Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski Page B

This one wasn’t too bad: a quarter of a mile. We got out. Tropical gardens. Four or five dogs. Big black woolly stupid slobbering-at-the-mouth beasts. We never reached the door – there he was, the rich one, standing on the veranda, looking down, drink in hand. And Roy yelled, “Oh, Harvey, you bastard, so good to see you!”
    Harvey smiled the little smile: “Good to see you too, Roy.”
    One of the big black woollies was gobbling at my left leg. “Call your dog off, Harvey, bastard, good to see you!” I screamed.
    â€œAristotle, now STOP that!”
    Aristotle left off, just in time.
    And.
    We went up and down the steps with the salami, the Hungarian pickled catfish, the shrimp. Lobstertails. Bagels. Minced dove assholes.
    Then we had it all in there. I sat down and grabbed a beer. I was the only one with a necktie. I was also the only one who had bought a wedding gift. I hid it between the wall and the Aristotle-chewed leg.
    â€œCharles Bukowski ...”
    I stood up.
    â€œOh, Charles Bukowski!”
    â€œUh huh.”
    Then:
    â€œThis is Marty.”
    â€œHello, Marty.”
    â€œAnd this is Elsie.”
    â€œHello, Elsie.”
    â€œDo you really, she asked, “break up furniture and windows, slash your hands, all that, when you’re drunk?”
    â€œUh huh.”
    â€œYou’re a little old for that.”
    â€œNow listen, Elsie, don’t give me any shit ...”
    â€œAnd this is Tina.”
    â€œHello, Tina.”
    I sat down.
    Names! I had been married to my first wife for two-and-one-half years. One night some people came in. I had told my wife: “This is Louie the half-ass and this is Marie, Queen of the Quick Suck, and this is Nick, the half-hobble.” Then I had turned to them and said, “This is my wife ... this is my wife ... this is ...” I finally had to look at her and ask: “WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR NAME ANYHOW?”
    â€œBarbara.”
    â€œThis is Barbara,” I had told them ...
    The Zen master hadn’t arrived. I sat and sucked at my beer.
    Then here came more people. On and on up the steps. All Hollis’ family. Roy didn’t seem to have a family. Poor Roy. Never worked a day in his life. I got another beer.
    They kept coming up the steps: ex-cons, sharpies, cripples, dealers in various subterfuges. Family and friends. Dozens of them. No wedding presents. No neckties.
    I pushed further back into my corner.
    One guy was pretty badly fucked-up. It took him 25 minutes to get up the stairway. He had especially-made crutches, very powerful looking things with round bands for the arms. Special grips here and there. Aluminum and rubber. No wood for that baby. I figured it: watered-down stuff or a bad payoff. He had taken the slugs in the old barber chair with the hot and wet shaving towel over his face. Only they’d missed a few vital spots.
    There were others. Somebody taught class at UCLA. Somebody else ran in shit through Chinese fishermen’s boats via San Pedro Harbor.
    I was introduced to the greatest killers and dealers of the century.
    Me, I was between jobs.
    Then Harvey walked up.
    â€œBukowski, care for a bit of scotch and water?”
    â€œSure, Harvey, sure.”
    We walked toward the kitchen.
    â€œWhat’s the necktie for?”
    â€œThe top of the zipper on my pants is broken. And my shorts are too tight. End of necktie covers stinkhairs just above my cock.”
    â€œI think that you are the modern living master of the short story. Nobody touches you.”
    â€œSure, Harvey. Where’s the scotch?”
    Harvey showed me the bottle of scotch.
    â€œI always drink this kind since you always mention it in your short stories.”
    â€œBut I’ve switched brands now, Harv. I found some better stuff.”
    â€œWhat’s the name of it?”
    â€œDamned if I can remember.”
    I found a tall water glass, poured in half scotch, half water.
    â€œFor the