“Hogs is hogs, Bukowski, that’s all there is to it!”
“But John, if you had seen that hog’s face you would have known.”
“Hogs is hogs, that’s all.”
I couldn’t explain it to him, nor could he convince me that “hogs is hogs.” Certainly not this hog . . .
I remember the first night I had worked in a slaughterhouse. They would kill the steer in another room and it would come to us skinned and gutted through this space in the wall, headless, hanging by the rear legs raw red, and we had to take the steer upon our shoulder and hang him up in the waiting trucks, this time by the gristle up near his shoulder. It was heavy work and the steer kept coming, a maze of steer, on and on. As the hours went on and I became more and more fatigued, the whole mass of oncoming freshly-murdered steer and working men became a bit mixed in my mind; sweat ran into my eyes and my vision became foggy. I was so tired I felt drunk. I laughed at the smallest things. My feet hurt, my back, everything. I was pushed into an area of fatigue beyond belief and I felt as if I were losing my identity. I no longer remembered where I lived or why, or what I was doing or why. The animals and the men mixed, and then I had the thought, why don’t they murder me? Why don’t they murder me and hang me in a truck? Why was I different from a steer? How could they tell? This thought was very strong because I could no longer tell the animals from the men except that the animals, I remembered, had been hanging by their legs.
As I left that night I felt that it would be my last night there and it was. So they never got to hang me in their bloody trucks . . . . no Bukowski steak for you, my dear. Steers is steers, of course, but some weeks later going into meat markets I couldn’t help but think that I was looking at murdered human flesh, transformed . . .
And it’s absurd, of course, but there are places, restaurants, and markets that have signs on the doors: NO ANIMALS ALLOWED. These signs are usually on a tin plate with white background and the letters are in red. NO ANIMALS ALLOWED. The sign is usually up near where the hand pushes the door open. When I see that sign there is always a small pause. I hesitate. Then I push on in. Nobody says anything. They go about their business.
One time, just to test the reactions of others, I stood outside a supermarket door with one of those red signs upon it. I watched the people. They simply walked in without hesitation or delay. It must be wonderful to have a mass mind—somebody tells you that you are a human being and you believe it. Somebody tells you that a dog is a dog and you go out and buy a dog’s license and some dog food. Everything is so neatly pocketed. There is no room for overlap or admixture . . . NO ANIMALS ALLOWED IN OUR ZOO . . .
I suppose that most people have seen these cooked pigs in restaurant windows, eyes gouged out, snout facing the window with an apple in the mouth and slices of pineapple spread along the back. I was in New York City once, starving and miserable, walking along the sidewalk when I came upon a restaurant window with one of those pigs as the frontispiece. I stopped. Where the eyes had been dug out two long holes went into the skull. The holes had this burnt out appearance and gave off the flavor of something betrayed and mutilated beyond common sensibility. As hungry as I was I couldn’t imagine sticking a fork into the side of that thing and slicing off a hunk of meat. It sat on a silver plate, obedient and sending off rays of horror. The New Yorkers hurried on or sat inside eating and wiping their mouths. My alliance with the human race became less and less. They never considered anything; they simply accepted. What a crowd they were—without honor, sensibility, and whatever feeling they had was only limited to self. That pig—to simply display that atrocity as something valuable to them—that was the key to their going-on, that was the door that opened and showed what they were. I said goodbye to my pig and walked through the crowd . . .
Last week a young woman came to see me from Costa Mesa. She said she was a reader of my books. She was a handsome girl, about 21, and since I was a writer always in search of material, I let her in. She sat in a chair across the room looking at me, not speaking. The silence lasted some minutes. “Beer?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said.
“Then you can speak.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m going to Mexico to study creative writing. I’m taking a six week course,” she added.
“The best way to study creative writing is to live.”
“I think a course helps.”
“No, it hinders. It tightens. Too much bad praise and bad criticism. Too much admixture of similar personalities. It’s destructive. Even if you want to meet a man, that’s the worst place to meet a man.”
She didn’t answer.
We drank some more beer and I talked. Then the beer was gone.
“I like bars,” she said, “let’s go to a bar.”
We walked on down the street and went in. I ordered two scotch and waters. When she went to the restroom the bartender came back on down.
“God o mighty, Bukowski,” he said, “you’ve got another one. They’re all young. How do you do it?”
“It’s all platonic, Harry. Plus a matter of research.”
“Balls,” said Harry and walked off. Harry was a crude guy.
She came back and we had another after that one. She still didn’t talk. What the hell’s she want? I thought.
“Why did you come to see me?” I asked.
“You’ll see . . . ”
“O.K., babe.”
Scotch and waters in a bar add up a bill fast. I suggested we get a 5th and go back to my place.
“All right,” she said . . .
I filled her glass with half scotch and half water. Likewise, my own. I talked about this and that, being a bit embarrassed by her continual silence. She drank right along with me. Then, after the 3d or 4th drink she began to change. Her face changed. Her face began to take on a strange shape. The eyes became smaller and different, the nose seemed to become sharper, the lips seemed to show teeth. I am serious about this.
“I want to tell you something,” she said.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“I’ll get right to it,” she said. “I am a rat in the body of a woman. The rats have sent me to you.”
“I see,” I said.
“Rats, you see, are more intelligent than people. We have been waiting for centuries to take over the world. We’re getting ready now. Do you understand this?”
“Wait,” I said. I went out and poured two more drinks.
“Tell me more,” I said.
“It’s simple,” she said, “the rats have sent me to you to help us take over the world. We want your help.”
“I’m honored,” I said. “I haven’t been too fond of people for some time.”
“You’ll help us then?”
“Well, I’m not too fond of rats either.”
“Well, all right,” she said, “you have to choose a side. Which side do you want? The rats are going to win. If you’re wise, you’ll side with us.”
“Let me think it over.”
“All right,” she said, “I’ll write you from Mexico.”
She stood up.
“You going now?”
“Yes,” she said, “my mission is completed.”
“O.k.,” I said. I walked her to the door, in fact, I walked her to her mother’s new Cadillac, a white Cadillac, and she got in and drove off.
Now I’m waiting for the letter. I’m not quite sure what my answer will be. Those rats are getting there—drinking scotch, driving white Cadillacs and taking creative writing courses in Mexico. I suppose the final war will be between the rats and the cockroaches. I suppose they have an edge on the human race; I doubt they concentrate on killing each other . . .
Yesterday my girlfriend brought over her dog and came to see me. I live in a front court and there are a great many cats who belong to people in the other courts. One cat came and stood on my porch. The dog barked up a great racket, I couldn’t quiet him. The guy from next door who owned the cat came over to get him.
r /> “What kind of dog is that?” he asked. The guy was drunk.
“He’s just a mutt, a low-life mutt.”
“Let him out. My cat can handle him.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s not my dog.”
“Whose dog is it?”
“It belongs to a friend.”
“Let him out.”
“No,” I said, “I like animals.”
“They’ve got a lot more sense than people,” he said.
“You’re goddamned right,” I said.
And that’s not a very profound way to end this but I figure it’s good enough. Hang in, observe, and I’ll probably send you instructions for the future.
The Looney Ward
When the student nurses came in, some of the fellows masturbated under their gowns, although one or two of them simply took their things out and did it in the open.
The student nurses wore these very short uniforms and you could see through them. So you could hardly blame the fellows. It was an interesting place, this hospital. Then the doctor would come in. His name was Dr. McLain, a very fine fellow. He’d walk around, look at us and say, “Yes, 140 cc’s for this one, and, ah, give this one . . . ah, 100 cc’s of . . . ” And then he’d look at me and snap his fingers, “Ha, ha! Drugs! Drugs! Let’s have a big party! Where’s the big party, Bukowski?” he’d ask.
I was in . . . well, they ‘d caught me with an overdose and I was trying to stay in a while because I’d passed a few bad checks and was waiting for the heat to die down.
“The big party’s right under my balls, doctor. I can hear it down there!”
“Under your balls, hey, my man?”
“Yes, directly under. I can even hear it down there.”
It usually went on and on like that.
In the evening they’d bring us our juice. We always made a big thing about the juice.
“I think they’re coming with the juice,” somebody would say.
“Yes, the man is coming with the juice!”
Then I’d leap out of bed. “Who’s got the juice?” I’d ask.
“The juice! The juice! We’ve got the juice!” Anderson would shout.
I’d spin on Anderson. “What’d you say? Did you say you had the juice?”
“What?”
I’d point to Anderson. “Look, fellows, here’s the man with the juice! He said he had the juice! Give us our juice, man!”
“What juice?”
“I heard you say you had the juice! What’d you do with our juice?”
“Yes, give us our juice!”
“Give us our juice!”
“Hey, man, give us our juice!”
Anderson would back off.
“I don’t have the juice!”
I would follow him. “Listen, I heard you say you had the juice! I distinctly heard you say you had the juice! What did you do with our juice, man? Give us our juice!”
“Yeah, yeah! Give us our juice!”
Then Anderson would scream at me, “God damn you, Bukowski—I don’t have the juice!”
Then I’d turn to the fellows: “Look, men, now he’s lying! He claims he doesn’t have the juice!”
“Stop that lying!”
“Give us our juice!”
Anderson and I went through that every night. As I say, it was a very pleasant place.
One day I found a broken hoe in the yard. The hoe itself was all right but somebody had broken the handle almost all the way down. I brought the hoe back into the ward and hid it under my bed. I also found a trash can where they used to throw the empty medicine bottles. I’d keep dipping in there and hiding the stuff under my gown and carrying it back to my cabinet. I hid it all in my cabinet. They were careless. Some of those bottles were 1/5 full. You could still get some good highs off them.
Then they found the hoe under my bed. I was called in Dr. McLain’s office.
“Sit down, Bukowski.”
He pulled out the hoe and sat it on the desk. I looked at the hoe.
“What were you doing with this under your bed?” he asked.
“It’s mine,” I said. “I found it out in the yard.”
“What were you going to do with this hoe?”
“Nothing.”
“Why did you bring it from the yard?”
“I found it there. I put it under my bed.”
“You know we can’t let you have things like that, Bukowski.”
“It’s just a hoe.”
“We realize that it is a hoe.”
“What do you want with it, doctor?”
“I don’t want it.”
“Then give it back. It’s mine. I found it in the yard.”
“You can’t have it. Come with me.”
The doctor had a male nurse with him. They walked up to my bed. The male nurse opened the doors of my bedstand.
“Well, look at this!” said the doctor. “Bukowski’s got a regular pharmacy here! Do you have a prescription for this stuff, Bukowski?”
“No, but I’m saving it. It’s mine. I found it.”
“Dump it out, Mickey,” the doctor said.
The male nurse pulled up a trash can and threw it all in there.
I was denied my juice for the next three nights. Sometimes they were quite unfair, I thought.
It wasn’t very hard to get out. I just climbed a wall and dropped to the other side. I was barefooted and in my gown. I walked down to the bus stop, waited, and when the bus stopped I got on. The driver said, “Where’s your money?”
“I don’t have any,” I answered.
“He’s a looney,” somebody said.
The bus was moving. “Who’s a looney?” I asked. “Who said I was a looney?”
Nobody answered.
“They took my juice because of a hoe. I’m not staying there.”
I walked down and sat next to a woman.
“Let’s make it, baby!” I said.
She turned away. I reached out and pulled her breast. She screamed.
“Hey, look, fellow!”
“Somebody call me?”
“I did.”
I looked around. It was a big guy.
“You leave that woman alone,” he told me.
I got up and hit him in the mouth. When he rolled from his seat I kicked his head two or three times, and although I didn’t have shoes on, I never cut my toenails.
“Oh, God oh Mighty, help, help!” he screamed.
I pulled the bus cord. When the bus stopped, I got out the back door. I walked into a drugstore. I picked up a pack of smokes from the counter, found some matches and lit a cigarette.
There was a little girl in there, about seven, with her mother. “Look at that funny man!” the girl said to her mother.
“Leave the man alone, Daphine.”
“I’m God,” I told the little girl.
“Mommy! That man says he’s God! Is he God, Mommy?”
“I don’t think so,” said Mama.
I walked up to the little girl, lifted her dress and pinched her behind. The little girl screamed. Mama screamed. I walked out of the drugstore. It was a hot day in early September. The little girl had had on nice blue panties. I looked down upon my body and grinned as the sky fell down. I had a whole day before I decided to go back or not.
Dancing Nina
Nina was what you might call a flirt, a vamp. Her hair was long, her eyes strange and cruel, but she knew how to kiss and dance. And when she kissed and danced, she had a way of offering herself to every man that few women had. That made up for a lot of deficiencies and Nina had a hell of a lot of deficiencies.
But Nina was what she was.
She was a tease. She’d almost rather tease than do the actual thing. What Nina lacked was the ability to choose—she simply couldn’t tell a good man from a bad one. The American female, in general, has this same frailty. Nina simply had an overdose.
I met her through a circumstance in Los Angeles that I will not bore you with.
She was
hot and she was laughter and she made good love on the bed. Neither of us wanted marriage (she was married before) and I thought, at first, I have finally met my miracle woman.
I noticed her absentness of mind, her repeating of phrases, her telling the same stories again and again. Most of her speech and ideas were borrowed, heard from other minds. But she had this certain invisible flair which I didn’t recognize then as the ability to tease.
I thought she simply loved me.
But at the first party I took her to, I looked up and thought, great god, what have I got hold of here? She didn’t simply dance, she actually copulated in front of everybody. It was her right, of course, to copulate in front of everybody. Of course, she didn’t copulate, it only appeared that she did.
Nina was the hit of the party. Nina was the hit of all the parties.
She was the Eternal Whore come to tease the Genes. We had arguments over her dancing because I still loved part of her.
“I’m too smart for them,” she said. “When the party’s over and I’ve turned the male on, I’ll slip out the back door and vanish.”
“But that’s a lie, you see. You offer yourself to men and then you run away. That’s a lie. You’re trying to get even with something.”
“Listen,” she said, “you’ve got this fuck-chain on your leg. I don’t. I float free. When I’m dancing, I don’t even think of you. I think of the music and I think of his dancing, whoever I’m dancing with. I float free—I am a great white bird in the sky.”
“O.K., fine.”
“You’ve said before that when I dance, I betray you. How can I betray you?”
“You know how,” I replied. “Dancing can be more sexual than copulation. There’s more movement and people watching. There are the eyes, the getting closer and closer. I know you, bitch. You’re no great white bird—you’re the Whore of the Centuries . . . ”
“You’re a son of a bitch, Charlie. You just don’t understand.”
I don’t know why I hung on.
Maybe I just wanted to hear a story, maybe I just wanted to write a story. I suppose the tragedy of her dancing was that she thought she was a great dancer. I had seen great dancing—things that people practiced months, years, lifetimes to bring out.