Read Online Hot Water Music by Charles Bukowski - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Bukowski
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trigger once, then put the gun in a brown paper bag, jumped back over the bar, walked out the entrance and he was on the boulevard. The parking meter read “expired” in front of his car, but there was no ticket. He got in and drove off.
HAVE YOU READ PIRANDELLO?
My girlfriend had suggested that I move out of her house, a very large house, nice and comfortable, with a backyard a block long, leaking pipes, and frogs and crickets and cats. Anyway, I was out, as one gets out of such situations—with honor, courage, and expectation. I placed an ad in one of the underground papers:
Writer: needs place where the sound of a typewriter is more welcome than the laugh track on “I Love Lucy.” $100 a month o.k. Privacy a must.
I had a month to move while my girlfriend was in Colorado for her yearly family reunion. I lay around in bed and waited for the phone to ring. Finally it rang. It was a guy who wanted me to babysit his three children whenever the “creative urge” overcame either him or his wife. Free room and board, and I could write whenever the creative urge was not on them. I told him I would think about it. The phone rang again two hours later. “Well?” he asked. “No,” I said. “Well,” he said, “do you know a pregnant woman in trouble?” I told him I would try to find him one and hung up.
The next day the phone rang again. “I read your ad,” she said. “I teach yoga.” “Oh?” “Yes, I teach exercise and meditation.” “Oh?” “You’re a writer?” “Yes.” “What do you write about?” “Oh, god, I don’t know. Bad as it sounds: Life…I guess.” “That doesn’t sound bad. Does it include sex?” “Doesn’t life?” “Sometimes. Sometimes not.” “I see.” “What’s your name?” “Henry Chinaski.” “Have you ever been published?” “Yes.” “Well, I have a master bedroom you can have for $100. With a private entrance.” “Sounds good.” “Have you readPirandello?” “Yes.” “Have you read Swinburne?” “Everybody has.” “Have you read Herman Hesse?” “Yes, but I’m not homosexual.” “Do you hate homosexuals?” “No, but I don’t love them.” “What about blacks?” “What about blacks?” “What do you think of them?” “They’re fine.” “Are you prejudiced?” “Everybody is.” “What do you think God is?” “White hair, a stringy beard and no pecker.” “What do you think about love?” “I don’t think about it.” “You’re a smart-ass. Here, I’ll give you my address. Come out and see me.”
I took down the address and lay around a couple more days watching the soaps in the morning and the spy thrillers at night, plus the boxing matches. The phone rang again. It was the lady.
“You didn’t come.” “I’ve been engrossed.” “Are you in love?” “Yes, I’m writing my new novel.” “Lots of sex?” “Some of the time.” “Are you a good lover?” “Most men like to think they are. I’m probably good but not great.” “Do you eat pussy?” “Yes.” “Good.” “Your room still available?” “Yes, the master bedroom. Do you really go down on a woman?” “Hell yes. But everybody does now. This is 1982 and I am 62 years old. You can get a man 30 years younger and he can do the same thing. Probably better.” “You’d be surprised.”
I walked over to the refrigerator and got a beer and a smoke. When I picked up the receiver she was still there. “What’s your name?” I asked. She told me some fancy name which I promptly forgot.
“I’ve been reading your stuff,” she said. “You’re really a powerful writer. You have a lot of shit in you but you’ve got a way of working on people’s emotions.”
“You’re right. I’m not great but I’m different.”
“How do you go down on a woman?”
“Now wait…”
“No, tell me.”
“Well, it’s an art.”
“Yes, it is.”
“How do you begin?” “With a brush stroke, lightly.” “Of course, of course.
HAVE YOU READ PIRANDELLO?
My girlfriend had suggested that I move out of her house, a very large house, nice and comfortable, with a backyard a block long, leaking pipes, and frogs and crickets and cats. Anyway, I was out, as one gets out of such situations—with honor, courage, and expectation. I placed an ad in one of the underground papers:
Writer: needs place where the sound of a typewriter is more welcome than the laugh track on “I Love Lucy.” $100 a month o.k. Privacy a must.
I had a month to move while my girlfriend was in Colorado for her yearly family reunion. I lay around in bed and waited for the phone to ring. Finally it rang. It was a guy who wanted me to babysit his three children whenever the “creative urge” overcame either him or his wife. Free room and board, and I could write whenever the creative urge was not on them. I told him I would think about it. The phone rang again two hours later. “Well?” he asked. “No,” I said. “Well,” he said, “do you know a pregnant woman in trouble?” I told him I would try to find him one and hung up.
The next day the phone rang again. “I read your ad,” she said. “I teach yoga.” “Oh?” “Yes, I teach exercise and meditation.” “Oh?” “You’re a writer?” “Yes.” “What do you write about?” “Oh, god, I don’t know. Bad as it sounds: Life…I guess.” “That doesn’t sound bad. Does it include sex?” “Doesn’t life?” “Sometimes. Sometimes not.” “I see.” “What’s your name?” “Henry Chinaski.” “Have you ever been published?” “Yes.” “Well, I have a master bedroom you can have for $100. With a private entrance.” “Sounds good.” “Have you readPirandello?” “Yes.” “Have you read Swinburne?” “Everybody has.” “Have you read Herman Hesse?” “Yes, but I’m not homosexual.” “Do you hate homosexuals?” “No, but I don’t love them.” “What about blacks?” “What about blacks?” “What do you think of them?” “They’re fine.” “Are you prejudiced?” “Everybody is.” “What do you think God is?” “White hair, a stringy beard and no pecker.” “What do you think about love?” “I don’t think about it.” “You’re a smart-ass. Here, I’ll give you my address. Come out and see me.”
I took down the address and lay around a couple more days watching the soaps in the morning and the spy thrillers at night, plus the boxing matches. The phone rang again. It was the lady.
“You didn’t come.” “I’ve been engrossed.” “Are you in love?” “Yes, I’m writing my new novel.” “Lots of sex?” “Some of the time.” “Are you a good lover?” “Most men like to think they are. I’m probably good but not great.” “Do you eat pussy?” “Yes.” “Good.” “Your room still available?” “Yes, the master bedroom. Do you really go down on a woman?” “Hell yes. But everybody does now. This is 1982 and I am 62 years old. You can get a man 30 years younger and he can do the same thing. Probably better.” “You’d be surprised.”
I walked over to the refrigerator and got a beer and a smoke. When I picked up the receiver she was still there. “What’s your name?” I asked. She told me some fancy name which I promptly forgot.
“I’ve been reading your stuff,” she said. “You’re really a powerful writer. You have a lot of shit in you but you’ve got a way of working on people’s emotions.”
“You’re right. I’m not great but I’m different.”
“How do you go down on a woman?”
“Now wait…”
“No, tell me.”
“Well, it’s an art.”
“Yes, it is.”
“How do you begin?” “With a brush stroke, lightly.” “Of course, of course.
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