Short stories by Charles Bukowski

Picture of Fernando Botero

**A Lovely Love Affair**

I went broke --- again --- but this time in the French Quarter, New

Orleans, and Joe Blanchard, editor of the underground paper OVERTHROW took

me down to this place around the corner, one of those dirty white buildings


with green storm windows, steps that ran almost straight up. It was Sunday


and I was expecting a royalty, no, and advance from a dirty book I had


written for the Germans, but the Germans kept writing me this bullshit about


the owner, the father, being a drunk, they were deep in the red because the


old man had withdrawn their funds from the bank, no, overdrawn them for his


drinking and fucking bouts and therefore, they were broke but they were






kicking the old man out and as soon as-


Blanchard rang the bell.


This old fat girl came to the door, and she weighed about between 250


and 300 pounds. She kind of wore this vast sheet as a dress and her eyes


were very small. I guess that was the only small thing about her. She was


Marie Glaviano, owner of a caf+ in the French Quarter, a very small caf+.


That was another thing that was not very big about her --- her caf+. But it


was a nice caf+, red and white tablecloths, expensive menus and no people about. One of those old-time black mammy dolls standing near the entrance.


The old black mammy doll signified good times, old times, good old times,


but the good old times were gone. The tourists were walkers now. They just


liked to walk around and look at things. They didn't go into the cafes. They


didn't even get drunk. Nothing paid anymore. The good times were over.


Nobody gave a shit and nobody had any money and if they had any, they kept


it. It was a new age and not a very interesting one. Everybody kind of


watched the revolutionaries and the pigs rip at each other. That was good


entertainment and it was free and they kept their money in their pockets, if
they had any money.


Blanchard said, "Hello, Marie. Marie, this is Charley Serkin. Charley,
this is Marie."


"Hi," I said.


"Hello," said Marie Glaviano.


"Let us come in a minute, Marie," said Blanchard.


(There are only two things wrong with money: too much or too little.

And there I was down at the "too little" stage again.)
We climbed the steep steps and followed her down one fo those long long


sideways-built places ---I mean all length and no width, and then we were in


the kitchen, sitting at a table. There was a bowl of flowers. Marie broke


open 3 bottles of beer. Sat down.


"Well, Marie," said Blanchard, "Charley's a genius. He's up against the


knife. I'm sure he'll pull out, but meanwhile- meanwhile, he's got no place
to stay."


Marie looked at me. "Are you a genius?"


I took a long drag at the beer. "Well, frankly, it's hard to tell. More


often, I feel like some type of subnormal. Rather like all these great big


white blocks of air in my head."


"He can stay," said Marie.


It was Monday, Marie's only day off and Blanchard got up and left us
there in the kitchen. Then the front door slammed and he was out of there.


"What do you do?" asked Marie.


"Live on my luck," I said.


"You remind me of Marty," she said.


"Marty?" I asked, thinking, my god, here it comes. And it came.


"Well, you're ugly, you know. Well, I don't mean ugly, I mean beat-up,


you know. And you're really beat-up, you're even more beat-up than Marty


was. And he was a fighter. Were you a fighter?"


"That's one of my problems: I could never fight worth a damn."


"Anyhow, you got that same look as Marty. You been beat but you're


kind. I know your type. I know a man when I see a man. I like your face. You


got a good face."


Not being able to say anything about her face, I asked, "You got any
cigarettes, Marie?"


"Why sure, honey," she reached down into that great sheet of a dress


and pulled a full pack out from between her tits. She could have carried a


week's worth of groceries in there. It was kind of funny. She opened me


another beer.


I took a good drain, then told her, "I could probably fuck you until I


made you cry."

"Now look here, Charley," she said, "I won't have you talking that way.


I'm a nice girl. My mother brought me up right. You keep talking that way


and you can't stay."


"Sorry, Marie, I was just kidding."


"Well, I don't like that kind of kidding."


"Sure, I understand. You got any whiskey?"


"Scotch."


"Scotch is fine."


She brought out an almost full fifth. 2 waterglasses. We had ourselves




some scotch and water. That woman had been around. That was obvious. She's


probably been around ten years longer than I. Well, age wasn't any crime. It


was only that most people aged badly.


"You're just like Marty," she said again.


"And you're not like anybody I've ever seen," I said.


"Do you like me?" she asked.


"I've got to," I said, and she didn't give me any snot over that one.


We drank another hour or two,. Mostly beer but with a bit of scotch here and






there, and then she took me down to my bed. And on the way down we passed a


place and she was sure to say, "That's my bed." It was quite wide. My bed


was next to another one. Very strange. But it didn't mean anything. "You can






sleep in either bed," said Marie, "or both of them."


There was something about that that felt like a putdown-


Well, sure, I had a head in the morning and I heard her rattling in the


kitchen but I ignored it as any wise man would, and I heard her turn on the


tv for the morning news, she had the tv on the breakfast nook table, and I


heard the coffee perking, it smelled rather good but the smell of bacon and


eggs and potatoes I didn't like, and the sound of the morning news I didn't






like, and I felt like pissing and I was thirsty, but I didn't want Marie to


know that I was awake, so I waited, mildly pissed (haha, yes), but wanting


to be alone, wanting to own the place alone and she kept fucking around


fucking around and finally I heard her running past my bed-


"Gotta go, " she said, "I'm late."


"Bye, Marie," I said.


When the door slammed I got up and walked to the crapper and I sat


there and I pissed and I crapped and I sat there in New Orleans, far from


home, wherever my home was, and then I saw a spider sitting in a web in the


corner, looking at me. Now that spider had been there a long time, I knew


that. Much longer than I had. First, I thought of killing him. But he was so


fat and happy and ugly, he owned the joint. I'd have to wait some time,


until it was proper. I got up and wiped my ass and flushed. As I left the


crapper, the spider winked at me.




I didn't want to play with what was left of the 5th, so I sat in the


kitchen, naked, wondering, how can people trust me so? Who was I? People


were crazy, people were simple. That gave me and edge. Hell ys, it did. I'd


lived for ten years without a trade. People gave me money, food, places to






stay. Whether they thought I was an idiot or a genius, that didn't matter. I


knew what I was. I was neither. What made people give me gifts didn't


concern me. I took the gifts and I took them without a feeling of victory


or/and coercion. My only premise was that I couldn't ask for anything. On


top of it all, I rather had this little phonograph record spinning around on


top of my brain and it kept playing the same tune: don't try don't try. It


seemed like and all right idea.


Anyhow, after Marie left I sat in the kitchen and drank 3 cans of beer


I found in the refrigerator. I never cared much for food. I'd heard of




people's love for food. But food only bored me. Liquid was o.k. but bulk was


a dragdown. I liked shit, I liked to shit, I liked turds but it was such


terrible work creating them.


After the 3 cans of beer I noticed this purse on the seat next to me.


Of course, Marie had taken another purse to work. Would she be foolish


enough or kind enough to leave money? I opened the purse. There at the


bottom was a ten dollar bill.


Well, Marie was testing me and I'd prove worthy of her test.


I took the ten, walked back to my bedroom and dressed. I felt good.


After all, what did a man need to survive? Nothing. It was true. And I even


had the key to the place.


So I stepped outside and locked the door to keep out the thieves,


hahaha, and there I was out on the streets, the French Quarter, and what a


stupid place that was, but I had to make it do. Everything had to serve me,


that's the way it went. So-oh yes, I was walking down the street, and the


trouble with the French Quarter was that there just weren't any liquor


stores around like in other decent parts of the world. Maybe it was


deliberate. One had to guess that it helped those horrible shit holes on


every corner that were called bars. The first thing I ever thought of when


walking into one of those "quaint" French Quarter bars was vomiting. And I


usually did, running back to some urine-stinking pisspot and letting go --


tons and tons of fried eggs and half-cooked greasy potatoes. And walking


back in, after heaving, and looking upon them: the only thing more lonely


and inane than the patrons was the bartender, especially if he also owned


the place. O.k., so I walked around, knowing that the bars were the lie, and


you know where I found my 3 six packs? A little grocery with stale bread and


all about it, even peeling into the paint, this half-sex smile of loneliness-


help me, help me, help me-terrible, yes, and they can't even light the place


up, electricity costs money, and here I was, the first guy to buy three six


packs in 18 years, and my god, she almost came across the top of the cash


register-It was too much. I grabbed my change and 18 tall cans of beer and


ran out into the stupid French Quarter sunlight-




I placed the remainder of the change back in the purse in the


breakfastnook and then left the purse open so Marie could see it. Then I sat


down and opened a beer.


It was good being alone. Yet, I wasn't alone. Each time I had to piss


I'd see that spider and I thought, well, spider, you've got to go, soon. I


just don't like your looks in that dark corner, catching bugs and slies and


sucking the blood out of them. You see, you're bad, Mr. Spider. And I'm o.k.


At least, that's the way I like to see it. You're nothing but a frigging


dark brainless wart of death, that's what you are. Suck shit. You've had it.


I found a broom in the backporch and came back in there and I crashed


him out of his web and brought him his own death. All right, that was all


right, he was out there ahead of me, somewhere, I couldn't help that. But


how could Marie put her big ass down on the rims of that lid and shit and


look at that thing? Did she even see it? Perhaps not.


I went back in the kitchen and had some more beer. Then I turned on the


tv. Paper people. Glass people. I felt as if I were going insane and turned


the thing off. I drank some more beer. Then I boiled 2 eggs and fried two


strips of bacon. I managed to eat. You forgot about food sometimes. The sun


came through the curtains. I drank all day. I threw the empties in the


trash. Time went. Then the door opened. It flew open. It was Marie.


"Jesus Christ!" she screamed, "you know what happened?"


"No, no, I don't."


"Oh, god damn it!"


"Whatssa matta, honey?"


"I burned the strawberries!"


"Oh, yes?"


She ran around the kitchen in little circles, that big ass bobbing. She


was crazy. She was out of it. Poor old fat cunt.


"I had this pot of strawberries going in the kitchen and one of these


tourists came in, rich bitch, first customer of the day, and she likes the


little hats I make, you know-Well, she's kinda cute and all the hats look


good on her and so she's got a problem, and then we get to talking about


Detroit, she knew somebody in Detroit that I knew, you know, and we're


talking and then all of a sudden I SMELL IT!!! THE STRAWBERRIES ARE BURNING!


I ran into the kitchen, but it's too late-.what a mess! The strawberries


have boiled over and they are everywhere and it stinks, it's burned, it's


sad, and nothing can be saved, nothing! What hell!"


"I'm sorry. But did you sell her a hat?"


"I sold her two hats. She couldn't make up her mind."


"I'm sorry about the strawberries. And I killed the spider."


"What spider?"


"I didn't think you'd know."


"Know what? What's this spiders? They're just bugs."


"They tell me a spider isn't a bug. Something to do with the number of


legs- I really don't know or care."


"A spider ain't a bug? What kinda shit is that?"


"Not an insect. So they say. Anyhow, I killed the damn thing."


"Sure. You left it there. I had to have beer."


"You have to have beer all the time?"


"Yes."


"You're going to be a problem. You had anything to eat?"


"2 eggs, 2 slices of bacon."


"You hungry?"


"Yes. But you're tired. Relax. Have a drink."


"Cooking relaxes me. But first I gotta have a hot bath."


"Go ahead."


"O.k.," she reached over and turned on the tv and then went to the


bathroom. I had to listen to tv. A news broadcast. Perfectly ugly bastard. 3


nostrils. Perfectly hateful bastard dressed like a little inane doll,


sweating, and looking at me, saying words I hardly understood or cared

about. I knew that Marie would be looking at tv for hours, so I had to


adjust to it. When Marie came back I was looking directly into the glass,


which made her feel better. I looked as harmless as a man with a


checkerboard and the sports page.


Marie had come out, dolled in another outfit. She might have even


looked cute, but she was so god damned fat. Well, anyhow, I wasn't sleeping


on a park bench.


"You want me to cook, Marie?"


"No, it's all right. I'm not so tired now."
She began preparing the food. When I got up for the next beer, I kissed
her behind the ear.


"You're a good sport, Marie."


"You got enough drink for the rest of the night?" she asked.


"Sure, kid. And there's still that 5thy. Everything's fine. I just want


to sit here and look at the set and listen to you talk. O.k?"


"Sure, Charley."


I sat down. She had something going. It smelled good. She was evidently


a fine cook. The whole walls crawled with this warm smell of cooking. No


wonder she was so fat: good cook, good eater. Marie was making a pot of


stew. Every now and then she'd get up and add something to the pot. An


onion. A piece of cabbage. A few carrots. She knew. And I drank and looked


at that big sloppy old gal and she sat there making these most magic hats,


her hands working into a basket, picking up first the color, then that, this


length of ribbon, then that, and then twisting it so, sewing it so, placing


it against the hat, and that 2 bit straw was just more magic. Marie created


masterpieces that would never be discovered --- walking down the street on top of bitches' heads.


As she worked and tended stew, she talked.


"It's not like it used to be. People don't have any money. Everything's


Traveler's checks and checkbooks and credit cards. People just don't have


money. They don't carry it. Credit's everything. A guy gets a paycheck and


it's already taken. They mortgage their whole lives away to buy one house.


And then they've got to fill that house with shit and have a car. They're


hooked on house and the legislators know this and tax them to death with


property taxes. Nobody has any money. Small businesses just can't last."


We sat down to the stew and it was perfect. After dinner we brought out


the whiskey and she brought me two cigars and we looked at tv and didn't


talk much. I felt as if I had been there for years. She kept working on the


hats, talking now and then, and I'd say, yeh, that's right, or, is that so?


And the hats kept flying off of her hands, masterpieces.


"Marie," I told her, "I'm tired. Got to go to bed."


She told me to take the whiskey with me, so I did. But instead of going


down to my bed, I threw back the cover of Marie's bed and crawled in. After


undressing, of course. It was a fine mattress. It was a fine bed. It was one


of those old-fashioned highpost jobs with a wooden roof, or whatever they


call them. I guess if you fucked until the roof came down, you made it. I'd


never bring that roof down without help from the gods.


Marie kept looking at tv and making hats. Then I heard her turn off the


set, switch out the kitchen light and she came into the bedroom, right past


the bedroom and she didn't see me, she went right n down to the crapper. She


was in there a while and then I watched her switch out of her clothes and


into this big pink nightie. She fucked with her face a bit, gave up, put on


a couple of curlers, then turned around and walked toward the bed and saw me.


"My god, Charley, you're in the wrong bed."


"Uh, uh."
"Listen, honey, I'm not that kind of woman."

"O, cut the horseshit and climb in."
She did. My god, she was nothing but meat. Actually, I was a bit

frightened. What did you do with all that stuff? Well, I was trapped.


Marie's whole side of the bed sank down.


"Listen, Charley-"


I grabbed her head, turned it, and she seemed to be crying, and then my


lips were on hers. We kissed. Damn it, my cock was getting hard. Good god.


What was it?


"Charley," she said, "you don't have to."


I took one of her hands and placed it around my cock.


"O shit," she said, "o shit!"


Then she kissed me, tongued me. She had a small tongue ---at least that


was small ---and it ripped in and out, rather full of saliva and passion. I


pulled away.


"Whatza matta?"


"Wait uh minute."


I reached over and got the fifth and took a good long pull, then I sat


it down again and I reached on under and lifted that huge pink nightie. I


got to feeling and I didn't know what I had but it seemed to be it, very


small though, but in the right place. Yes, it was her cunt. I poked at it


with my pecker. Then she reached down and guided me in. Another miracle.


That thing was tight. It almost ripped the skin off of me. We started


working. I was looking for the long ride but I didn't care. She had me. It


was one of the best fucks of my life. I moaned and hollered, then finished,


rolled off. Unbelievable. When she came back from the bathroom we talked a


while, then she went to sleep. But she snored. SO I had to go down to my own


bed. And I awakened the next morning as she went to work.


"Gotta hurry, Charley," she said.


"Sure, baby."


As soon as she left I went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water.


She'd left her purse there. Ten dollars. I didn't take it. I walked back to


the bathroom and took a good crap, without the spider. Then I took a bath. I


tried to brush my teeth, vomited a bit. I dressed and walked into the


kitchen. I'd gotten hold of a piece of paper and pen:
Marie:


I love you. You are very good to me. But I must leave. And I don't know


exactly why. I'm crazy, I guess. Goodbye.

Charley


I propped the note up against the television set. I didn't feel good. I


felt like crying. It was quiet in there, it was quiet in there the way I


liked it. Even the stove and the refrigerator looked human, I mean good


human --- they seemed to have arms and voices and they said, hang around,


kid, it's good here, it can be very good here. I found what was left of the


5th in the bedroom. I drank that. Then I found a can of beer in the


refrigerator. I drank that. Then I got up and made the long walk down that


narrow place, it seemed like A hundred yards. I got to the door and then I


remembered I had the key. I walked back and put the key with the note. Then


I looked at the ten in the purse again. I left it there. I made the walk


again. When I got to the door, I knew that when I closed it there would be


no going back. I closed it. It was final. Down those steps. I was alone


again and nobody gave a damn. I walked south, then took a right. I walked


along, I walked along and got out of the French Quarter. I crossed Canal


Street. I walked along for some blocks and then I turned this way and then I


crossed another street and turned that way. I didn't know where I was going.


I passed a place to my left and a man was standing in the doorway and he


said,


"Hey, man, you want a job?"


And I looked into the doorway and here were these rows of men lined up


at wooden tables and they had hammers and they were hitting at things in


shells, they looked like clam shells and they broke the shells and did


something with the meat, and it was dark in there; it seemed as if the men


were beating at themselves with hammers and tossing away what was left of


them, and I told the man,


"No, I don't want a job."


I was facing the sun as I walked.

I had 74 cents.

The sun was all right.