Absence of the Hero Page 8

  DeJohns looked at me: “What has happened to you, Bukowski?”

  I don’t know, man. Tired.

  I was going to do a book on your life. Now you no longer interest me.

  The things I did were things I had to do. I don’t need those things anymore.

  FUCK YOU, MAN! YOU’RE FINISHED!

  DeJohns got up and left.

  My last chance for immortality.

  Maybe he was right. I took a bit of whiskey to get up my nerve. Got on the phone. Hey, baby, I have a bottle. Come on over. We’ll drink. Talk some shit. Then fuck.

  She hung up.

  I went back to the blackboard:

  WHY WASH UNDER THE ARMS WHEN THE ROACH HAS CONQUERED MORE THAN ALEXANDRIA?

  WHY RIDE A BICYCLE WHEN HENRY MILLER RIDES A BICYCLE?

  WE’VE PLAYED AT SOUL—NOT HAVING ANY—WE HAVE FUCKED-UP THE SACRED ATROCITY OF BREATHING.

  WE HAVE BRUTALIZED THE EARTH MORE THAN ANY ARMIES.

  WHEN THE HERO ARRIVES WE WILL FIND THAT HE WAS ALWAYS HERE.

  Then I sat down, lit a cigarette, took two reds, and waited.

  Christ with Barbecue Sauce

  The hitchhiker was standing just below the gas station when they picked him up. They put him in the back seat with Caroline.

  Murray was driving. Frank turned around, put his arm on the back of the seat, and looked at the hitchhiker.

  “You a hippie?”

  “I don’t know. Why?” asked the kid.

  “Well, we kind of specialize in hippies. We’re used to them.”

  “Then you don’t dislike us?”

  “Why, hell no, kid, we love hippies! What’s your name?”

  “Bruce.”

  “Bruce. Well, that’s a nice name. I’m Frank. The guy who’s driving, that’s Murray. And that beautiful bitch next to you, that’s Caroline.”

  Bruce nodded and grinned. Then asked, “How far you going?”

  “All the way, kid, we’re taking you all the way.”

  Murray laughed.

  “What’s he laughing at?” asked Bruce.

  “Murray always laughs in the wrong places. But he’s our driver. He’s a good driver. He drives us all up and down the coast, through Arizona, Texas, Louisiana. He never seems to get tired, but he’s all right, ain’t that right, baby?” he asked Caroline.

  “Sure, and Bruce is all right too.” She put her hand on the kid’s knee, squeezed it. Then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “You had anything to eat lately, kid?”

  “No, I’m pretty hungry.”

  “Well, don’t worry. We’re going to stop and eat something pretty soon.”

  Caroline kept smiling at Bruce. “He’s nice. Real nice.” Bruce felt her hand slide down along his leg toward his penis. Frank didn’t seem to mind and Murray just kept driving. Then she was upon his penis, rubbing it and smiling.

  “Where’d you sleep last night, kid?” asked Frank.

  “Under the trees. It was pretty damned cold. I was sure glad when the sun came up.”

  “You’re lucky some animal didn’t gobble you up during the night.”

  Murray laughed again.

  “What do you mean?” asked the kid.

  “I mean, under all that hair, you look like a nice juicy kid.”

  “Sure does,” said Caroline. She kept stroking his penis. It was getting hard.

  “How old are you, Bruce?”

  “19.”

  “You read Ginsberg, Kerouac?” “Sure, but they were kind of from the Beat era. We like rock and folk music, that stuff. I like Johnny Cash too. And Bobby Dylan, of course. . . . ”

  Caroline had his zipper open and had his thing out. Then she had her tongue on it, was giving him the barberpole. Frank acted like it wasn’t happening.

  “You been up to Berkeley?”

  “Oh yeah. Berkeley, Denver, Santa Barbara, Frisco. . . . ”

  “You think there’s going to be a revolution?”

  “Yeah, there has to be. There’s no way out. You see. . . . ”

  She had his cock in her mouth. The kid couldn’t talk anymore.

  Murray finally looked back, then laughed. Frank lit a cigarette and watched.

  “Jesus,” said the kid, “o my god, Jesus!”

  Caroline was bobbing. Then she got it all. It was over. Bruce fell back in his seat, pulled up his zipper.

  “How was that, kid?”

  “Well, real fine, you know.”

  “Not often you get a ride like this. And it’s not over yet either. It’s just beginning. Wait’ll we stop and eat.”

  Murray laughed again.

  “I just don’t like the way he laughs,” said Bruce.

  “Well, you can’t have everything. You just had a nice head job.”

  They just drove along for a while.

  “Getting hungry, Murray?”

  Murray spoke for the first time. “Yeah.”

  “Well, we’ll stop as soon as we find a nice spot.”

  “Hope it’s soon,” said Murray.

  “I guess Caroline isn’t hungry. She just had lunch.”

  “I can use some dessert, though,” she laughed.

  “When did we last eat, anyhow?” asked Frank.

  “Day before yesterday,” said Caroline.

  “What?” asked Bruce. “The day before yesterday?”

  “Yeah, kid, but when we eat, we eat—Hey! This looks like a good spot. Lots of trees, isolation. Pull off the road, Murray.”

  Murray pulled off to the side of the road and they all got out and stretched.

  “That’s a hell of a nice beard there, kid. And that head of hair. The barbers don’t take much off you, do they?”

  “Nobody does, I guess.”

  “Atta boy, kid! All right, Murray, dig us a hole for roasting. Set up a spit. It’s been a couple of days. I’m about to lose my pot gut.”

  Murray opened the trunk. There was a shovel in there. Wood and even coal. Everything they needed. He began carrying the stuff down in between the trees. The others got back in the car. Frank passed out smokes and handed around a bottle of scotch. A 5th. It was smooth stuff but the kid needed the water bag a couple of times.

  “I really like Bruce,” said Caroline.

  “I like him too,” said Frank. “What the hell, can’t we share him?”

  “Of course.”

  They all drank without talking. Then Frank said, “Come on. Murray ought to have it up about now.”

  They got out and followed Frank into the trees, Caroline holding Bruce’s hand. When they got there, Murray was about finished.

  “What’s that thing?” asked the kid.

  “That’s a cross. Murray built it himself. Isn’t it nice?”

  “I mean, what’s it for?”

  “Murray believes in rituals. He’s a little funny, you know, but we humor him along.”

  “Listen,” said the kid, “I’m not hungry. I think I’ll just walk up the road a bit.”

  “But we’re hungry, kid.”

  “Yeah, but I’m. . . . ”

  Frank punched the kid in the stomach and as he bent over, Murray clubbed him behind the ear. Caroline made a pillow of leaves and sat down while Frank and Murray dragged the kid over to the cross. Frank held Bruce against the cross while Murray drove the large nail into the kid’s left palm. Then they got the right palm.

  “You wanna go for the feet?” asked Frank.

  “No, I get tired of that. Too much work.”

  They sat down next to Caroline and passed the bottle.

  “They have beautiful sunsets out here, don’t they?” asked Caroline.

  “Yeah. Look at it. Pink and getting red. You like sunsets, Murray.”

  “Sure I like sunsets. What do you think?”

  “I just asked. Don’t get touchy.”

  “Well, you people always treat me like some kind of idiot. Sure, I like sunsets.”

  “All right. Let’s not argue. Or maybe we ought to argue. Because
I’ve got something on my mind.”

  “Yeah?” said Murray.

  “Yeah. I’m tired of using barbecue sauce. I’m tired of the taste. And besides, I read somewhere it can give you cancer.”

  “Well, I like barbecue sauce. And I do all the driving, I do all the work, so we ought to have barbecue sauce.”

  “What do you think, Caroline?”

  “I don’t care one way or the other. Just as long as we eat.”

  The kid was moving on the cross. He spread his legs to stand, then looked up. Then he saw his hands.

  “Oh my god! What have you done to me?”

  Then he screamed. It was a long, high, pitiful scream. Then he stopped.

  “Keep your cool, kid,” said Frank.

  “Yeah,” said Murray.

  “Guess he don’t want a head job now, huh, Caroline?”

  Caroline laughed.

  “Listen,” said the kid, “please take me down. I don’t understand. This pain—there’s very much pain. I’m sorry I screamed. Please take me down. Please, please, god o mighty, take me down!”

  “O.K., take him down, Murray.”

  “Oh my god, thank you!”

  Murray walked over to the cross, pushed the kid’s head back, and slit his jugular vein with the butcher knife. Then he picked up the claw hammer and began yanking at the nail of the left palm. He cursed.

  “This is always the hardest part.”

  Then Murray had the kid down and was stripping him. He threw the clothing and the sheets to one side. Then he took the knife and ripped the kid open, starting just below the ribs and cutting down through the stomach.

  “Come on,” said Frank. “I don’t like to watch this part.”

  Caroline and Frank got up and walked into the woods. When they came back, the sun had set and Murray had the kid up on the spit and was turning him.

  “Listen, Murray.”

  “Yeah?”

  “How about the barbecue sauce?”

  “I was just about to put it on. You gotta put it on while the meat is cooking to get the real flavor, you know that.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll flip you for it. You game, Murray?”

  “All right. Come ’ere, Caroline. You turn it while we flip.”

  “O.K.”

  “One call,” said Frank. “Call it when it’s in the air.”

  Frank flipped the coin high into the air.

  “Heads!” Murray yelled.

  The coin fell. They walked over and looked at it.

  It was heads.

  “Goddamn it,” said Frank.

  “Well, you don’t have to eat if you don’t want to,” said Murray.

  “I’ll eat,” said Frank. . . .

  The next morning they were driving down the road, Frank and Murray up front, Caroline in the back. The sun was well up. Caroline was in back with a hand, cleaning the meat off of the fingers.

  “That girl’s got the damnedest appetite I ever saw,” said Murray.

  “Yeah, and she had first taste too. Almost as soon as the guy got into the car.”

  Frank and Murray laughed.

  “You guys aren’t funny. You guys aren’t funny at all!”

  Caroline rolled down the window and threw the hand out.

  “I’m so full,” said Murray, “I never want to see another hippie.”

  “You said the same thing 2 or 3 days back,” said Frank.

  “I know, I know. . . . ”

  “Look! Slow down! I think I see another one! Yeah, look, beard, sandals, the works.”

  “Let’s pass this one, Frank.”

  The hippie stuck out his thumb.

  “Stop the car, Murray. Let’s see how far he wants to go.”

  They pulled up.

  “How far you going, kid?”

  “New Orleans.”

  “New Orleans? That’ll take us 3 or 4 days, at least. Get in, kid. Get in back there with our beautiful lady.”

  The hippie got in and Murray was back to driving.

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Dave.”

  “Dave. That’s a nice name. I’m Frank. The guy who’s driving is Murray. And that beautiful bitch next to you, that’s Caroline.”

  “Good to meet you all,” said Dave, and then he turned and grinned at Caroline.

  “And we’re all pleased to meet you,” smiled Caroline.

  Murray belched as Caroline put her hand on Dave’s knee.

  Ah, Liberation, Liberty, Lilies on the Moon!

  It is a time of groups demanding their dignity and place under the smoggy sun. Often their demands reveal their weaknesses and cruelties, but the blinkers are on and they only see straight ahead—for themselves. Groupism can be an Al Capone gang or a ballet co. Groupism can be the Catholic Church or the men’s track team at Stanford. Groupism means “win” and “win for us.” Groupism means “I want mine and by God you better give it to me or else—.” Groupism is a demand for Love through Threat. Love meaning a great many different things to different people. Groupism will not work. Groupism will only form counter-groupism. Groupism, in a sense, isolates more than it frees, but let’s let all that go. Everybody’s doing it now. But I’m thinking of some of the groups who haven’t organized. Like say, the children. Can you think of any other group with fewer rights than children? They are beaten, scolded, schooled, shoved aside, primped when needed, bathed at will, fed at random, told when to sleep, awaken, talk, not talk, and on and on. The excuse being that they do not know how to do these things for themselves—long after they do.

  I well remember my childhood. I was held in total slavery. Saturday was lawnmowing and watering day. Sunday was church. The other days were school, homework, and tasks. I was beaten 3 or 4 times a week by a bully of a father, a hateful man. He used a razor strop. My mother’s only comment was: “Respect him. After all, he is your father.”

  I was a slave. I’d think, god, I’m only 3 feet tall. I can’t get a job. I must stay here and take these beatings in order to have a place to sleep and something to eat. This sounds a bit humorous to me now but it wasn’t then.

  I read where one mother used to stick her little girl in red-hot bathwater in order to teach her to be “obedient.” A father, after stomping his child with his shoes, would open a beer and look at TV. Another mother starved her baby to death. You can read horror story after horror story in your daily paper. Think of the unrepresented children, the largest slave group in the world.

  If you want to go further, how about dogs and cats? Did you ever consider the atrocious food you feed your pets? It’s dog food, it’s cat food, you say; they eat it. You’d eat it too, if that’s all you had. You give it to them because it’s cheap—you can have a live slave for 12 cents a day. While you demand liberation, you enslave your children and pets. What’s the matter with you?

  We can even get quite extreme and say, how about roaches, spiders, flies, ants, snakes, cows, bulls, horses, mules, butterflies, steer, monkeys, gorillas, tigers, lions, foxes, wolves, pigs, chickens, turkeys, fish, seals, parrots, and the like? Come, old boy, you either control or use all these things, murder them, capture them, or profit by them. While you demand liberties, you enslave everything. What’s the matter with you?

  What’s in the dignity of a pig, you say; he looks better as bacon and ham and pork chops. Well, maybe to you.

  And the tiger, you say, if we don’t kill him or capture him, he’ll kill us.

  Ah, same old story. When’s the next war start? Is that an Indian behind that bush or a Nazi from Hoboken?

  Well, you say, the bullfights may not be quite proper.

  How about the boxing matches then? We put two men in the ring and hope they beat hell out of each other. If they don’t, we’ll let them know about it. . . .

  So you see, when you speak of liberation, there are plenty of unliberated groups in the world. Now take the cockroach—

  Please, Bukowski, don’t get completely ridiculous.

  Have you ever
asked the cockroach?

  I can’t.

  That’s the point. I am hereby appointing myself founder of The Cockroach Liberation Society.

  By god, you’ve got enough of them around this dump!

  There, you see!

  You mean?

  Of course. . . .

  I’m getting out of here.

  You’d better. We’re forming. Stronger every day. Right on, brother!

  He walked to the door, slammed it, walked down the street.

  The damned fascist swine!

  The Cat in the Closet

  I had been drunk for a week, and then a black girl with big innocent eyes read me one of her poems, and the poem was so bad and she was such a nice thing; I couldn’t say anything about how bad the poem had been so I went into the bathroom, took the top off the water closet, and broke it on the floor.

  Then I came out and stretched on the floor. I was stretched out in front of a folk singer, listening, squeezing her legs, rubbing her thighs when somebody said, “Hank!” and I looked up and there were 2 cops at the door.

  I got up.

  “You own this joint, buddy?” they asked.

  “I rent it.”

  “Well, there’s too much noise going on here.”

  “All right, we’ll keep it down.”

  “See that you do. Because if I have to come back, somebody is going to land in the slammer.”

  They left. I don’t remember much about the rest of the party but when I awakened I was alone in my bedroom, sick, too weak to get out of bed. The sun was well up. I had to get off the merry-go-round. I had been drunk too long.

  Then the phone rang.

  Oh, shit. I picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Hank?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Hank.”

  “You in bed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get up. We’re going on a boat ride over the beautiful Pacific.”