Free The Most Beautiful Woman in Town by Charles Bukowski Page B

like the graves of the dead. he turned on the dash t.v., then reached for the telephone, then remembered to zip up. “Minnie, I love you.”
    â€œI love you too, Dan,” she answered. “is that slob with you?”
    â€œright beside me. he just caught a mouthful.”
    â€œoh, Dan, don’t waste it!”
    he laughed and hung up. they almost hit a nigger in a pickup truck. he wasn’t black at all, he was a nigger, that’s all he was. there wasn’t a nicer city in the world when you had it made, and only one worse when you didn’t have it made—the Big A. Danforth hit it up to 85. a motorcop smiled at him as he drove by. maybe he’d call Bob later that night. Bob was always so funny. his 12 writers always gave him those good lines. and Bob was just as natural as horseshit. it was wonderful.
    he threw out the dollar cigar, lit another, ran the Caddy up to 90, straight at the sun like an arrow, business was good and life, and the tires whirled over the dead and the dying and the dying-to-be.
    ZYAAAAAUUUUM!

3 WOMEN
    we lived right across from McArthur park, Linda and I, and one night while drinking we saw a man’s body fall past our window. It was an odd sight, something like a joke, but it wasn’t any joke when his body hit the pavement. “jesus christ,” I told Linda, “he plopped right apart like an old tomato! we are just made of guts and shit and slimy stuff! come ‘ere! come ’ere! look at ’im!” Linda came to the window, then ran to the bathroom and vomited. she came out. I turned and looked at her. “honest ta christ, baby, he’s just like a big spilled bowl of rotten meat and spaghetti, dressed in a ripped suit and shirt!” Linda ran back in and heaved again.
    I sat and drank the wine. soon I heard the siren. what they really needed was the Sanitation Dept. well, what the fuck, we all had our troubles. I never knew where our rent was coming from and we were too sick from drinking to look for work. everytime we worried, all we could do about our worries was to fuck. that made us forget for a while. we fucked a lot, and lucky for me, Linda was a good lay. that whole hotel was full of people like us, drinking wine and fucking and not knowing what next. now and then one of them jumped out of the window. but the money always seemed to arrive for us from somewhere, just when all seemed like we’d have to eat our own shit, once $300 from a dead uncle, another time, a delayed income tax refund. another time I was riding on a bus and on the seat in front of me where these 50 cent pieces. what it meant or who had done it, I didn’t know, still don’t understand. I moved one seat up and began stuffing the half bucks into my pockets. when the pockets got full, I pulled the cord and got off at the next stop. nobody said anything or tried to stop me. I mean, when you’re drunk, you’ve got to be lucky, even if you’re not one, you’ve got to be lucky.
    part of each day we would spend in the park looking at the ducks. you’ve got to believe me, that when your health is down from continual drinking and lack of decent food, and you’re tired of fucking while trying to forget, you can’t beat the ducks. I mean, you’ve got to get out of your place, because you can get the deep blue blues and it soon might be you out the window. it is easier to do than you might imagine. so Linda and I would sit on a bench and watch the ducks. the ducks didn’t worry worth a damn — no rent, no clothes, plenty of food — just float around shitting and quacking. nobbling, nibbling, eating all the time. once in a while one of those from the hotel would catch a duck at night, kill the thing, take it to their room, clean it and cook it. we thought about it but never did it. besides they were very hard to catch; you just get so close and SLUUUSH!!! a spray of water and the motherfucker would be gone! most of