Read Online Absence of the Hero by Charles Bukowski, Edited with an introduction by David Calonne - Free Book Online Page B

remembered him when we were both scratching to get our poetry into the little magazines; now I was still scratching. I was still the better poet. His plays had put him over. The fat dull whitey wives no longer getting their sex got it through Jones’ black violence in his plays. “Oh Lord, honey, that man frightens me, but I’d like to see one of his plays. Oooooh, let’s go see one of his plays!!!” The old man, after a hard day at the ballpoint pen office, would take her to the play. Anything, rather than try to get his dick hard.
    â€œI don’t understand,” I said. “Hitler told me that the whites were the superior race and now Jones turns around and tells me that the blacks are the superior race.”
    â€œWell, who do you think is the superior race?”
    â€œIt depends upon who you are; if you are white, then the white race is superior; if you are black, then the black; if you are yellow, then the yellow; if you are mixed, then the mongrel. . . .”
    She went on some more, sentence running into sentence. She must have spoken ten minutes without pause. A little of it was good stuff. Most of it was just religious sacrifice at the altar. Hot white liberal liberal female air. Even Jones wouldn’t want to hear it.
    â€œHow many blacks have you known?” I asked.
    This is always a good stopper in a religious argument. Being a common laborer all my life at poor and underpaid jobs, I had worked with more black men, known more black men, drank with more black men, fought with more black men than any theoretical liberal with books jammed between the ears. Coming up through the back streets of New Orleans in a light rain with my paper suitcase, a high yellow sitting on her porch showing leg had named me. She laughed and shouted, “ POOR WHITE TRASH !” I put down my paper suitcase and looked up her legs. “Come on!” she said. “Come on, poor white trash, and get yourself a little!” I saw a curtain move just a little and behind it this black male face, eyes beautiful with murder for my 2 dollars and 20 cents. Then I laughed, feeling good in the early sun, picked up my suitcase full of poems, and moved on down the street.
    â€œJones got out on 25,000 dollars bail,” I threw at her. Money only represents evil to the white liberal ladies—until you stop giving it to them.
    â€œWell, you got out of jail. In ten minutes, you had bail!”
    â€œIt took 6 or 7 hours. The bail was between 20 and 30 dollars. I had it in my dresser but it took me a long time to find somebody who would trust me for it. Jones got up $2,500 in cash, if you want comparisons, plus 2 houses, friends of his parents. I don’t know anybody who owns a house. I don’t even have parents. I’m still poor white trash.”
    â€œJones’ house doesn’t belong to him. It belongs to the Negro community.”
    â€œOh, shit,” I said. So there it was, haggling over LeRoi Jones over the french fries. To find out who owns a man’s house, find out who is shitting in the crapper and who is fucking in the bed. You can bet he owns part of it. Also, if you have to ring the bell to get in, you don’t own any of it.
    I decided to let the conversation go but she had hold of it.
    â€œSuppose you kept walking down the street and getting punched in the nose and told you were getting punched in the nose because of the color of your skin, how would you feel? You can’t blame them for wanting Black Power. Black Power isn’t anything because they don’t have any power. . . .”
    She went on and on and on. I didn’t have any particular argument with her. She only presumed that I did. But I knew that if the blacks ever got total power, they would kill her long before they got around to me. So I listened and listened and then kissed the little girl goodbye and drove on down to work.
    Down there, 9 out of 10 of them are black but