Absence of the Hero (13 page)

I had forgotten the suitcase.

“Let's go get the suitcase,” I told Jon.

“All right.”

We walked back through the sun, which was still plenty warm. When we got to the train station it was closed. It was 5:45
P.M.

“What the hell kind of a town is this?” I asked Jon.

We walked around in back. There was an old Chicano walking around there behind a green wooden gate. Suitcases were everywhere.

“Sir,” said Jon, “this man wants to get his suitcase.”

The old guy walked up.

“Got your ticket?”

I handed him my baggage ticket with a dollar tucked underneath.

“What's this?” the old Chicano asked.

“For your trouble,” I said.

He handed the dollar back.

“We don't take tips.”

Then he came back with the suitcase and unlocked the gate and passed it through.

“Thank you,” I said.

“It's all right,” he said.

We walked back to the street. The suitcase was very heavy because it was filled mostly with my books, and, like a fool, I had brought the hardcover editions. I switched the suitcase from one hand to the other. It was a 7-block walk but I didn't like waiting on buses and if I got a taxi it was too much money for the short haul.

Well, after about 4 blocks, I was wishing I had a drink. Jon said there was a bar a block further down.

When we walked in the entrance way, a Chicano hit a little bell twice. Everybody in the bar stopped talking and looked around. We walked up to the end of the bar, the end away from the door, and I told Jon to order up, it was on me. I left a 5 for the drinks and walked back to the crapper.

I was pissing in the toilet when 2 Mexican-Americans came in and started pissing in the urinal. They were young guys, a little drunk, no, quite drunk. Yes. But I was tired. I looked ahead and pissed.

“
HALLOE
!”

(Pause.)

“
I SAID
,
‘
HALLOE
!
'
WHATSTHEMATTA WITH YOU, YOU DON
'
T ANSWER
!”

I turned.

“Shit,
sorry man, I thought you were talking to your friend. Hello, there.”

“
BULLSHIT
!”

“Peace, brothers,” I said.

“
SHIT
!” screamed the little one in the t-shirt, “
SHIT
!”

They walked out, slamming the door.

I walked out, sat next to Jon, picked up my drink.

“Let's get out of here,” I said.

“What's the matter?”

“I'm paying for the sins of my glorious forefathers in American history.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing yet. Let's keep it that way.”

“A white guy was knifed on the steps last Friday night. But that was late at night. It's only evening now.”

“Let's make it,” I said. “It's getting dark.”

When we got back to the place, I started on the beer. They were used to my ways and knew that before I went to sleep, I would drink 10 beers, 12 beers, 14 beers. Half of their refrigerator was stacked with beer bottles. They even had cigars for me. I took off my shoes, lit up and relaxed for the first time in hours.

Jon looked at me. “You know, Buk, Gene Rumpkin—”

“That guy. Yeah. He put out a bad mag.
Just Lines
. A real atrocity. I wonder what ever happened to him?”

“He's in the English department at
UNM
.”

“Well, that figures.”

“What I mean is, I took some of his poems,
kind of trying to be nice because he's in the
same town, and the poems didn't look
too
bad at
first, but now I know they're very bad and it bothers me.”

“There, you see—never be kind. Always be a bastard and you'll stay out of such things. Kindness is a bad motive, especially when considering marriage or literature.”

I was getting expansive. The beer was opening me up and I was beginning to feel like a depraved G.B. Shaw.

I played with the dogs. There were two of them—full of hair and friskiness. But they were all right: they didn't blame me for being white.

The phone rang. Jon got it. He handed it to me. It was Prof. Steve Rodefer, the guy who had arranged the reading.

“Bukowski?”

“Yeah?”

“The university has decided not to sponsor your reading.”

“O.K., Steve, I know how it is. I'll lay around another day and take the train back in.”

“No,
wait! The reading's still on, same time, same place, but it's being student-sponsored.”

“O.K., I'll be there.”

“Give me Jon.”

I handed the phone to Jon and they talked quite a while.

Jon hung up.

“Steve's a hell of a guy but it's probably going to cost him his job. He's responsible for you and Kandel being here. This town's red hot. The lid's off.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Lou Webb was already asleep. She was always up early and ran around doing things—hocking brooches and trinkets, calming the landlord, trying to fix meals out of nothing. By 10
P.M.
she was done. I missed her company: she was one of the last truly honest and passionate people I knew. . . .

The phone rang again. Jon picked it up.

“Yeah? Yeah? Is that so? You really think so, eh? Well, well, well. Is that right? Oh, yeah? Well what the
FUCK
was wrong with it? So
you
say. What? All right. . . .”

He turned to me. “It's Rumpkin. He wants to talk with you.”

I took the phone. “Hello, Gene.”

“Bukowski, you remember me?”

“Yes, you helped edit that horrible magazine
Just Lines
.”

“We published you.”

“You weren't wrong all the time, just most of the time.”

“I didn't think we were that bad.”

“Of course you didn't.”

“Did you see that poster Jon put out on you? Most of the people in the department felt it distorted your image. Did you see the poster?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think of it?”

“I didn't pay it much attention.”

“Put Jon back on.”

I handed the phone back to Jon. They talked quite a while. I could hear Rumpkin's voice. Gene boy was quite upset. It finally ended. Jon put the phone down.

“He demands his poems back. He says he doesn't want to be in
Outsider
6.”

“Fine. That solves your problem.”

“He says he's driving right over to get his poems. I wanted to tell him I'd mail them back but he hung up first.”

“Jesus,” I said, “it's a hell of a town. The bayonetings, Kandel, all that shit.”

“They claim I'm trying to keep you from reading here.
Rumpkin
said, ‘Now that wasn't very smart, mailing those posters to the mayor and the governor.'”

“Why don't they let me worry about that?”

Jon didn't answer. We were sitting there waiting for Mr.
Rumpkin
. Chicano teenagers walked by and drummed on the windows. The dogs ran up and barked.

“I think the kids rather like us,” I said. “They just want us to know we're in their part of town.”

“It's the only place we could afford to rent,” said Jon.

“They should sense that.”

“They do.”

We sat up very late waiting for Mr. Rumpkin to come get his
poems
back. Jon gave up and went to the bedroom and slept. I stayed up another hour, drinking beer and waiting for Mr.
Rumpkin
. I finally gave up and went to sleep. . . .

It was sometime the next day when a very angry man knocked on the door. I couldn't make out the words. Lou Webb ran and got the poems. Impassionata, Italiano, innocent wonderful Lou.

“Here, here, here's your poems! Listen, Bukowski is in here! Don't you want to say hello to Bukowski?”

He took the poems and leaped into his car and drove swiftly off, away from the poison of us all. I laughed. It was kind of Charlie Chaplin madness without the grace of it.

“Jesus,” said Lou, turning toward me, “he wouldn't even say hello to you!”

“Lou,” I said, “Mr. Rumpkin and Mr. Bukowski have a perfect understanding of each other.”

“To hell with it!” She threw out her arms, beautiful fingers tapering from hell to hell. “I'm going to the
POST OFFICE
!”

I thought that
was an immense statement and applauded accordingly.

We walked across campus where some of the students waited outside
The Kiva
. We walked on in and they followed us in. The place was built like a bullring with the seats rising up around the speaker.

There were no troops. Just young quiet people. I found the crapper and went in and had a pull of scotch. Steve walked in and I gave him the bottle for a pull.

“We about ready?” I asked.

“We might as well start,” he said.

We walked out and Steve stood in a thing that looked like a preacher's pulpit. He explained that the university had withdrawn support of the reading and that it was being sponsored by a student fund. He gave some initials which I couldn't make out.

Then a shrink took the pulpit and introduced me. That figures, I thought. I'd once stayed at a shrink's place in Santa Fe. It had been a bad stay. But the shrink spoke as if we were friends. The only thing the shrink had was money. And I mean that was all he had. The shrink talked on and on, trying to steal the show. But the young people were harder to fool than his patients. He was simply dull. Then, he finally stepped down.

“Well, after that,” I said, “there's nothing to do but begin reading. And I don't like that thing,” I pointed to the pulpit, “I'm going to read right here.”

I took out the pint, had a pull, and began:

“
I think of the little men

coming out of the north

with rags around their bodies

and wanting to kill

you.

you dead bastards,

you have death coming to you.
 . . .”

It was, what the pros call, “a responsive audience.”

“I've known some crazy women

but the craziest was

Annette. . . .
”

I kept the pint out, threw away the bag, set the bottle down, and just drank from the table.

“
the fire engines swing out

and the clouds listen to

Shostakovich

as a woman dumps a bucket of piss

into a row of geranium pots. . . .
”

I gave them about 30 minutes, then called for a 5-minute break. I walked out and sat in the audience. There was a guy next to me with a cassette.

“How's it going?” I asked.

“Fine, you're coming through fine.”

“Have a drink.”

“Sure.”

I bummed a cigarette, smoked most of it, and went back. The shrink had left and was not to return.

“All right, let's get it over with,” I told the crowd.

“the pig is fighting for the

size of the sun

as a thousand zeroes like bees

land on my skin and

the nomenclature of my screams

in a small room. . . .”

I got away with each poem. The bottle was getting light. I needed more to drink. I cut several poems I had planned on reading and gave them “Something for the Touts,” “The Nuns,” “The Grocery Clerks and You,” then ended up with “Fire Station.”

The applause was good, quite.

Look, I thought, we have come through. On student funds.

Steve went to the board and wrote down the address of the Webbs' place.

“There will be a party here,” he said.

The crowd worked their way out. A few of them came down and I signed a thing or two. “It's over,” I said. “Let's get drunk. Steve, let's get out of here.”