Free Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski Page A

Essentially, what made them disgusting was the family-relationship illness, which included marriage, exchange of power and aid, which like a sore, a leprosy, became then: your next door neighbor, your neighborhood, your district, your city, your county, your state, your nation ... everybody grabbing each other’s assholes in the honeycomb of survival out of a fear-animalistic stupidity.
    I got it all there, I understood it as they left me there, pleading.
    Five more minutes, I thought. If I can lay here five more minutes without being bothered I’ll get up and make it toward my place, get inside. I was the last of the outlaws. Billy the Kid had nothing on me. Five more minutes. Just let me get to my cave. I’ll mend. Next time I’m asked to one of their functions, I’ll tell them where to put it. Five minutes. That’s all I need.
    Two women walked by. They turned and looked at me.
    â€œOh, look at him. What’s wrong?”
    â€œHe’s drunk.”
    â€œHe’s not sick, is he?”
    â€œNo, look how he holds to that bottle. Like a little baby.”
    Oh shit. I screamed up at them:
    â€œI’LL SUCK BOTH YOUR SNATCHES! I’LL SUCK BOTH YOUR SNATCHES DRY, YOU CUNTS!”
    â€œOoooooh!”
    They both ran into the high-rise glass apartment. Through the glass door. And I was outside unable to get up, best man to something. All I had to do was make it to my place – 30 yards away, as close as three million light years. Thirty yards from a rented front door. Two more minutes and I could get up. Each time I tried it, I got stronger. An old drunk would always make it, given enough time. One minute. One minute more. I could have made it.
    Then there they were. Part of the insane family structure of the World. Madmen, really, hardly questioning what made them do what they did. They left their double-red light burning as they parked. Then got out. One had a flashlight.
    â€œBukowski,” said the one with the flashlight, “you just can’t seem to keep out of trouble, can you?”
    He knew my name from somewhere, other times.
    â€œLook,” I said, “I just stumbled. Hit my head. I never lose my sense or my coherence. I’m not dangerous. Why don’t you guys help me to my doorway? It’s 30 yards away. Just let me fall upon my bed and sleep it off. Don’t you think, really, that would be the really decent thing to do?”
    â€œSir, two ladies reported you as trying to rape them.”
    â€œGentlemen, I would never attempt to rape two ladies at the same time.”
    The one cop kept flashing his stupid flashlight into my face. It gave him a great feeling of superiority.
    â€œJust 30 yards to Freedom! Can’t you guys understand that?”
    â€œYou’re the funniest show in town, Bukowski. Give us a better alibi than that.”
    â€œWell, let’s see – this thing you see sprawled here on the pavement is the end-product of a wedding, a Zen wedding.”
    â€œYou mean some woman really tried to marry you?”
    â€œNot me, you asshole ...”
    The cop with the flashlight brought it down across my nose.
    â€œWe ask respect toward officers of the law.”
    â€œSorry. For a moment I forgot.”
    The blood ran down along my throat and then toward and upon my shirt. I was very tired – of everything.
    â€œBukowski,” asked the one who had just used the flashlight, “why can’t you stay out of trouble?”
    â€œJust forget the horseshit,” I said, “let’s go off to jail.”
    They put on the cuffs and threw me into the back seat. Same sad old scene.
    They drove along slowly, speaking of various possible and insane things – like, about having the front porch widened, or a pool, or an extra room in the back for Granny. And when it came to sports – these were real men – the Dodgers still had a chance, even with the two or three other teams right in there with them.