and I started drinking at my place at four in the afternoon, talked all night and didn't finish until eleven a.m. the next morn- ing?" "Yeh." "So, when I clean this writing up, I'll let you know." "Yeh. Keep in touch, Barney." "I will. Meanwhile, hang in." "Sure." I went into the crapper and took myself a beautiful beershit. Then I went to bed, jacked off, and slept. -Charles Bukowski- The Most Beautiful Woman in Town === **LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT** I walked along in the sun wondering what to do. I kept walk ing, walking. I seemed to be on the outer edge of something. I looked up and there were railroad tracks and by the edge of the tracks was a little shack, unpainted. It had a sign out: HELP WANTED I walked in. A little old guy was sitting there in blue-green suspenders and chewing tobacco. "Yeah?" he asked. "I, ah, I ah, I-" "Yeh, come on, man, spit it out! Whatcha want?" "I saw-your sign-help wanted." "Sign on? What?" "Well, shit, it ain't a spot as a chorus girl!" He leaned over and spit into his filthy spitoon, then worked at his wad again, drawing his cheeks in over his toothless mouth. "What do I do?" I asked. "You'll be tole what to do!" "I mean, what is it?" "Railroad track gang, someplace west of Sacramento." "Sacramento?" "You heard me, god damn it. Now I'm a busy man. You wanna sign or not?" I signed the list he had on the clipboard. I was # 27. I even signed my own name. He handed me a ticket. "You show up at gate 21 with your gear. We got a special train for you guys." I slipped the ticket into my empty wallet. He spit again. "Now, well, look, kid, I know you're a little goofy. This line takes care of a lot of guys like you. We help human- ity. We're nice folks. Always remember old - - - - - - - - - - lines and put in a good word for us here and there. And when you get out on those tracks, listen to your foreman. He's on your side. you can save money out on that desert. God knows, there's no place to spend it. But on Saturday night, kid, on Saturday night-" He leaned to his spitoon again, came back: "Why hell, on a Saturday night you go to town, get drunk, catch a cheap blowjob from a wetback Mexican senorita and come back in feeling good. Those blowjobs suck themisery right out of a man's head. I started on the gang, now I'm here. Good luck to you, kid." "Thank you, sir." "Now get the hell out of here! I'm busy!-" I arrived at gate 21 at the time instructed. By my train were all these guys standing there in rags, stinking, laughing, smoking rolled cigarettes. I went over and stood behind them. They needed haircuts and shaves and they acted brave and were nervous at the same time. Then a Mexican with a knife scar on his cheek told us to get on. We got on. You couldn't see through the windows. I took the last seat in the back of our car. The others all sat up in front, laughing and talking. One guy pulled out a half pint of whiskey and 7 or 8 of them each had a little suck. Then they began looking back at me. I began hearing voices and they weren't all in my head. "What's wrong with that sona bitch?" "He think he's better than us?" "He's gonna hafta work with us, man." "Who's he think he is?" I looked out the window, I tried to, the thing hadn't been cleaned in 25 years. The train began to move out and I was on there with them. The train began to move out and I was on there with them. There were about 30 of them. They didn't wait very long. I stretched out on my seat and tried to sleep. "SWOOSH!" Dust blew up into my face and eyes. I heard somebody under my seat. There was the blowing sound again and a mass of 25 year old dust rose up into my nostrils, my mouth, my eyes, my eyebrows. I waited. Then it happened again. A real good blast. Whoever was under there was getting damned good at it. I leaped up. And I heard all this sound from under my seat and then he was out from under there and running up toward the front. He threw himself into a seat, trying to be part of the gang, but I heard his voice: "If he comes up here I want you fellows to help me! Promise to help me if he comes up here!" I didn't hear any promises, but he was safe: I couldn't tell one from the other. Just before we got out of Louisiana I had to walk up front for a cup of water. They watched me. "Look at him. Look at him." "Ugly bastard." "Who's he think he is?" "Son of a bitch, we'll get him when we get him out over those tracks alone, we'll make him cry, we'll make him suck dick!" "Look! He's got that paper cup upsidedown! He's drinking from the wrong end! Look at him! He's drinking from the little end! That guy's nuts!" "Wait'll we get him over those tracks, we'll make him suck dick!" I drained the paper cup, refilled it and emptied it again, wrong Sideup. I threw the cup into the container and walked back. I heard: "Yeah," he acts nuts. Maybe he had a split-up with his girl friend." "How's a guy like that gonna get a girl?" "I dunno. I seen crazier things than that happen."- We were over Texas when the Mexican foreman came through with the canned food. He handed out the cans. Some of them didn't have any labels on them and were badly dented-up. He came back to me. "You Bukowski?" "Yes." He handed me a can of Spam and wrote "75" under column "F." I could see that I was charged with "$45.90" under column "T." Then he handed me a small can of beans. "45" he wrote down under column "F. He walked back toward the front of the car. "Hey! Where the hell's a can opener? How can we eat this stuff without a can opener?" somebody asked him. The foreman swang through the vestibule and was gone. There were water stops in Texas, bunches of green. At each stop 2 or 3 or 4 guys leaped off. When we got to El Paso there were 23 left out of the 31. In El Paso they pulled our traincar out and the train went on. the Mexican forman came through and said, "We must stop at El Paso. You will stay at this hotel." He gave out tickets. "These are your tickets to the hotel. You will sleep there. In the morning you will take traincoach #24 to Los Angeles and then on to Sacramento. These are your hotel tickets." He came up to me again. "You Bukowski?" "Yes." "Here's your hotel." He handed me the ticket and wrote in "12.50" under my "L" column. Nobody had been able to get their cans of food open. They would be picked up later and given to the next crew across. I threw my ticket away and slept in the park about two blocks from the hotel. I was awakened by the roaring of alligators, one in particular. I could see 4 or 5 alligators in the pond, and perhaps there were more. There were two sailors dressed in their whites. One sailor was in the pond, drunk, pulling at the tail of an alligator. The alligator was angry but slow and could not turn its neck enough to get at the sailor. The other sailor stood on the shore, laughing, with a young girl. Then while the sailor in the pond was still fighting the alligator, the other sailor and the girl walked away. I truned over and slept. On the ride to Los Angeles, more and more of them jumped off at the waterstops. When we reached Los Angeles there were 16 left of the 31. The Mexican foreman came through the train. "We will be in Los Angeles for two days. You will catch the 9:30 a.m. train, gate 21. Wednesday morning, traincoach 42. It is written upon the cover which goes around your hotel tickets. You are also being issued food- ration coupons which can be honored at French's Caf+, Main Street." "He handed out 2 little booklets, one labeled ROOM, the other FOOD. "You Bukowsko?" he asked. "Yes," I said. He handed me my booklets. And added under my "L" col umn: 12.80 and under my "F" column, 6.00. I came out of Union Station and while I was cutting across the plaza I noticed 2 small guys who had been on the train with me. They were walking faster than I and cut across to my right. I looked at them. They both got these big grins on and said, "Hi! How ya doin?" "I'm doin' all right." They walked faster and slid across Los Angeles street toward Main- In the caf+ the boys were using their food coupons for beer. I used my food coupons for beer. Beer was just ten cents a glass. Most of them got drunk very fast. I stood down at the end of the bar. They didn't talk about me anymore. I drank up all my coupons and then sold my lodging tickets to another bum for 50 cents. I had 5 more beers and walked out. I began walking. I walked north. Then I walked east. Then north again. Then I was walking along the junkyards where all the broken-down cars were stacked. A guy had once told me, "I sleep in a different car each night. Last night I slept in a Ford, the night before in a Chevy. Tonight I am going to sleep in a Cadillac." I found a place with the gate chained but the gate door was bent and I was thin enough to slide my body between the chains and the gate and the lock. I looked around until I found a Cadillac. I didn't know the year. I got into the back seat and slept. It must have been about 6 a.m. in the morning when I heard this kid screaming. He was about 15 years old and had this toy base ball bat in his hand: "Get out of there! Get out of our car, you dirty bum!" The kid looked frightened. He had on a white t shirt and tennis shoes and there was a tooth missing from the center of his mouth. I got out. "Stand back!" he yelled. "Stand back, stand back!" He point ed the bat at me. I slowly walked toward the gate, which was then open but not very far. Then an old guy, about 50, fat and sleepy, stepped out of a tarpaper shack. "Dad!" The kid yelled, "This man was in one of our cars! I found him in the back seat asleep!" "Is that right?" "Yeah, that's right, Dad! I found him asleep in the back seat of one of our cars!" "What were you doing in our car, Mr.?" The old guy was nearer to the gate than I was but I kept moving toward it. "I asked you, 'What were you doing in our car?'" I moved closer to the gate. The old guy grabbed the bat from the kid, ran up to me and jammed the end of it into my belly, hard. "oof!" I went, "god o mighty!" I couldn't straighten up. I backed away. The kid took courage when he saw that. "I'll get him, Dad! I'll get him!" The kid grabbed the bat from the old man and began swinging it. He hit me almost everywhere. On the back, the sides, all along both legs, on the knees, the ankles. All I could do was protect my head. I kept my arms up around my head and he beat me on the arms and elbows. I backed up against the wire fence. "I'll get him, Dad! I'll get him!" The kid wouldn't stop. Now and then the bat got through to my head. Finally the old man said, "O.k., that's enough son." The kid kept swinging the bat. "Son, I said, 'That's enough.'" I turned and held myself up by the wires of the fence. For a moment I couldn't move. They watched me. I finally let go and was able to stand. I limped toward the gate. "Let me get him again, Dad!" "No, son." I got through the gate and walked north. As I began to walk, everything began to tighten. Everything was beginning to swell. My steps became shorter. I knew that I wouldn't be able to move much further. There were only more junkyards. Then I saw a vacant lot between two of them. I walked into the lot and turned my ankle in a hole, right off. I laughed. The lot sloped downwards. Then I tripped Over a hard brush branch which would not give. When I got up again my right palm had been cut by the edge of a piece of green glass. Winebottele. I pulled the glass out. The blood came through the dirt. I brushed the dirt off and sucked against the wound. When I fell the next time, I rolled over on my back, screamed once with pain, then looked up into the morning sky. I was back in my hometown, Los Angeles. Small gnats whirled about my face. I closed my eyes. === All The Pussy We Want Harry and Duke. The bottle sat between in a cheap hotel in downtown L.A. It was Saturday night in one of the cruelest towns in the world. Harry's face was quite round and stupid with just a tip of a nose looking out and you hated his eyes; in fact, you hated Harry when you looked at him, so you didn't look at him. Duke was a little younger, a good listener, with just the slightest of smiles on when he listened. He liked to listen; people were his biggest show and there wasn't any admission charge. Harry was unemployed and Duke was a janitor. They'd both done time and would be in jail again. They knew it. It didn't matter. The 5th was about one-third finished and there were empty beercans on the floor. They rolled their cigarettes with the easy calm of men who had lived hard and impossible lives before the age of 35 and were still alive. They knew it was all a bucket of shit but they refused to quit. "See," said Harry, taking a drag, "I chose you, man. I can trust you. You won't panic. I think your car can make it. We split it right down the middle." "Tell me about it," said Duke. "You won't believe it." "Tell me." "Well, there's gold out there, laying on the ground, real gold. All you gotta do is walk out and pick it up. I know it sounds crazy, but it's there, I've seen it." "What's the catch?" "Well, it's an army artillery grounds. They shell all day, and sometimes at night, that's the catch. It takes guts. But the gold is there. Maybe the shells broke it out of the earth, I don't know. But they usually don't shell at night." "We go in at night." "Right. And just pick the stuff up off of the ground. We'll be rich. All the pussy we want. Think of it --- all the pussy we want." "It sounds good." "In case they start shelling we leap into the first shell hole. They ain't gonna aim there again. If they hit the target, they're satisfied. If they haven't, the next shot will be somewhere else." "That sounds logical." Harry poured some whiskey. "But there's another catch." "Yeah?" "There's snakes out there. That's why we need two men. I know you're good with a gun. While I pick up the gold you watch for the snakes and blow their heads off. There are rattlers out there. I think you're the man to do it." "Why the hell not?" They sat smoking and drinking, thinking about it. "All that gold," said Harry, "all that pussy." "You know," said Duke, "it mighta been that those guns blew open an old treasure chest." "Whatever it is, there's gold out there." They thought about it a while longer. "How do you know," asked Duke, "that after you gather all the gold I won't shoot you out there?" "Well, I just gotta take that chance." "Do you trust me?" "I don't trust any man." Duke opened another beer, poured another drink. "Shit, there's no use of me going to work Monday is there?" "Not now." "I feel rich already." "I kind of do too." "All a man needs is some kind of break," said Duke, "then people treat him like a gentleman." "Yeah." "Where's this place at?" asked Duke. "You'll see when we get there." "We split down the middle?" "We split down the middle." "You're not worried about me shooting you?" "Why do you keep bringing that up, Duke? I might shoot you." "Jesus, I never thought of that. You wouldn't shoot a pal, would you?" "Are we friends?" "Well, yes, I'd say so, Harry." "There'll be enough gold and pussy for both of us. We'll be set for life. No more parole officers. No more dish washing gigs. The Beverly Hills whores will be chasing us. Our worries are over." "Do you really think we can bring it off? "Sure." "Is there really gold down there?" "Listen , man, I told you." "O.k." They drank and smoked some more. They didn't talk. They were both thinking of the future. It was a hot night. Some of the roomers had their doors open. Most of them had a bottle of wine. The men sat in their undershirts, easy and wondering and beaten. Some of them even had women, not too much as ladies but they could hold their wine. "We better get another bottle," said Duke, "before they close." "I don't have any money." "I'll get it." "O.k." They got up and walked out the door. They turned right down the hall and went toward the back. The liquor store was down the alley and to the left. At the top of the back steps a man in stained and wrinkled clothing was stretched across the back doorway. "Hey, it's my old pal Franky Canon. He really hung one on tonight. Guess I'll move him out of the doorway." Harry picked him up by the feet and dragged him out of the way. Then he bent over him. "Wonder if anybody's got to him yet?" "I don't know," said Duke, "check him out. " Duke pulled all Franky's pockets inside out. Checked the shirt. Opened his pants, checked him around the waist. All he found was a matchbook that said: LEARN DRAFTING AT HOME Thousands of top pay jobs waiting "I guess somebody got him." said Harry. They walked down the back steps and into the alley. "Are you sure that gold is there?" asked Duke. "Listen," said Harry, "you're pissing me off! You think I'm crazy?" "No." "Well, don't ask me that no more then!" They walked into the liquor store. Duke ordered a fifth of whiskey and a tall six pack of malt beer. Harry stole a bag of mixed nuts. Duke paid for his stuff and they walked out. Just as they got to the alley a young woman walked up; well, young for that area, she was about 30 with a good figure, but her hair was uncombed and she slurred a bit. "What you guys got in that bag?" "Cats' tits," said Duke. She got up near Duke and rubbed against the bag. "I don't wanna drink no wine. You got whiskey in there?" "Sure, baby, come on up." "Lemme see the bottle." She looked good to Duke. She was slim and her dress was tight, real shit ass tight, god damn. He pulled the bottle out. "O.k.," she said, "let's go." They walked up the alley, the girl between them. Her haunch bumped Harry as she walked. Harry grabbed her and kissed her. She broke off. "You son of a bitch!" she screamed. "lemme alone! " "You're gonna spoil everything, Harry!" said Duke. "You do that again and I'm gonna punch you out!" "You can't punch me out." "Just do it again!" They walked up the alley and up the stairways, opened the door. The girl looked at Franky Cannon laying there but didn't say anything. They walked on up to the room. The girl sat down and crossed her legs. She had nice legs. "My name's Ginny," she said. Duke poured the drinks. "I'm Duke. He's Harry." Ginny smiled and took her drink. "Some son of a bitch I'm stayin' with he kept me naked, kept my clothes locked in the closet. I was in there a week. I waited until he passed out, took the key off him, got this dress and ran off." "That's a nice dress." "It's alright." "It brings out the best in you." "Thanks. Hey, listen, what do you guys do?" "Do?" asked Duke. "Yeah, I mean how do you make it?" "We're gold prospectors," said Harry. "Oh, come on, don't give me that shit." "That's right," said Duke, "we're gold prospectors." "We've struck it. We're gonna be rich inside a week," said Harry. Then Harry had to get up to piss. The can was down the hall. When Harry left Ginny said, "I wanna fuck you first, Honey. I'm not too crazy about him." "That's o.k.," said Duke. He poured three more drinks. When Harry came back Duke told him. "She's gonna lay me first." "Says who?" "Says us," said Duke. "That's right," said Ginny. "I think we ought to take her with us," said Duke. "Let's see how she lays first," said Harry. "I drive men crazy," said Ginny. "I make men scream. I've got the tightest pussy in the state of California!" "All right," said Duke, "let's find out." "Gimme another drink first," She said, draining her glass. Duke gave her a refill. "I've got something too, baby, I'll probably rip you wide open!" "Not unless you stick your foot in there," said Harry. Ginny just smiled as she drank. She finished her drink. "Come on," she said to Duke, "let's make it." Ginny walked over to the bed and pulled her dress off. She had on blue panties and a faded pink brassiere held together by a safety pin in the back. Duke had to undo the safety pin. "Is he gonna watch?" she asked Duke. "He can if he wants," said Duke, "what the hell." "O.k.," said Ginny. They got into the sheets together. There were some minutes of warmup and maneuvering as Harry watched. The blanket was on the floor. All Harry could see was movement under a rather dirty sheet. Then Duke mounted. Harry could see Duke's butt bobbling under the sheet. Then Duke said, "Oh shit! "What's the matter?" asked Ginny. "I slipped out! I thought you said you had a tight box!" "I'll put you in! I don't think you were in!" "I was in somewhere!" said Duke. Then Duke's butt was bobbing again. I never should have told that son of a bitch about the gold, thought Harry. Now we've got this bitch on our hands. They might team against me. Of course, if he happened to get killed, she might like me better. Then Ginny moaned and started talking. "Oh, honey, honey! Oh, Jesus, honey, oh my gawd!" What a bunch of bullshit, thought Harry. He got up and walked over to the back window. The back of the hotel was right near the Vermont turnoff on the Hollywood freeway. He watched the headlights and tail lights of the cars. It always amazed him that some people were in such a hurry to go in one direction while other people were in such a hurry to go in another. Somebody had to be wrong, or else it was just a dirty game. Then he heard Ginny's voice. "I'm gonna COME! O, my gawd I'm gonna COME! O, my gawd! I'm :" Bullshit, he thought and then turned to look at them. Duke was really working. Ginny's eyes did seem glazed; she stared straight up into the ceiling, straight up into an unshaded lightbulb; glazed, seemingly glazed she stared up past Duke's left ear: I might have to shoot him out on that artillery field, thought Harry. Especially if she's got a tight box. gold, all that gold. === The Great Poet I went to see him. He was the great poet. He was the best narrative poet since Jeffers, still under 70 and famous throughout the world. Perhaps his two best-known books were My Grief Is Better Than Your Grief, Ha! and The Dead Chew Gum In Languor. He had taught at many universities, had won all the prizes, including the Nobel Prize. Bernard Stachman. I climbed the steps of the YMCA. Mr. Stachman lived in Room 223. I knocked. "HELL, COME ON IN!" somebody screamed from inside. I opened the door and walked in. Bernard Stachman was in bed. The smell of vomit, wine, urine, shit and decaying food was in the air. I began to gag. I ran to the bathroom, vomited, then came out. "Mr. Stachman," I said, "why don't you open a window?" "That's a good idea. And don't give me any of that 'Mr. Stachman' shit, I'm Barney." He was crippled, and after a great effort he managed to pull himself out of the bed and into the chair at his side. "Now for a good talk," he said. "I've been waiting for this." At his elbow, on a table, was a gallon jug of dago red filled with cigarette ashes and dead moths. I looked away, then looked back. He had the jug to his mouth but most of the wine ran right back out, down his shirt, down his pants. Bernard Stachman put the jug back. "Just what I needed." "You ought to use a glass," I said. "It's easier." "Yes, I believe you're right." He looked around. There were a few dirty glasses and I wondered which one he would choose. He chose the nearest one. The bottom of the glass was filled with a hardened yellow substance. It looked like the remains of chicken and noodles. He poured the wine. Then he lifted the glass and emptied it. "Yes, that's much better. I see you brought your camera. I guess you came to photograph me?" "Yes," I said. I went over and opened the window and breathed in the fresh air. It had been raining for days and the air was fresh and clear. "Listen," he said, "I been meaning to piss for hours. Bring me an empty bottle." There were many empty bottles. I brought him one. He didn't have a zipper, just buttons, with only the bottom button fastened because he was so bloated. He reached in and got his penis and rested the head on the lip of the bottle. The moment he began to urinate his penis stiffened and waved about, spraying piss all over - on his shirt, on his pants, in his face, and unbelievably, the last spurt went into his left ear. "It's hell being crippled," he said. "How did it happen?" I asked. "How did what happen?" "Being crippled." "My wife. She ran me over with her car." "How? Why?" "She said she couldn't stand me anymore." I didn't say anything. I took a couple of photos. "I got photos of my wife. Want to see some photos of my wife?" "All right." "The photo album is there on top of the refrigerator." I walked over and got it, sat down. There were just shots of high- heeled shoes and a woman's trim ankles, nylon-covered legs with garter belts, assorted legs in panty hose. On some of the pages were pasted ads from the meat market: chuck roast, 89? a pound. I closed the album. "When we divorced," he said, "she gave me these." Bernard reached under the pillow on his bed and pulled out a pair of high-heeled shoes with long spike heels. He'd had them bronzed. He stood them on the night table. Then he poured another drink. "I sleep with those shoes," he said, "I make love to those shoes and then wash them out." I took some more photos. "Here, you want a photo? Here's a good photo." He unbuttoned the lone button on his pants. He didn't have on any underwear. He took the heel of the shoe and wiggled it up his behind. "Here, take this one." I got the photo. It was difficult for him to stand but he managed by holding onto the night table. "Are you still writing, Barney?" "Hell, I write all the time." "Don't your fans interrupt your work?" "Oh hell, sometimes the women find me but they don't stay long." "Are your books selling?" "I get royalty checks." "What is your advice to young writers?" "Drink, fuck and smoke plenty of cigarettes." "What is your advice to older writers?" "If you're still alive, you don't need any advice." "What is the impulse that makes you create a poem?" "What makes you take a shit?" "What do you think of Reagan and unemployment?" "I don't think of Reagan or unemployment. It all bores me. Like space flights and the Super Bowl." "What are your concerns then?" "Modern women." "Modern women?" "They don't know how to dress. Their shoes are dreadful." "What do you think of Women's Liberation?" "Any time they're willing to work the car washes, get behind the plow, chase down the two guys who just held up the liquor store, or clean up the sewers, anytime they're ready to get their tits shot off in the army, I'm ready to stay home and wash the dishes and get bored picking lint off the rug." "But Isn't there some logic on their demands?" "Of course." Stachman poured another drink. Even drinking from the glass, part of the wine dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. He had the body odor of a man who hadn't bathed in months, "My wife," he said, "I'm still in love with my wife. Hand me that phone, will you?" I handed the phone to him. He dialed a number. "Claire? Hello, Claire?" He put the receiver down. "What happened?" I asked. "The usual. She hung up. Listen, let's get out of here, let's go to a bar. I've been in this damned room too long. I need to get out." "But it's raining. It's been raining for a week. The streets are flooded." "I don't care. I want to get out. She's probably fucking some guy right now. She's probably got her high heels on. I always made her leave her high heels on." I helped Bernard Stachman get into an old brown overcoat. All the buttons were missing off the front. It was stiff with grime. It was hardly an L.A. overcoat, it was heavy and clumsy, it must have come from Chicago or Denver in the thirties. Then we got his crutches and we climbed painfully down the YMCA stairway. Bernard had a fifth of muscatel in one of the pockets. We reached the entrance and Bernard assured me he could make it across the sidewalk and into the car. I was parked some distance from the curbing. As I ran around to the other side to get in I heard a shout and then a splash. It was raining, and raining hard. I ran back around and Bernard had managed to fall and wedge himself in the gutter between the car and the curbing. The water swept around him, he was sitting up, the water rushed over him, ran down through his pants, lapped against his sides, the crutches floating sluggishly in his lap. "It's all right," he said, "just drive on and leave me." "Oh hell, Barney." "I mean it. Drive on. Leave me. My wife doesn't love me." "She's not your wife, Barney. You're divorced." "Tell that to the Marines." "Come on, Barney, I'm going to help you up." "No, no. It's all right. I assure you. Just go ahead. Get drunk without m