Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski Page A

thermos. People were laughing. I didn’t care at what. I hit the thermos some more, began to relax. No intermission, this one. I looked up into a side-view tv, saw that I had been reading for 30 minutes with one long hair hanging straight down the center of my forehead and folded over my nose. That amused me anyhow; then I brushed it aside and got to work. I seemed to have gotten away with it. The applause was good though not as good as the other place. Who cared? Just get me out alive. Some had my books, came down for signatures.
    Uh huh, a huh, I thought, this is the way this bullshit works.
    Not much more. I signed a paper for my hundred bucks, was introduced to the head of the Literature dept. All sex, she was. I thought, I’ll rape her. She said she might come over to this cabin in the hills later – Belford’s place – but, of course, after hearing my poems she never did. It was over. I was returning to my musty court and madness but my kind of madness. Belford and a friend drove me to the airport and we sat in the bar. I bought the drinks.
    â€œThat’s funny,” I said, “I must be going crazy. I keep hearing my name.”
    I was right. When we reached the ramp my plane was rolling off, just rising into the air. I had to go back and enter a special room where I was interviewed. I felt like a schoolboy.
    â€œAll right,” he said, “we’ll put you on our next flight. But be sure to make this one.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” I said. He said something into a telephone and I walked back to the bar and ordered some more drinks.
    â€œIt’s o.k.,” I said, “I’m on the next flight.”
    Then it occurred to me that I could miss that next flight forever. And going back and seeing that same man. Each time a little worse: he more angry; I more apologetic. It could happen. Belford and his friend would disappear. Others would arrive. A little fund would be taken up for me ...
    â€œMommy, what ever happened to daddy?”
    â€œHe died at a bar table in Seattle airport while trying to get on a flight for Los Angeles.”
    You may not believe it, but I just did make that 2nd flight. I no sooner sat down and the plane was moving. I couldn’t understand it. Why was it so difficult? Anyway, I was on board. I uncapped the bottle. The stewardess caught me. Against the rules. “You know, you can be put off, sir.” The captain had just announced that we were at 50,000 feet.
    â€œMommy, what ever happened to daddy?”
    â€œHe was a poet.”
    â€œWhat’s a poet, mommy?”
    â€œHe said he didn’t know. Now come on, wash your hands, we’re having dinner.”
    â€œHe didn’t know?”
    â€œThat’s right, he didn’t know. Now come on, I said wash your hands ...”

THE GREAT ZEN WEDDING
    I was in the rear, stuck in with the Rumanian bread, liverwurst, beer, soft drinks; wearing a green necktie, first necktie since the death of my father a decade ago. Now I was to be best man at a Zen wedding, Hollis driving 85 m.p.h., Roy’s four-foot beard flowing into my face. It was my ’62 Comet, only I couldn’t drive – no insurance, two drunk-driving raps, and already getting drunk. Hollis and Roy had lived unmarried for three years, Hollis supporting Roy. I sat in the back and sucked at my beer. Roy was explaining Hollis’ family to me one by one. Roy was better with the intellectual shit. Or the tongue. The walls of their place were covered with these many photos of guys bending into the muff and chewing.
    Also a snap of Roy reaching climax while jacking off. Roy had done it alone. I mean, tripped the camera. Himself. String. Wire. Some arrangement. Roy claimed he had to jackoff six times in order to get the perfect snap. A whole day’s work: there it was: this milky glob: a work of art. Hollis turned off the freeway. It wasn’t too far. Some of the rich have driveways a mile long.