Absence of the Hero by Charles Bukowski, Edited with an introduction by David Calonne

joint, almost as live as Bukowski’s. Where’s all the people?”
    â€œIt’s just on Friday and Saturday nights,” said Dutch. “On Sundays we rest.”
    â€œOh,” said the kid, “well, shit, I’m on acid. Just half a tablet though.”
    Then I heard a cat. It was scratching and meowing.
    â€œDutch, what’s that?”
    â€œIt’s the cat, coming through the bathroom window.”
    â€œBut you just locked the window. Look in that closet. It sounds like it’s coming from that closet.”
    Dutch walked over, pulled a bench from the front of the closet and their cat walked out, just a bit pissed and indignant.
    â€œNow, just who would put a cat in there?”
    â€œThe same guy who fed it,” I said.
    â€œRobert said this was a swinging place,” said the kid.
    The cat walked around with its tail straight up in the air.
    Then two people walked in the back door. The girl was about 19, very hard, bulky. The guy was about 15, one of those tall thin ones.
    â€œCome on,” he said to the girl, “let’s crash.”
    He started to walk up the stairway leading to the sleeping quarters upstairs.
    â€œHey, man,” screamed Dutch, “if I let you go up there we’ll have every teeny-bopper in town crashing here and we just won’t last. I can’t let you go up there. Where’d you hear of this place?”
    â€œRobert.”
    â€œYou can’t stay here.”
    â€œO.K., where’s Sunset and Normandy?”
    â€œHey, hold it,” I said, “that’s my place.”
    â€œLook,” said Barbie to the 19-year-old girl, “I think you’ve got a place to stay. Why don’t you take him there?”
    â€œBecause I’ve got a guy staying with me.”
    â€œO.K.,” said Dutch, “you guys have got to go.”
    They walked out, both of them very angry.
    â€œLook, Dutch,” I said, “I’ve got to go.”
    â€œO.K.,” said Dutch.
    â€œLook,” said the kid, “you going near Santa Monica and Western?”
    â€œWe’ll drive you there,” said Dutch.
    Dutch locked the place up again and we walked out to the car, Barbie and the kid in back, Dutch and I in front.
    â€œBukowski, if I bar that back window it will keep them out, won’t it?”
    â€œNo,” I said.
    I got out in front of my place. I took the beers, kissed Barbie goodnight, and waved them off. I got to the front door, managed to get it open, checked into the sack—3 beers left—went to the phone book, found the underlined number, dialed it:
    â€œHello. Bukowski. Yeah. You remember? O.K. Two six-packs tall, yes. A pint of scotch, you know the kind I drink. And you know I tip well. So get your boy out here and get him here fast!”
    I put two beers in the refrigerator and opened the other. I turned on the radio. Berlioz Symphonie fantastique . Not bad. I was back in my kingdom. I sat back and waited for the delivery boy.

Notes of A Dirty Old Man
    CANDID PRESS , DECEMBER 6, 1970
    Sexual conquests generally happen, they are not chased down. I lived in the Suicide Hotel across from MacArthur Park in L.A. It was an old rotting place full of losers. I was sitting by the window one day holding my glass of wine when something dropped by in front of me, soundlessly. We were on the fourth floor, and this body came on by in the air, fully clothed, head down, legs following. The courtyard was cement and I heard him hit but I didn’t look. That’s when I named it the “Suicide Hotel.” But let’s get on to sexual conquests, a more pleasant subject.
    I was living with a girl named May who was very good on the bed but who, like me, didn’t quite fit into society. Neither of us could hold a job or wanted a job but we were continually worried about money. We lived on our luck. Money seemed to come along one way or the other. May was good at rolling drunks, and once when