Free Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski

shouted.
    They all saw it. The room was very quiet.
    It was a little handcrafted coffin done by the best artisans in Spain. It even had this pinkish-red felt bottom. It was the exact replica of a larger coffin, except perhaps it was done with more love.
    Roy gave me his killer’s look, ripped off the tag of instructions on how to keep the wood polished, threw it inside the coffin and closed the lid.
    It was very quiet. The only gift hadn’t gone over. But they soon gathered themselves and began talking shit again.
    I became silent. I had really been proud of my little casket. I had looked for hours for a gift. I had almost gone crazy. Then I had seen it on the shelf, all alone. Touched the outsides, turned it upside-down, then looked inside. The price was high but I was paying for the perfect craftsmanship. The wood. The little hinges. All. At the same time, I needed some ant-killer spray. I found some Black Flag in the back of the store. The ants had built a nest under my front door. I took the stuff to the counter. There was a young girl there, I set the stuff in front of her. I pointed to the casket.
    â€œYou know what that is?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat’s a casket!”
    I opened it up and showed it to her.
    â€œThese ants are driving me crazy. Ya know what I’m going to do?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m going to kill all those ants and put them in this casket and bury them!”
    She laughed. “You’ve saved my whole day!”
    You can’t put it past the young ones anymore; they are an entirely superior breed. I paid and got out of there ....
    But now, at the wedding, nobody laughed. A pressure cooker done up with a red ribbon would have left them happy. Or would it have?
    Harvey, the rich one, finally, was kindest of all. Maybe because he could afford to be kind? Then I remembered something out of my readings, something from the ancient Chinese:
    â€œWould you rather be rich or an artist?”
    â€œI’d rather be rich, for it seems that the artist is always sitting on the doorsteps of the rich.”
    I sucked at the fifth and didn’t care anymore. Somehow, the next thing I knew, it was over. I was in the back seat of my own car, Hollis driving again, the beard of Roy flowing into my face again. I sucked at my fifth.
    â€œLook, did you guys throw my little casket away? I love you both, you know that! Why did you throw my little casket away?”
    â€œLook, Bukowski! Here’s your casket!”
    Roy held it up to me, showed it to me.
    â€œAh, fine!”
    â€œYou want it back?”
    â€œNo! No! My gift to you! Your only gift! Keep it! Please!”
    â€œAll right.”
    The remainder of the drive was fairly quiet. I lived in a front court near Hollywood (of course). Parking was mean. Then they found a space about a half a block from where I lived. They parked my car, handed me the keys. Then I saw them walk across the street toward their own car. I watched them, turned to walk toward my place, and while still watching them and holding to the remainder of Harvey’s fifth, I tripped one shoe into a pantscuff and went down. As I fell backwards, my first instinct was to protect the remainder of that good fifth from smashing against the cement (mother with baby), and as I fell backwards I tried to hit with my shoulders, holding both head and bottle up. I saved the bottle but the head flipped back into the sidewalk, BASH!
    They both stood and watched me fall. I was stunned almost into insensibility but managed to scream across the street at them: “Roy! Hollis! Help me to my front door, please I’m hurt!”
    They stood a moment, looking at me. Then they got into their car, started the engine, leaned back and neatly drove off.
    I was being repaid for something. The casket? Whatever it had been – the use of my car, or me as clown and/or best man ... my use had been outworn. The human race had always disgusted me.