Hot Water Music by Charles Bukowski Page A

his toast. Butter was one of man’s last luxuries. Automobiles would one day be too expensive to buy and everybody would just sit around eating butter and waiting. The Jesus freaks who talked about the end of the world were looking better every day. Kevin finished his toast and butter and Gwen walked back in.
    “All right, it’s arranged. I’ve called everybody.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “There’s going to be a meeting in one hour at Tom’s place.”
    “Tom’s place?”
    “Yes, Tom and Bonnie and Bonnie’s parents and Tom’s brother and sister—they’ll all be there.”
    “Will the kids be there?”
    “No.”
    “What about Bonnie’s lawyer?”
    “Are you frightened?”
    “Wouldn’t you be?”
    “I don’t know. I have never sniffed a little girl’s peepee.”
    “Why the hell not?”
    “Because it is neither decent nor civilized.”
    “And where has our decent civilization led us?”
    “I guess to men like you who take little girls into closets.”
    “You seem to be enjoying this.”
    “I don’t know if those little girls will ever forgive you.”
    “You want me to ask their forgiveness? I have to do that? For something I don’t even remember?”
    “Why not?”
    “Let them forget it. Why drive the point home?”
     
     
     
    As Kevin and Gwen drove up in front of Tom’s place, Tom stood up and said, “Here they are. Now we’ve all got to stay calm. There’s a decent, fair way to settle this. We’re all mature human beings. We can settle everything among ourselves. There’s no need to call the police. Last night I wanted to kill Kevin. Now I just want to help him.”
    The six relatives of Jeanjean and Cathy sat and waited. The doorbell rang. Tom opened the door. “Hello, folks.”
    “Hello,” said Gwen. Kevin didn’t say anything.
    “Sit down.”
    They walked over and sat on the couch. “Drink?”
    “No,” said Gwen.
    “Scotch and soda,” said Kevin.
    Tom mixed the drink, then handed it to Kevin. Kevin tossed it off, reached in his pocket for a cigarette.
    “Kevin,” said Tom, “we’ve decided you should see a psychologist.”
    “Not a psychiatrist?”
    “No, a psychologist.”
    “All right.”
    “And we think you should pay for any therapy Jeanjean and Cathy might need.”
    “All right.”
    “We’re going to keep this quiet, for your sake and for the sake of the children.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Kevin, there’s only one thing we’d like to know. We’re your friends. We’ve been friends for years. Just one thing. Why do you drink so much ?”
    “Hell, I don’t know. I guess, mostly, I just get bored.”

A WORKING DAY
     
     
    Joe Mayer was a freelance writer. He had a hangover and the telephone awakened him at 9 a.m. He got up and answered it. “Hello?”
    “Hi, Joe. How’s it going?”
    “Oh, beautiful.”
    “Beautiful, eh?”
    “Yes?”
    “Vicki and I just moved into our new house. We don’t have a phone yet. But I can give you the address. You got a pen there?”
    “Just a minute.”
    Joe took down the address.
    “I didn’t like that last story of yours I saw in Hot Angel .”
    “O.K.” said Joe.
    “I don’t mean I didn’t like it, I mean I don’t like it compared to most of your stuff. By the way, do you know where Buddy Edwards is? Griff Martin who used to edit Hot Tales is looking for him. I thought you might know.”
    “I don’t know where he is.”
    “I think he might be in Mexico.”
    “He might be.”
    “Well, listen, we’ll be around to see you soon.”
    “Sure.” Joe hung up. He put a couple of eggs in a pan of water, set some coffee water on and took an Alka Seltzer. Then he went back to bed.
    The phone rang again. He got up and answered it.
    “Joe?”
    “Yes?”
    “This is Eddie Greer.”
    “Oh yes.”
    “We want you to read for a benefit…”
    “What is it?”
    “For the I.R.A.”
    “Listen, Eddie, I don’t go for politics or religion or whatever. I really don’t know what’s going on over there. I don’t