when — sure, why not? — there was a knock on my door.
YEAH?
MR. BUKOWSKI?
YEAH? YEAH?
I WANT TO COME IN AND CHANGE THE SHEETS.
NO, NOT TODAY. I’M SICK TODAY.
OH, THAT’S TOO BAD. BUT JUST LET ME COME IN AND CHANGE THE SHEETS. THEN I’LL GO AWAY.
NO, NO, I’M TOO SICK, I’M JUST TOO SICK. I DON’T WANT YOU TO SEE ME THE WAY I AM.
it went on and on. she wanted to change the sheets. I said, no. she said, I want to change the sheets. on and on. that landlady. what a body. all body. everything about her screamed BODY BODY BODY. I’d only been there 2 weeks. there was a bar downstairs. people would come to see me, I wouldn’t be in, she’d just say, “he’s in the bar downstairs, he’s always in the bar downstairs.” and the people would say, “God and Jesus, man, who’s your LANDLADY?”
but she was a big white woman and she went for these Filipinos, these Filipinos did tricks man, things no white men would ever dream of, even me; and these Flips are gone now with their George Raft pulldown widebrims and padded-shoulders; they used to be the fashion leaders, the stiletto boys; leather heels, greasy evil faces — where have you gone?
well, anyhow, there was nothing to drink and I sat there for hours, going crazy; jumpy, I was, gnatz, lumpy balls, there I sat with $450 easy money and I couldn’t buy a draft beer. I was waiting for darkness. darkness, not death. I wanted out. another shot at it. I finally got the nerve up. I opened the door a bit, chain still on, and there was one, a little Flip monkey with a hammer. when I opened the door, he lifted the hammer and grinned. when I closed the door he took the tacks out of his mouth and pretended to pound them into the rug of the stairway leading to the first floor and the only door out. I don’t know how long it went on. it was the same act. everytime I’d open the door he’d lift the hammer and grin. shit monkey! he just stayed on the top step. I began to go crazy. I was sweating, stinking; little circles whirling whirling whirling, light flanks and flashes of light in my dome. I really felt like I was going to go screwy. I walked over and got the suitcase. it was easy to carry. rags. then I took the typewriter. a steel portable borrowed from the wife of a once-friend and never returned. it had a good solid feel: gray, flat, heavy, leery, banal. the eyes whirled to the rear of my head and the chain was off the door, and one hand with suitcase and one hand with stolen typewriter I charged into machinegun fire, the mourning morning sunrise, cracked-wheat crinkles, the end of all.
HEY! WHERE YOU GO?
the little monkey began to raise to one knee, he raised the hammer, and that’s all I needed — the flash of electric light on hammer — I had the suitcase in the left hand, the portable steel typer in the right, he was in perfect position, down by my knees and I swung with great accuracy and some anger, I gave him the flat and heavy and hard side, greatly, along the side of his head, his skull, his temple, his being.
there was almost a shock of light like everything was crying, then it was still. I was outside, suddenly, sidewalk, down all those steps without realization. like luck, there was a yellow cab.
CABBY!
I was inside. UNION STATION.
it was good, the quiet sound of tires in the morning air. NO, WAIT, I said. MAKE IT THE BUS DEPOT.
WHATZ MATTA, MAN? the cabby asked.
I JUST KILLED MY FATHER.
YO KILLED YO FATHA?
YOU EVER HEARD OF JESUS CHRIST?
SHORE.
THEN MAKE IT: BUS DEPOT.
I sat in the bus depot for an hour waiting for the bus to New Orleans. wondering if I had killed the guy. I finally got on with typewriter and suitcase, jamming the typewriter far into the overhead rack, not wanting the thing to fall on my head. it was a long ride with much drinking and some involvement with a redhead from Fort Worth. I got off at Fort Worth too, but she lived with her mother and I had to get a room, and I got a room in a whorehouse by mistake. all night the women hollering things like, “HEY! you’re not going to stick THAT thing in ME for ANY kind of money!” toilets flushing all night. doors opening and closing.
the redhead, she was a nice innocent thing, or bargained for a better man. anyhow, I left town without getting into her pants. I finally made New Orleans.
but the Elf. remember? the guy I fought in my room. well, during the war he was killed by machinegun fire. I’ve heard he lay in bed a long time, 3 or 4 weeks before he went. and the strangest thing, he had told me, no, he had asked me “suppose some STUPID son of a bitch puts his finger to a machinegun and cuts me in half?”
“then, it’s your fault.”
“well, I know you ain’t going to die in front of any god damned machinegun.”
“you’re sure as shit right, I ain’t, babe. unless it’s one of Uncle Sam’s.”
“don’t give me that crap! I know you love your country. I can see it in your eyes! love, real love!”
that’s when I hit him the first time.
after that, you’ve got the rest of the story.
when I got to New Orleans I made sure I wasn’t in any whorehouse, even though the whole town looked like one.
________
we were sitting in the office after dropping another one of those 7 to 1 ballgames, and the season was halfway over and we were in the cellar, 25 games out of first place and I knew that it was my last season as manager of the Blues. our leading hitter was batting .243 and our leading home run man had 6. our leading pitcher stood at 7 and 10 with an e.r.a. of 3.95. old man Henderson pulled the pint out of the desk drawer, took his cut, shoved the bottle at me.
“on top of all this,” said Henderson, “I even caught the crabs about 2 weeks ago.”
“jesus, sorry, boss.”
“you won’t be calling me boss much longer.”
“I know, but no manager in baseball can pull these rummies out of last place,” I said, knocking off a third of a pint.
“and worse,” said Henderson, “I think it was my wife who gave me the crabs.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or what, so I kept quiet.
there was a most delicate knock on the office door and then it opened. and here stood some nut with paper wings glued to his back.
it was a kid about 18. “I’m here to help your club,” said the kid.
he had on these big paper wings. a real nut. holes cut in his suit. the wings are glued to his back. or strapped. or something.
“listen,” said Henderson, “will you please get the hell out of here! we’ve got enough comedy on the field now, just playing it straight. they laughed us right out of the park today. now, get out and fast!”
the kid reached over, took a slug from the pint, set it down and said, “Mr. Henderson, I am the answer to your prayers.”
“kid,” said Henderson, “you’re too young to drink that stuff.”
“I’m older than I look,” said the kid.
“and I got somethin’ that will make you a little older!” Henderson pressed the little button under his desk. that meant Bull Kronkite. I ain’t sayin’ the Bull has ever killed a man but you’ll be lucky to be smoking Bull Durham out of a rubber asshole when he gets through with you. the Bull came in almost taking one of the hinges off the door as he entered.
“which ONE, boss?” he asked, his long stupid fingers twitching as he looked about the room.
“the punk with the paper wings,” said Henderson.
the Bull