woman he had slept with (the first being a Philadelphia prostitute when he got out of prison). He was initially attracted by her looks, particularly her legs which she liked to show off, but he probably would have fallen for Jane whatever she looked like because she was the first woman who had ever paid him any attention and, once he had ‘cured’ her of smashing a glass in his face when the urge took her, he found they had much in common. ‘She had a strange mad kind of sensibility which knew something, which was this: most human beings just aren’t worth a shit, and I felt that, and she felt it,’ he said. Then there was the booze. If anything, Jane hit the bottle harder than he did, so they were drinking partners as well. ‘I thought I really had something,’ he said. ‘I did, I had lots of trouble.’
They lived together in a succession of apartment houses around Alvarado Street. The first place, 521 South Union Drive, was on a hill round the corner from MacArthur Park. The landlady welcomed them as a respectable married couple (they had to pose as such to get a room), gave them a new rug and fussed over their comfort. It was exciting having a writer in the place – Bukowski always made sure to tell them he was a writer – and more than once Jane’s beer belly was mistaken for her having a baby on the way, but it wasn’t long before they smashed the place up in a drunken fight and found themselves evicted.
Another place they stayed was The Aragon apartment building on South West Lake Avenue, a block over from Alvarado Street. Ithad once been quite a grand residence, four storeys high with an ornamental fountain out front to give it class, but had degenerated into a dive. There was no air-conditioning and in the summer, when the windows were open, everyone could hear everything that went on, including the fights in the room Mr and Mrs Bukowski were renting. One day Bukowski found a note under their door:
Notice to Quit Apartment occupied by Mr and Mrs C Bukowski. Said apt to be vacated for reasons: excessive drinking, fighting and foul language, disturbing other tenants.
Most of the fights started because Jane flirted with men whom she thought would buy her drinks, and this made Bukowski jealous. He decided she was little better than a whore, and was not above slapping her around. When the fights got really vicious, dangerous to themselves and others, the police took him to the drunk tank. He was arrested for drunkenness in 1948, 1949 and 1951, and held in the cells overnight each time.
The hangovers were monumental. The worst he ever had was one morning after they’d been drinking cheap wine, many bottles of it, at a room overlooking MacArthur Park. Bukowski was at the window trying to get some air. He felt like a steel band was around his head. Then he saw a body, a man fully dressed even wearing a necktie, fall past him in an apparent suicide attempt.
‘Hey, Jane. Guess what?’ he called out.
‘What?’ She was in the bathroom, throwing up.
‘The strangest thing just happened. A human body just dropped by my window.’
‘Ah, bullshit.’
‘No. It really happened. Come on out here. Come to the window and stick your head out the window and look down.’ She took some persuading, but she came and looked down.
‘Oh God Almighty!’ she exclaimed, and ran back to the bathroom where she puked and puked.
‘I told you so, baby,’ he said. ‘I told you so.’
He worked as shipping clerk at places where he could slip down the back alley to a bar between orders. He worked for awhile at Milliron’s, a department store at the corner of 5th and Broadway, and in various small factories in the garment district, ‘shit jobs’ where he connived to waste as much time as possible before he was fired, jobs which became material for the novel, Factotum , and for poems like ‘Sparks’ which is about working for The Sunbeam Lighting Company:
and after ten hours
of heavy labor
after exchanging
They lived together in a succession of apartment houses around Alvarado Street. The first place, 521 South Union Drive, was on a hill round the corner from MacArthur Park. The landlady welcomed them as a respectable married couple (they had to pose as such to get a room), gave them a new rug and fussed over their comfort. It was exciting having a writer in the place – Bukowski always made sure to tell them he was a writer – and more than once Jane’s beer belly was mistaken for her having a baby on the way, but it wasn’t long before they smashed the place up in a drunken fight and found themselves evicted.
Another place they stayed was The Aragon apartment building on South West Lake Avenue, a block over from Alvarado Street. Ithad once been quite a grand residence, four storeys high with an ornamental fountain out front to give it class, but had degenerated into a dive. There was no air-conditioning and in the summer, when the windows were open, everyone could hear everything that went on, including the fights in the room Mr and Mrs Bukowski were renting. One day Bukowski found a note under their door:
Notice to Quit Apartment occupied by Mr and Mrs C Bukowski. Said apt to be vacated for reasons: excessive drinking, fighting and foul language, disturbing other tenants.
Most of the fights started because Jane flirted with men whom she thought would buy her drinks, and this made Bukowski jealous. He decided she was little better than a whore, and was not above slapping her around. When the fights got really vicious, dangerous to themselves and others, the police took him to the drunk tank. He was arrested for drunkenness in 1948, 1949 and 1951, and held in the cells overnight each time.
The hangovers were monumental. The worst he ever had was one morning after they’d been drinking cheap wine, many bottles of it, at a room overlooking MacArthur Park. Bukowski was at the window trying to get some air. He felt like a steel band was around his head. Then he saw a body, a man fully dressed even wearing a necktie, fall past him in an apparent suicide attempt.
‘Hey, Jane. Guess what?’ he called out.
‘What?’ She was in the bathroom, throwing up.
‘The strangest thing just happened. A human body just dropped by my window.’
‘Ah, bullshit.’
‘No. It really happened. Come on out here. Come to the window and stick your head out the window and look down.’ She took some persuading, but she came and looked down.
‘Oh God Almighty!’ she exclaimed, and ran back to the bathroom where she puked and puked.
‘I told you so, baby,’ he said. ‘I told you so.’
He worked as shipping clerk at places where he could slip down the back alley to a bar between orders. He worked for awhile at Milliron’s, a department store at the corner of 5th and Broadway, and in various small factories in the garment district, ‘shit jobs’ where he connived to waste as much time as possible before he was fired, jobs which became material for the novel, Factotum , and for poems like ‘Sparks’ which is about working for The Sunbeam Lighting Company:
and after ten hours
of heavy labor
after exchanging
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