Charles Bukowski What Matters Most Is How Well Y

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.then I heard it:two people in the next room,copulating.I could hear the bedspringsand the moans.I got up, walked out of theroom and back into thestreet.but I walked in a differentdirection this time,I walked away from the pigin the window.but I thought about the pigand I decided that I’d die firstrather than eat thatpig.it began to rain.I looked up.I opened my mouth and let in the raindrops…soup from the sky…“hey, look at that guy!”I heard someone say.stupid sons-of-bitches, I thought,stupid sons-of-bitches!I closed my mouth and keptwalking.the first oneafter she diedI met her son in her rooma very small room without sink or toiletin a flophouse at Beverly and Vermont.he was thinking what kind of boyfriend are youto let her die in a place like this?and I was thinking, what kind of a son are you?he asked me, do you want any of her things?no, I said.well, he said, we’ll give them to Goodwill.he left.there was a large bloodstain on the bottomsheet.the owner of the hotel walked in.she said,I’ll have to change that sheet before I can rent thisroom tosomebody else.o.k., I said.I left.I walked down to the floristand ordered a heart-shaped arrangement, large,for the funeral.just say on the card, I told the lady,from your lover.no name.no name?no name.cash or credit card?cash.I paid and walked out on theboulevard andnever lookedback.the night I saw George Raft in VegasI bet on #6, I try red, I stare at the women’s legs and breasts,I wonder what Chekov would do, and over in the corner three men withblue plates sit eating the carnage of my youth, they have beardsand look very much like Russians and I pat an imaginary pistolovermy left tit and try to smile like George Raft sizing up a French tart.I playthe field, I pull out dollars like turnips from the good earth, the lightsblaze and nobody says stop.Hank, says my whore, for Christ’s sake you’re losing everything except me,and I say don’t forget, baby, I’m a shipping clerk.what’ve I got to losebut a ball of string?the gentlemen in the corner who look like Russians get up, knocktheir plates and cups on the floor and wipe their mouths on the tablecloth.some belch (and one farts).they laugh evilly and leave without anyone bothering them.a ribbed and moiled cat comes out of somewhere,begins licking the plates on the floor and then jumps up on thetable and walks around like his feet are wet.I try black.the croupier’s eyes dart like beetles.he makes futilealmost habitual movements to brush them away.I switch back to red.I look around for George Raft and spill my drinkagainst my chest.Hank, says my whore, let’s get out of here! well, at least,I say, I ought to get a blow-job out of this.you needn’t get filthy, the whoresays.I say, baby, I was born filthy.I try #14.DEATH COMES SLOWLY LIKE ANTS TO A FALLEN FIG.mirrors enclose us, I say to the croupier, ignoring the scenery of our despair.I slap away a filthy thing that runs across my mouth.the catleaps and snatches it up as it spins upon its back kicking itsthousand legs.then George Raft walks in.hello kid, he says, back again? I placemy last few coins on the chest of a dead elephant.the lightning flares, they are stabbing grapefruit in the backroom, some-body drops a glove and the place, the whole place, goes up in smoke.we walk back to the car and fall asleep.no titleall theorieslike clichésshot to hell,all these small faceslooking upbeautiful and believing;I wish to weepbut sorrow isstupid.I wish to believebut belief is agraveyard.we have narrowed it down tothe butcherknife and themockingbird.wish usluck.too many blacksmy first wife was from Texas and we came backto L.A.to liveshe came from oil money and I came fromsomeplace else.our 2nd day in townwe drove down Vermont Avenueto get her some art suppliesand as I was tooling my eleven-year-oldPlymouth southa black man rolled past in a nine-year-oldgreen Dodge:“hey, baby,” he hollered out the window,“what’s happening?”“nothing much happenin’,” I holleredback, “I’m just trying to makeit!”as we stopped for a signal atBeverly Blvd.a black man on the corner saw mehe was standing in a broad-brimmedStetson pulled down in frontand wearing white leather bootsand lots of gold:“Hank, baby, where’d you find theblonde gash?”“she’s my mark, man,” I replied,“you know how it is.”I put it into low and pulledaway.“listen,” my first wife saidnasally,“how come you know all these blackguys?”“it’s easy, baby, I’ve worked with themon all the gigs.like it’snatural.”she didn’t answer and when we gotto the art storeshe was very upsetabout the brushesthe quality of the paperthe paints weren’t what shewantedand the total selection wasunsatisfactory.she was very unhappyabout everything.I stood there and watched herbeautiful ass and her very longblonde hairthen I walked over to the picture framesectionpicked up an 8-and-one-half byelevenstared through the space ofitand let herwork itout.white dogI went for a walk on Hollywood Boulevard.I looked down and there was a large white dogwalking beside me.his pace was exactly the same as mine.we stopped at traffic signals together.we crossed the side streets together.a woman smiled at us.he must have walked 8 blocks with me.then I went into a grocery store andwhen I came out he was gone.or she was gone.the wonderful white dogwith a trace of yellow in its fur.the large blue eyes were gone.the grinning mouth was gone.the lolling tongue was gone.things are so easily lost.things just can’t be kept forever.I got the blues.I got the blues.that dog loved andtrusted me andI let it walk away.blue beads and bonesas the orchid diesand the grass goesinsane, let’s have one for the lost:I met an old manand a tired whorein a barat 8:00 in the morningacross from MacArthur Park—we were sitting over our beershe and I and the old whorewho had slept in an unlocked carthe night beforeand wore a blue necklace.the old guy said to me:“look at my arms.I’m all bone.no meat on me.”and he pulled back his sleevesand he was right—bone with just a layer of skinhanging like paper.he said, “I don’t eatnothin’.”I bought him a beer and thewhore a beer.now there, I thought, is a manwho doesn’t eatmeat, he doesn’t eatvegetables.kind of a saint [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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