Read Online Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski - Free Book Online

nerves,” I told him. “You know?”
    â€œSure, Bukowski.”
    I drank it straight down.
    â€œHow about a refill?”
    â€œSure.”
    I took the refill and walked to the front room, sat in my corner. Meanwhile there was a new excitement: The Zen master had ARRIVED!
    The Zen master had on this very fancy outfit and kept his eyes very narrow. Or maybe that’s the way they were.
    The Zen master needed tables. Roy ran around looking for tables.
    Meanwhile, the Zen master was very calm, very gracious. I downed my drink, went in for a refill. Came back.
    A golden-haired kid ran in. About eleven years old.
    â€œBukowski, I’ve read some of your stories. I think that you are the greatest writer I have ever read!”
    Long blond curls. Glasses. Slim body.
    â€œOkay, baby. You get old enough. We’ll get married. Live off of your money. I’m getting tired. You can just parade me around in a kind of glass cage with little airholes in it. I’ll let the young boys have you. I’ll even watch.”
    â€œBukowski! Just because I have long hair, you think I’m a girl! My name is Paul! We were introduced! Don’t you remember? ”
    Paul’s father, Harvey, was looking at me. I saw his eyes. Then I knew that he had decided that I was not such a good writer after all. Maybe even a bad writer. Well, no man can hide forever.
    But the little boy was all right: “That’s okay, Bukowski! You are still the greatest writer I have ever read! Daddy has let me read some of your stories....”
    Then all the lights went out. That’s what the kid deserved for his big mouth ...
    But there were candles everywhere. Everybody was finding candles, walking around finding candles and lighting them.
    â€œShit, it’s just a fuse. Replace the fuse,” I said.
    Somebody said it wasn’t the fuse, it was something else, so I gave up and while all the candle-lighting went on I walked into the kitchen for more scotch. Shit, there was Harvey standing there.
    â€œYa got a beautiful son, Harvey. Your boy, Peter ...”
    â€œPaul.”
    â€œSorry. The Biblical.”
    â€œI understand.”
    (The rich understand; they just don’t do anything about it.)
    Harvey uncorked a new fifth. We talked about Kafka. Dos. Turgenev, Gogol. All that dull shit. Then there were candles everywhere. The Zen master wanted to get on with it. Roy had given me the two rings. I felt. They were still there. Everybody was waiting on us. I was waiting for Harvey to drop to the floor from drinking all that scotch. It wasn’t any good. He had matched me one drink for two and was still standing. That isn’t done too often. We had knocked off half a fifth in the ten minutes of candle-lighting. We went out to the crowd. I dumped the rings on Roy. Roy had communicated, days earlier, to the Zen master that I was a drunk – unreliable – either faint-hearted or vicious – therefore, during the ceremony, don’t ask Bukowski for the rings because Bukowski might not be there. Or he might lose the rings, or vomit, or lose Bukowski.
    So here it was, finally. The Zen master began playing with his little black book. It didn’t look too thick. Around 150 pages, I’d say.
    â€œI ask,” said the Zen, “no drinking or smoking during the ceremony.”
    I drained my drink. I stood to Roy’s right. Drinks were being drained all over the place.
    Then the Zen master gave a little chickenshit smile.
    I knew the Christian wedding ceremonies by the sad rote of experience. And the Zen ceremony actually resembled the Christian, with a small amount of horseshit thrown in. Somewhere along the way, three small sticks were lit. Zen had a whole box of the things – two or three hundred. After the lighting, one stick was placed in the center of a jar of sand. That was the Zen stick. Then Roy was asked to place his burning stick upon one side of the Zen stick, Hollis asked to