They all leaned a bit forward.
“Oh,” I said, “I mean, it’s all up to her. I mean, the kid’s only four. I don’t think she wants to marry anybody yet.”
They stared at me a long time again.
“Did you like the hippies?” (The hippies had long ago been exterminated.)
“Not really. But they never hurt me or bothered me. What more can you ask?”
“Are you for the war in Vietnam?”
“I’ve never been for any war. I wasn’t even for the war against Hitler.”
“Atta boy!” said the middle-sized one, putting his gun back.
Again they sat for a long time, just looking at me.
“Well, I’m afraid we gotta take you in, Bukowski,” the big guy said.
“All right, at least I’ll get some food in jail.”
They all laughed at that.
“No, the new jail system is juz jail them. Don’t feed them. Saves a hellulota money for the state.”
“God bless the State,” I said, “and while He’s at it He might as well bless the Saturday Evening Post.”
“Oh no,” said the big one. “The Saturday Evening Post has been burned.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Too left-wing,” said the fat boy.
“Jesus Christ,” I said, “let’s get out of here and get it done with.”
“Before we get you down there and work you over,” said the fat boy, “I just want to let you have one bit of mental unhappiness.”
“Shoot!” I said. “No, I mean, tell me about it.”
They put the bracelets on me. And walked me toward the door. The middle-sized one farted. A sign of happiness.
“Since you are being taken out of circulation, I am free to tell you this.”
He looked at his watch. “We have been careful not to have any leaks, so I can tell you this. A shit like you deserves unhappiness.”
“All right. Let me have it.”
We walked toward the door. Fat boy looked at his watch.
“In exactly 2 hours and 16 minutes Vice President Le-May will push the button that will set a fusillade of Hbombs upon N. Vietnam, China, Russia and other selected spots. What do you think of that?”
“I think it is a tactical mistake,” I said.
Fat boy reached to open the door. As he opened it, a sheet of red and grey and green and purple spread everywhere. There was lightning. And lily slivers. There were teaspoons and half-dogs, ladies stockings, torn cunt, history books, rugs, belts, turtles, teacups, marmalade and spiders flying through the air. I looked around and Fatso was gone and middle-size was gone and the little little shit was gone and the bracelets were broken on my wrists and I was standing in a bathtub and I looked down and I had one ball, a piece of cock, and there were eyes rolling along the ground like ants. Green, brown, blue, yellow, even albino eyes. Fuck. I got out of the tub. Found half a chair. Sat down. I watched my whole left arm shrivel up at once like a piece of burning cellophane.
How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm? Everything gone: Picasso, Shakespeare, Plato, Dante, Rodin, Mozart . . . Jackie Gleason. All the lovely girls. Even the pigs eating any kind of swill, so godly. Even the cops in their tight black pants. Even the cops that I had felt so sorry for, trapped in their nastiness. Life had been good, horrible but good and a few heroes had kept us going. Perhaps wrongly chosen heroes, but what the fuck. The polls had been wrong again—the old Harry Truman shit—Wallace had won, sitting in his mountain top hideaway. Spitting out redneck teeth of hatred—2 hours and 16 minutes too late!
Hiroshima was re-named America.
I was in the King’s Crow Bar and this guy sitting next to me asked, “You got any place to stay tonight?”
And I said, “Hell, no, I don’t have any place to stay.”
“O.K., come with me. My name’s Teddy Ralstead.”
So I went with him. That first night I sat in their front room while Teddy and his wife wrestled on the floor. Her dress kept slipping up around her ass and she smiled at me and pulled it down. They wrestled and wrestled and I drank beer.
Teddy’s wife’s name was Helen. And Teddy wasn’t always around. Helen acted like I had known her for years instead of one night.
“You’ve never tried to fuck me, have you, Bukowski?”
“Teddy’s my friend, Helen.”
“Shit! This is your friend too,” she said pulling her dress up. She didn’t have any panties on.
“Where’s Teddy?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about Teddy. He wants you to have me.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
We walked into the bedroom. There was Teddy sitting on a chair, smoking a cigarette. Helen pulled her dress off and climbed onto the bed.
“Go ahead,” said Teddy, “do it.”
“But Teddy, it’s your wife.”
“I know it’s my wife.”
“I mean, look Teddy—”
“I’ll give you ten bucks to do it,” he said. “Is it a deal, Bukowski?”
“Ten bucks?”
“That’s right.”
I took off my clothes and got on.
“Give her a long ride,” said Teddy. “No quickies.”
“I’ll try, but she’s got me going.”
“Just think of a stack of horseshit,” said Teddy.
“Yeah, think of a stack of horseshit,” said his wife.
“How tall?” I asked.
“Real tall. Wide. Covered with flies,” said Teddy.
“Thousands of flies,” said Helen, “all eating shit.”
“Flies are sure strange,” I said.
“Your ass looks funny,” Teddy said to me.
“Yours
