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

Masta!”
    Zen turned. “Yes, old man?”
    Old man?
    We both stopped and looked at each other on that winding stairway there in the moonlit tropical garden. It seemed like a time for a closer relationship.
    Then I told him: “I either want both your motherfucking ears or your motherfucking outfit – that neon-lighted bathrobe you’re wearing!”
    â€œOld man, you are crazy!”
    â€œI thought Zen had more moxie than to make unmitigated and offhand statements. You disappoint me, Masta!”
    Zen placed his palms together and looked upward.
    I told him, “I either want your motherfucking outfit or your motherfucking ears!”
    He kept his palms together, while looking upward.
    I plunged down the steps, missing a few but still flying forward, which kept me from cracking my head open, and as I fell downward toward him, I tried to swing, but I was all momentum, like something cut loose without direction. Zen caught me and straightened me.
    â€œMy son, my son ...”
    We were in close. I swung. Caught a good part of him. I heard him hiss. He stepped one step back. I swung again. Missed. Went way wide left. Fell into some imported plants from hell. I got up. Moved toward him again. And in the moonlight, I saw the front of my own pants – splattered with blood, candle-drippings and puke.
    â€œYou’ve met your master, bastard!” I notified him as I moved toward him. He waited. The years of working as a factotum had not left muscles entirely lax. I gave him one deeply into the gut, all 230 pounds of my body behind it.
    Zen let out a short gasp, once again supplicated the sky, said something in the Oriental, gave me a short karate chop, kindly, and left me wrapped within a series of senseless Mexican cacti and what appeared to be, from my eye, man-eating plants from the inner Brazilian jungles. I relaxed in the moonlight until this purple flower seemed to gather toward my nose and began to delicately pinch out my breathing.
    Shit, it took at least 150 years to break into the Harvard Classics. There wasn’t any choice: I broke loose from the thing and started crawling up the stairway again. Near the top, I mounted to my feet, opened the door and entered. Nobody noticed me. They were still talking shit. I flopped into my corner. The karate shot had opened a cut over my left eyebrow. I found my handkerchief.
    â€œShit! I need a drink!” I hollered.
    Harvey came up with one. All scotch. I drained it. Why was it that the buzz of human beings talking could be so senseless? I noticed the woman who had been introduced to me as the bride’s mother was now showing plenty of leg, and it didn’t look bad, all that long nylon with the expensive stiletto heels, plus the little jewel tips down near the toes. It could give an idiot the hots, and I was only half-idiot.
    I got up, walked over to the bride’s mother, ripped her skirt back to her thighs, kissed her quickly upon her pretty knees and began to kiss my way upward.
    The candlelight helped. Everything.
    â€œHey!” she awakened suddenly, “whatcha think you’re doing ?”
    â€œI’m going to fuck the shit out of you, I am going to fuck you until the shit falls outa your ass! Whatcha thinka that?”
    She pushed and I fell backwards upon the rug. Then I was flat upon my back, thrashing, trying to get up.
    â€œDamned Amazon!” I screamed at her.
    Finally, three or four minutes later I managed to get to my feet. Somebody laughed. Then, finding my feet flat upon the floor again, I made for the kitchen. Poured a drink, drained it. Then poured a refill and walked out.
    There they were: all the goddamned relatives.
    â€œRoy or Hollis?” I asked. “Why don’t you open your wedding gift?”
    â€œSure,” said Roy, “why not?”
    The gift was wrapped in 45 yards of tinfoil. Roy just kept unrolling the foil. Finally, he got it all undone.
    â€œHappy marriage!” I