Free Come On In by Charles Bukowski Page A

her
    had just two minutes ago been
    one small step away from the
    madhouse.

like a rock
    through early evening
    I
    sit alone
    listening to the sound of
    the heater;
    I fall into myself
    like a rock dropped into some
    ungrand canyon.
    it hits bottom. I
    lift my drink. 
    unfortunately
    my hell is not any more hell
    than the hell of a
    fly. 
    that’s what makes it
    difficult. and
    nothing is less
    profound than a
    melancholy
    drunk. 
    I must remember:
    the death or the murder of a
    drunk matters
    less
    than
    nothing.
    spider, on the wall:
    why do you take
    so long?

the waitress at the yogurt shop
    is young, quite young,
    and the boys are lined up on the bench
    waiting for a table
    as she waits on customers. 
    the boys say sly and
    daring things to her
    in very low voices. 
    they all want to
    bed down with her
    or
    at least
    get her
    attention. 
    she hears the
    whispered remarks,
    really likes hearing them
    but says,
    again and again,
    “shut up! oh, you shut up!” 
    it goes on and
    on:
    the boys continue and
    she continues:
    “oh, shut up!” 

    in a voice without
    grace or melody
    in a voice
    without warmth or humor
    in a voice
    remarkably
    ugly:
    “ oh, shut up now!”
    but the eager boys
    are not aware of her
    tone of
    voice 
    and the one who will
    finally live with that
    voice
    is probably not yet sitting
    there. 
    her husband of the
    future
    will finally understand
    the horrible reality of
    that voice 
    (remember,
    the voice is the window
    to the soul)

    and he will think:
    oh my god
    oh my god
    oh my god
    what have I
    done? 
    won’t
    she
    ever
    shut up? 

one out in the minor leagues
    men on 2nd and 3rd.
    first base was open.
    one out.
    we gave Parker an
    intentional walk.
    we had a 3- to- 2
    lead.
    last half of the
    9th, Simpson on the
    mound.
    Tanner up.
    Simpson let it go.
    it was low and
    inside.
    Tanner tapped it
    to our shortstop,
    DeMarco.
    perfect double play
    ball.
    DeMarco gloved it,
    flipped it to Johnson
    our 2b man.
    Johnson touched 2nd
    then stood there
    holding the ball as
    the runners were
    steaming around
    the bases.
    I screamed at Johnson
    from the dugout:
    “DO SOMETHING WITH THE
    GODDAMNED BALL!”
    the whole stadium was
    screaming.
    Johnson just stood there
    a funny look on his face
    with the ball.
    then
    he fell forward
    still holding the ball.
    he was
    stretched out there as
    the winning run
    scored. 
    the dugout emptied
    as we ran
    to Johnson.
    we turned him
    over.
    he wasn’t moving.
    he looked
    dead.
    the trainer took
    his pulse and
    looked at me.
    then he started
    mouth-to-mouth. 
    the announcer asked
    if there was a
    doctor in the
    stands.

    two of them came
    down.
    one of them
    was drunk. 
    the tiny crowd started
    coming
    out on the field.
    the ushers pushed
    them back. 
    somebody took the
    ball out of Johnson’s
    hand. 
    they worked on him
    for a long time.
    there was a
    camera flash.
    then another.
    then the doctor
    stood up: 
    “it’s no good.
    he’s gone.” 
    the stretcher
    came out and
    we loaded Johnson
    onto the stretcher.

    somebody threw a
    warm-up
    jacket
    over his face. 
    the stadium was
    almost deserted as
    they carried Johnson
    off the field
    through
    the dugout
    and into
    the locker room. 
    I didn’t go
    in.
    I took a cup of water
    from the cooler
    and
    sat alone on the bench. 
    Toby the batboy
    came over.
    “what’s going to happen now, Mr.
    Quinn?” he asked. 
    “our 2nd baseman is
    dead, Toby.” 
    “who you going to play
    there now?” 

    “I don’t think that’s
    important right now,” I
    told him. 
    “yes, it is, Mr. Quinn!
    we’re 2 games out of
    first place
    going into September!” 
    “I’ll think of something,
    Toby …” 
    then I got up and went
    through the door
    to the locker room,
    Toby following right
    behind. 

the little girls hissed
    since my last name was Fuch, he said to Raymond, you can
    believe the school yard was tough: they put itching
    powder down my neck, threw gravel at me, stung me
    with rubber