Free Pulp by Charles Bukowski Page B

some white cotton.
    I jumped back.
    “SHIT! WHAT WAS THAT?”
    Grovers let out a low moan.
    “Belane, I worked for a good hour, padding his cheeks, making him look fulsome and healthy! Now he’s all sagged in again! Now I’ve got to do it all over.”
    “Sorry, I didn’t realize. But I think we’re closing in. Open another casket! Please!”
    “You open it. This is truly disgusting. I don’t know why I’m allow-ing this. I must be crazy.”
    I walked over and opened a pine casket. I looked. And I kept looking. I couldn’t believe it.
    “Is this some kind of joke, Grovers? One doesn’t joke in this fash-ion. It’s not funny at all.”
    The figure stretched out in the casket was me. The casket was lined in velvet and I was smiling a waxy smile. I was wearing a dark brown wrinkled suit and my hands were crossed over my chest and holding a white carnation.
    I turned around and faced Grovers.
    “What the hell’s going on here, baby? Where’d you get this one?”
    “Oh, that’s Mr. Andrew Douglas, died suddenly of a heart attack.
    Been a community leader here for some decades.”
    “That’s crap, Grovers. That stiff in there is me! Me !”
    “Nonsense,” said Grovers. He walked over and looked into the coffin.
    “It’s Mr. Douglas.”
    I walked over and looked in. It was some old white-haired guy, 70 or 80 years old. He looked pretty good, they had rouged his cheeks and put on just a touch of lipstick. His skin glowed as if they had waxed it. But it wasn’t me.
    “It’s Jeannie Nitro,” I said, “she’s fucking with us.”
    “I think you are a very confused man, Mr. Belane.”
    “Shut up,” I said.
    I had to think. Somewhere it all fit. It had to fit.
    Just then another man entered and stood in the doorway.
    “The body has been prepared, Hal.”
    “Thank you, Billy. You can leave.”
    Billy French turned and walked out.
    “Jesus, Grovers, doesn’t he wash his hands?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I saw red on his hands.”
    “Nonsense.”
    “I saw red.”
    “Mr. Belane, would you care to look into the third coffin? Although it’s empty. A gentleman has selected it in advance.”
    I turned around and stared at it.
    “Is he in there, Grovers?”
    “No, the gentleman is still alive. It’s a pre-select. We give ten percent off on pre-selects. Would you care for one? We have a lovely selection.”
    “Thanks, Grovers, but I have an appointment somewhere…I’ll contact you.”
    I spun on my heel and walked out the doorway, down the hall and out into the good, clean air. Any son-of-a-bitch who picks out his own casket is the same son-of-a-bitch who diddles with himself 6 times a week.
    I got into my Bug, kicked it over and sliced out into traffic. Some guy in a van thought I had cut him off. He gave me the finger. I gave him the finger back.
    It was beginning to rain. I rolled up the good window on the right hand side and snapped on the radio.

25
    I took the elevator up to the 6th floor. The psychiatrist’s name was Seymour Dundee. I pushed the door open and the waiting room was packed with nuts. One guy was reading a newspaper and holding it upside-down. Most of the others, men and women, sat silently. They didn’t even appear to be breathing. There was a heavy dark feel to the room. I signed in at the desk and took my seat. Guy next to me was wearing one brown shoe and one black. “Hey, buddy,” he said.
    “Yeah,” I answered.
    “Got change for a penny?” he asked.
    “No,” I told him, “not today.”
    “Tomorrow maybe?” he went on.
    “Maybe tomorrow,” I said.
    “But maybe I won’t be able to find you tomorrow,” he complained.
    I hope not, I thought.
    We waited and waited. All of us. Didn’t the shrink know that waiting was one of the things that drove people crazy? People waited all their lives. They waited to live, they waited to die. They waited in line to buy toilet paper. They waited in line for money. And if they didn’t have any money they waited in longer