More Notes of a Dirty Old Man Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Charles Bukowski
to lie in a kitchen or while you are taking a shit, than in a fancy front room. However, it can still get itchy, sticky. I was only an emotional man when it concerned my own problems. I was still growing, but very slowly, and I knew it. I knew I’d have to hit 50 before I got a bit of sense, got a bit objective, and then I’d be too tired to make it interesting. In short, I was fucked.
So Shirley started dropping these tears down her fat, materialistic face, human still, real still, she was an old gal who’d been there, the mill. I’d met dozens of them, but they could be as cruel as the rest. It was a hard slam. She was talking about a good Jewish boxer she’d known, married. I wasn’t Jewish, but I knew my boxing. When a Jew laced on those gloves he’d show you a battleship full of guts. In those days, there were quite a few good Jewish fighters.
“Jackie,” she said, “he beat everybody. But the champs wouldn’t get into the ring with him. He was too good. And he never trained. All he did was drink. That was his training. But they locked him out. The championship went from one man to another. He blew all his purses. Bought drinks all up and down the bar, all up and down the street. He loaned money and they never paid him back. He died one night fast, just died in bed. He just let out this loud moan and died. Everybody was at his funeral, everybody. He was such a great man.”
The tears were rolling.
I was finally quite drunk. “What the hell,” I said, “he can’t do you any good in the grave! He can’t fuck you from the grave. I can lay it to you. I’m right here! I can shove you ten inches!”
Then she really started to cry.
I lifted my drink: “Ten inches. Solid.”
Everybody started acting rather peculiar, so I took my bottle and went to the place they said was going to be my bedroom, stripped down to my shorts, and sat there drinking from my pint.
“Hey,” I screamed, “you sons of bitches rolled me! Which one of you rolled me?”
I kept screaming for my money until I found I had hidden it under the pillow. Then I had another drink, crawled into bed and went to sleep. Shirley was frightened of me and didn’t want to let me stay but the great editor said I was all right—long train ride, too much to drink. When they told me the scene the next day I didn’t remember any of it. Shirley owned an eating place in the French Quarter. When she went to work I went out and bought two dozen red roses and put them on the kitchen table. She kept those roses until they fell to pieces. And she kept the card. And pressed one rose in a book.
Meanwhile, the old man had me signing pages. 3500 pages to make sure that we got 3000 good ones. I had to sign them with a silver pen, mostly, and various different colored pens, a kind of thick ink paint. It was slow. It took each page 8 minutes to dry. I had pages spread all over the bed and on chairs and dressers. When Shirley got in from work, there I’d be, all covered with pages and drunk on beer. I got tired of straight signings. I’d sign my name, then say something, and then draw a picture, any kind of picture. This slowed up the process but it took the dullness out of it. Shirley wasn’t frightened of me anymore. On the beer, I was just mellow. She’d cook me a good dinner and then tell me about the store, the café.
“Jesus, I burned two pots of strawberries today, two whole pots! It was awful.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah. I was in the other room talking to a friend a mine and she said, ‘I smell something burning!’ and I ran into the kitchen and there were burned strawberries boiled over everywhere! God!”
“You oughta keep your mind on your business.”
“I like you Buke. You remind me of Jackie.”
“I can’t fight a lick.”
“No, I mean you don’t come on with a lot of phony talk the way most people do.”
After dinner I go back to the bedroom and sign more pages. Then around ten I’d take my beer into the kitchen and Shirley
So Shirley started dropping these tears down her fat, materialistic face, human still, real still, she was an old gal who’d been there, the mill. I’d met dozens of them, but they could be as cruel as the rest. It was a hard slam. She was talking about a good Jewish boxer she’d known, married. I wasn’t Jewish, but I knew my boxing. When a Jew laced on those gloves he’d show you a battleship full of guts. In those days, there were quite a few good Jewish fighters.
“Jackie,” she said, “he beat everybody. But the champs wouldn’t get into the ring with him. He was too good. And he never trained. All he did was drink. That was his training. But they locked him out. The championship went from one man to another. He blew all his purses. Bought drinks all up and down the bar, all up and down the street. He loaned money and they never paid him back. He died one night fast, just died in bed. He just let out this loud moan and died. Everybody was at his funeral, everybody. He was such a great man.”
The tears were rolling.
I was finally quite drunk. “What the hell,” I said, “he can’t do you any good in the grave! He can’t fuck you from the grave. I can lay it to you. I’m right here! I can shove you ten inches!”
Then she really started to cry.
I lifted my drink: “Ten inches. Solid.”
Everybody started acting rather peculiar, so I took my bottle and went to the place they said was going to be my bedroom, stripped down to my shorts, and sat there drinking from my pint.
“Hey,” I screamed, “you sons of bitches rolled me! Which one of you rolled me?”
I kept screaming for my money until I found I had hidden it under the pillow. Then I had another drink, crawled into bed and went to sleep. Shirley was frightened of me and didn’t want to let me stay but the great editor said I was all right—long train ride, too much to drink. When they told me the scene the next day I didn’t remember any of it. Shirley owned an eating place in the French Quarter. When she went to work I went out and bought two dozen red roses and put them on the kitchen table. She kept those roses until they fell to pieces. And she kept the card. And pressed one rose in a book.
Meanwhile, the old man had me signing pages. 3500 pages to make sure that we got 3000 good ones. I had to sign them with a silver pen, mostly, and various different colored pens, a kind of thick ink paint. It was slow. It took each page 8 minutes to dry. I had pages spread all over the bed and on chairs and dressers. When Shirley got in from work, there I’d be, all covered with pages and drunk on beer. I got tired of straight signings. I’d sign my name, then say something, and then draw a picture, any kind of picture. This slowed up the process but it took the dullness out of it. Shirley wasn’t frightened of me anymore. On the beer, I was just mellow. She’d cook me a good dinner and then tell me about the store, the café.
“Jesus, I burned two pots of strawberries today, two whole pots! It was awful.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah. I was in the other room talking to a friend a mine and she said, ‘I smell something burning!’ and I ran into the kitchen and there were burned strawberries boiled over everywhere! God!”
“You oughta keep your mind on your business.”
“I like you Buke. You remind me of Jackie.”
“I can’t fight a lick.”
“No, I mean you don’t come on with a lot of phony talk the way most people do.”
After dinner I go back to the bedroom and sign more pages. Then around ten I’d take my beer into the kitchen and Shirley