Authors: Charles Bukowski
the jock’s horse
the 7 horse
clipped the heels
of the horse
in front of
him
stumbled and
fell
throwing the
jock
over its
head
and onto the
track before
some
oncoming
horses
most of
which
avoided the
jock’s
still
form
except for
the 9
horse
who gave him
one step
in the middle
of his
back
you could
see
the hoof
dig
in
then the
field was
past
and the
ambulance was
on its
way
the jock wore
Kelly green
silks,
black
sleeves.
3 or 4
people were now
gathered around
the
still
jock.
as the ambulance
moved in
the man behind
me
said to his
companion,
“let’s go get
a
beer.”
it’s freezing again, and the snitch is sucking up
to the warden. I’m down $20 with six to go, someone stole
the bell and Darlene broke her left kneecap; the hunter
weeps in the bracken, and in the mirror I see pennies for
eyes; this war is like a dead green shawl
as the last salamander
gets ready to
die.
I am down $50 with four to go,
the boy broke the mower on an apricot and
the skyscraper trembles in the bleeding January night.
I am down $100 with two to go, I will double up
face down, go for broke, and it
might be time for a trip to Spain or to buy
one last pair of new shoes.
it gets sad; the walls grip my
fingers and smile;
I know who killed Cock Robin; I know who tricked Benny
the Dip; and
now somebody is picking the lock and the searchlights are
out of focus.
I’m down $500 with one to go,
my horse explodes in the middle of the dream,
it’s really freezing now, can’t
get it up
can’t
get it down
can’t
get it;
a chorus of purple songbirds
shakes the trees; I watch a parade of wooden monkeys
burn; as the tin cock crows, I just don’t
understand.
he was my guru.
he was a big man, bearded, self-assured.
he sat in one chair.
I sat in another.
we had been up together many days
and nights.
there had been an hour’s heavy
silence.
then he leaned forward slightly
and whispered,
“you don’t have to worry about
worms when you die, Chinaski,
worms don’t infest dead
bodies, it’s a fairy tale.”
“that’s good to know,” I
said.
then we fell into another
hour’s heavy
silence.
when I was younger
when we were all younger
one of T. S. Eliot’s most admired
and envied
lines
was:
“this is the way the world
ends,
not with a bang
but a
whimper.”
before Hiroshima
we all wished we had written that immortal
line.
however
poor T.S. lost
much of his immortality
because of that
monstrous
event.
but at least
he had his immortal status
for a
while
and like the old fighter
Beau Jack said
after blowing his fortune on
parties, suckerfish and
women:
“it beats not ever having been
the champ.”
these days
we don’t know how
or
when
the world will
conclude.
and under the circumstances,
the idea of
an immortal line or poem
seems somewhat
optimistic
not to mention the fact that
most of us now
do our whimpering long
before any possible
end.
Mr. Cobweb, call me when the applause breaks out like a sprinkle of
henshit; 1671 wasn’t so long ago and tomorrow waits like a headless
anvil; but I’m still able to reach for my handkerchief
and wave to the ever-dancing girls (what dolls!) stomping away as
my brain in that dark cellar simmers in the stew.
sure, good things keep happening, eh? I mean, sometimes I fear
that I’m going to explode right through the top of my skull:
teeth, lungs, intestines, liver, bladder, balls and all, and
for hardly any
reason
! I’ve
got to be nuts, you
know! hope
so.
Mr. Cobweb, call me, I have an answering service, and oh yes, my friend
the great actor stuck his foot down into the dirt behind his mansion in
Malibu Canyon and told me: “the swimming pool will be going
here.”
mainly, though, what I like is how the sun keeps on trying and we
build sidewalks and walk on them, we go up and down in elevators, read
newspapers, take issue with events singular and worldly, keep exercising,
we keep going and going, it’s all rather fresh and exciting,
and new girls continue to get up to dance, those beautiful dancing
girls, I clutch the blade in my teeth and grin at them, Mr.
Cobweb!
and, Mr. Cobweb, there was another great actor, he was sitting with
his drink, looking down into his drink, he had a long thin sad neck
and I walked over and said, “listen, Harry, you’re always depressed, get
over it, you’re at the top of your game, things could be a lot worse, you
could be servicing Hondas at Jiffy Lube …”
Mr. Cobweb, even 1332 wasn’t so long ago, we are all blessed in this life,
looking around and trying to fit ourselves into the puzzle, it takes time,
a lifetime, many lifetimes, but we have to keep trying and that takes guts.
me? shit, I’ve had enough, it’s grand, sure, but let me nudge
out now. I distrust the whole tawdry game.
Mr. Cobweb, Al Capone has been dead a long time but it doesn’t seem so
long to me, I sit within these brown-yellow walls and there’s an old
rose stuck in an old drinking glass, it’s been there several months looking
at me and I reach out and touch it—the petals are still there but
they feel strangely like paper; why shouldn’t they, huh?
Mr. Cobweb, you tell the funniest jokes I’ve ever heard!
so call me any time, I always answer on the fourth ring, for
sure.
I was in one of those after-hour places.
I don’t know how long I had been there when
I noticed a dead cigar in my hand. I attempted
to light it and burned my nose.
“you ever meet Randy Newhall?” the guy
next to me asked.
“no …”
“he went through college in 2 years instead
of 4.”
I asked the barkeep to bring us a couple more
drinks.
“then he walked into the largest employment agency
in town, they had 50 applications for this
one job at a talent agency but
he just talked to the manager for 15
minutes and was hired.”
“uh …”
“he began in the mailroom and in 12 months he
was making package deals for tv programs
and movies.
nobody ever got out of the mailroom that
fast, and next he married a rich girl
just out of law school.”
“yeah?”
“after that he spent most of his
time putting golf balls into a water glass
in his office.
he made the work look easy …”
“listen,” I asked, “what time is it? the
battery in my watch went dead.”
“… and in another year
he was promoted to upper management and
a year later he took over the whole place.
he was
the youngest CEO in America.”
“you buy the next round,” I told him.
“sure, well, he doubled his work hours and
after a while his wife left him—women don’t
understand.”
“what?”
“guys like him.”
“oh …”
“he didn’t contest the divorce.
he just moved on. it didn’t faze him one bit.
it was amazing, you’d
see him having dinner with congressmen, with
the mayor.”
“are you going to get the next round?”
he told the barkeep, who brought two more.
“then he began working 16- and 18-hour
days and after work he’d frequent
after-hour places above the Sunset Strip, to relax,
to try to unwind.”
“a place like this, huh?”
“this
was
the place. he didn’t try to close
deals, he just wanted to relax with the
actors, the artists, the screenwriters, the
directors, the producers, the investors
and so forth. and, of course, there were also the
beautiful girls.”
“here?”
“yes, look around …”
I did.
“well, it was just a matter of time until he discovered
coke, then more coke, mostly with his new friends
after
the after-hour places closed.”
“flying, what?”
“yes, but professionally he
continued to function well until
he began doing crank.”
“it really keeps you awake, huh? my
round to buy …”
I ordered two more.
“after some months he felt more and more
depressed, he took 6 weeks off and went to
Hawaii, resting, laying in the sun.”
“did he screw?”
“he told me that he tried. anyhow, he came back
and he used to talk to me here just like you’re
doing now.”
“oh.”
“then he became obsessed with some Mexican Real
Estate Dream
which
he would bankroll
with a Mexican friend
who was powerful in politics there.
the master plan was that
within 8 years they would control
a real estate empire and
several banks before the
government could stop them.
“drink up,” I suggested.
“well, they didn’t quite get it rolling.
he lost everything.
at the office he became difficult and unreasonable,
smashing ashtrays, throwing the phone out the window,
once pouring a can of Tab down his secretary’s
blouse. yet somehow he managed to retain an
obnoxious brilliance and he remained almost functional
which was better than most of the others there.”
“most others don’t have much.”
“that’s true. anyhow, one day he arrived at work
dressed in a house painter’s outfit, you know, the
white overalls, the little white cap, carrying a brush and a
bucket of paint. that’s when the Board of Directors
insisted on a 3-month leave of absence.”
“BARKEEP!” I yelled. “COUPLE MORE!”
“he sold his house and moved into an apartment
on Fountain Avenue. his friends came by for
a while, then they stopped.”
“suckerfish like winners.”
“yes, and then there was a period when he tried to
get back with his x-wife but she didn’t want any more
of that. she was with a young sculptor from Boston
who was immensely talented and who taught
at an Ivy League university.”
“a rough turn of events,” I said.
“anyhow, our friend had this apartment
on Fountain Avenue and
one day the manager who lived in the apartment
below noticed water coming down through the
ceiling …”
“oh?”
“he ran upstairs and knocked on the door, there
was no answer, he took out his key and opened it, went
in and there was Randy standing there like a statue,
his head down in the bathroom sink, the water
running and overflowing,
running over the floor, and the manager wasn’t sure what
to think, it looked so strange, and he went over and
saw that the head was wedged there in the sink,
and the manager felt his legs, his back, and everything
was stiff,
rigor mortis
had long ago set in, there he
was standing with his head down under the water
and the overhead light on …”
“listen, Monty,” I said, “your name is ‘Monty,’ isn’t
it?”
“yes, you’ve got it right.”
“I drove over here earlier but that was such a long time ago.
do you remember if the parking lot is out front
or in the back?”
“it’s straight out back.”
“goodnight, Monty.”
“goodnight.”
fortunately after all that
I still knew front from back. I climbed down off
that bar stool and made my way as best I could to the
exit.