The Captain Is Out to Lunch by Charles Bukowski

there was the fire truck. There was a fellow standing there. "I'm Charley's neighbor. Is he alive?“
    "Yes,“ he said.
    It was evident that they were waiting for the ambulance. The fire truck had gotten there first. Linda and I waited. The ambulance came. It was odd. Two little guys got out, they seemed quite small. They stood side by side. Three fire engine guys surrounded them. One of them started talking to the little guys. They stood there and nodded. Then that was over. They walked around and got the stretcher. They carried it up the long stairway to the house.
    They were in there a very long time. Then out they came. Old Charley was strapped onto the stretcher. As they got ready to load him into the amulance we stepped forward. "Hold on, Charley,“ I said. "We'll be waiting for you to come back,“ Linda said.
    "Who are you?“ Charley asked.
    "We're your neighbors,“ Linda answered. Then he was loaded in and gone. A red car followed with 2 relatives in it.
    My neighbor walked over from across the street. We shook hands. We'd been a couple of drunks together. We told him about Charley. And we were all miffed that the relatives left alone so much. But there wasn't much we could do.
    "You oughta see my waterfall,“ said my neighbor.
    "All right,“ I said, "let's see it.“
    We walked over there, through his wife, past his kind and out the back door and into the backyard past his pool and sure enough there in the back was a HUGE waterfall. It went all the way up a cliff in the back and some of the water seemed to be coming out of a tree trunk. It was massive. And built of huge and beautiful stones of different color. The water roared down flooded by lights. It was had to believe. There was a worker back there still working on the waterfall. There was more to be done on it.
    I shook hands with the worker.
    "He's read all your books,“ my neighbor said.
    "No shit,“ I said.
    The worker smiled at me.
    The we walked back into the house. My neighbor asked me, "How about a glass of wine?“
    I told him, "No, thanks.“ Then explained the sore throat and the pain at the top of my head.
    Linda and I walked back across the street and back to our place.
    And, basically, that was about the day and the night.

11/22/91 12:26 AM

    Well, my 71st year has been a hell of a productive year. I have probably written more words this year than in any year of my life. And though a writer is a poor judge of his own work, I still tend to believe that the writing is about as good as ever – I mean, as good as I have done in my peak times. This computer that I started using on Jan. 18 has had much to do with it. It's simply easier to get the word down, it transfers more quickly from the brain (or wherever this comes from) to the fingers and from the fingers to the screen where it is immediately visible – crisp and clear. It's not a matter of speed per se, it's a matter of flow, a river of words and if the words are good then let them run with ease. No more carbons, no more retyping. I used to neeed one night to do the work and then the next night to correct the errors and sloppines of the night before. Misspellings, screw-ups in tenses, etc. can now all be corrected on the orginal copy without a complete retype or write-ins or cross-outs. Nobody likes to read haphazard copy, not even the writer. I know all this must sound prissy and over-careful but it isn't, all it does is allow whatever force or luck you might have engendered to come out clearly. It's all for the best, really, and if this is how you lose your soul, I am all for it.
    There have been some bad moments. I remember one night after typing a good 4 hours or so, I felt I had had some astonishing luck when – I hit something or other – there was a flash of blue light and the many pages of writing vanished. I tried everything to get them back. They were simply gone. Yes, I had it set on "Save-all,“ it still didn't