The Pleasures of the Damned. Charles Bukowski

       where was Jane?

      one of the first actors to play Tarzan was living at the

       Motion Picture Home.

       he’d been there for years waiting to die.

       he spent much of his time

       running in and out of the wards

       into the cafeteria and out into the yard where he’d yell,

       “ME TARZAN!”

       he never spoke to anyone or said anything else, it was always just

       “ME TARZAN!”

       everybody liked him: the old actors, the retired directors,

       the ancient script writers, the aged cameramen, the prop men, stunt men, the old

       actresses, all of whom were also there

       waiting to die; they enjoyed his verve,

       his antics, he was harmless and he took them back to the time when they

       were still in the business.

      then the doctors in authority decided that Tarzan was possibly dangerous

       and one day he was shipped off to a mental institution.

       he vanished as suddenly as if he’d been eaten by a

       lion.

       and the other patients were outraged, they instituted legal proceedings

       to have him returned at once but

       it took some months.

      when Tarzan returned he was changed.

       he would not leave his room.

       he just sat by the window as if he had

       forgotten

       his old role

       and the other patients missed

       his antics, his verve, and

       they too felt somehow defeated and

       diminished.

       they complained about the change in Tarzan

       doped and drugged in his room

       and they knew he would soon die like that

       and then he did

       and then he was back in that other jungle

       (to where we will all someday retire)

       unleashing the joyful primal call they could no longer

       hear.

      there were some small notices in the

       newspapers

       and the paint continued to chip from the hospital

       walls,

       many plants died, there was an unfortunate

       suicide,

       a growing lack of trust and

       hope, and

       a pervasive sadness:

       it wasn’t so much Tarzan’s death the others mourned,

       it was the cold, willful attitude of the

       young and powerful doctors

       despite the wishes of the

       helpless old.

      and finally they knew the truth

       while sitting in their rooms

       that it wasn’t only the attitude of the doctors

       they had to fear,

       and that as silly as all those Tarzan films had been,

       and as much as they would miss their own lost

       Tarzan,

       that all that was much kinder than the final vigil

       they would now have to sit and patiently endure

       alone.