More Notes of a Dirty Old Man by Charles Bukowski, David Stephen Calonne Page A

Imperfection breeds Charley
While other men hit
600 home runs
shoot deer and panther
shoot lion, elephant and
man. . . . imperfection breeds
Charley
     
    Then I decided, to hell with that poem, I’m not that bad. And I kept walking. I don’t know how long I walked, two hours perhaps, but there was nothing but road and road and road. I saw three or four deer. My energy was getting very low and my city shoes were blistering my feet. I had made another bad move. I turned and had a two-hour walk back to help consume me. One does reflect at such times. One thinks of the city, of walking about in a room and listening to the radio, reading the race results. I thought about the poet Jeffers who said there were traps everywhere, that they’d even trapped God when He came to earth.
    But my trap had been so inane, without glory or purpose. The sun was very hot and I should have sat in the shade and rested but I was disgusted with my stupidity and wouldn’t allow myself that. Then I thought, it really isn’t death that matters: it’s dying in some sort of minor comfort that matters . . . where people can sign little papers and keep the flies off your body. I walked on. Then ahead of me in the road stood a small doe. It was just a little larger than a large dog. As I slowly approached, it just stood there and looked at me. I was so tired, so low-keyed, my soul in such a pissed-off state against itself that I gave off no rays at all. The doe just remained in the road looking at me and I moved closer and closer. It isn’t going to move, I thought. What will I do? Then as I was almost upon it, it turned and ran, the rear end bounding up and down. I remembered one time I had been very near suicide when I was sitting on a high cliff over the water near San Diego. As I sat there, four squirrels slowly—well, not slowly but in their swift darts—yet it seemed slow—they approached me and they came right up to my feet as I sat there and I looked into their large brown eyes and they looked into mine. They didn’t fear me and I wondered at them. It seemed to last many minutes; then I moved a bit and they ran back down the rocks.
    Finally I was under my pier again, my feet in the water. My thirst didn’t seem to end. I kept drinking water. I tried to sleep. It wasn’t any good. I put my shoes back on and walked back to the other end of the road, the picnic grounds. There was nobody about. I tried to remember how far it was back to the nearest town. The drive up had been a long one, very long, over a hot narrow mountain road. If I made it, there wouldn’t be much left of me. If I didn’t make it at least it would be a form of action. I decided to stay another night and a day and start out the next night. I walked back and got under the pier again. But the inaction got to me. I hardly felt very clever under that pier. I put my shoes back on and walked back toward the picnic grounds again.
    Then I saw a little girl walking along the road toward me. “HEY!” I yelled at her, “HEY!” She seemed frightened. I walked toward her, then stopped. “I won’t hurt you! I’m lost! I’m lost!” I felt very foolish, for how can one get lost near a picnic grounds with signs around that say NO SMOKING and PLEASE PUT OUT ALL FIRES? “Where’s your mother and father?” “Oh, they’re in a red and white camper on the picnic grounds.” I walked toward the picnic grounds. I saw the camper but I didn’t see the people. “HEY!” I yelled. “HEY!”
    Then I saw Linda standing there with blue curlers in her hair. Then I saw a man and a woman by the camper.
    “Hi,” Linda said to me.
    “My god I’m glad to see you!” I said. “Did these people bring you up?” “No, I just got here.”
    The people at the camper were watching us. “He’s a city boy,” said Linda. “He got lost in the woods. I just found him.”
    I laughed. “I’m a city boy. I’m a city boy.”
    “Well, I’m glad you found your man,” said the