Run With the Hunted by Charles Bukowski Page A

like a top-heavy circus of flesh, fell in front of the bus. As the driver hit the brakes there was a thud, not too loud, but a thud. And there was Monk sitting in the gutter, haircut, mole, and all. And Harry looked down. The strangest thing: there was Monk’s wallet in the gutter. It had leaped out of Monk’s back pocket on impact and there it was in the gutter. Only it wasn’t flat on the ground, it stood like a little pyramid.
    Harry reached down, picked it up, put it in his front pocket. It felt warm and full of grace. Hail Mary.
    Then Harry bent over Monk. “Monk? Monk … you all right?”
    Monk didn’t answer. But Harry noticed him breathing and there was no blood. And, all of a sudden, Monk’s face looked handsome and gallant.
    He’s fucked, thought Harry, and I’m fucked. We’re all just fucked in different ways. There’s no truth, there’s nothing real, there’s nothing.
    But there was something. There was a crowd.
    â€œBack off!” somebody said. “Give him air!”
    Harry backed off. He backed off right into the crowd. Nobody stopped him.
    He was walking south. He heard the ambulance siren. It wailed along with his guilt.
    Then, quickly, the guilt vanished. Like an old war finished. You had to go on. Things continued. Like fleas and pancake syrup.
    Harry ducked into a bar he had never noticed before. There was a barkeep. There were bottles. It was dark in there. He ordered a double whiskey, drank it right down. Monk’s wallet was fat and fulsome. Friday must have been payday. Harry slipped out a bill, ordered another double whiskey. He drained half, waited in homage, then took the rest, and for the first time in a long time he felt very good.
    Late that afternoon Harry walked down to the Groton Steak House. He went in and sat at the counter. He’d never been in there before. A tall, thin, nondescript man in a chef’s hat and a soiled apron walked up and leaned over the counter. He needed a shave and smelled of roach spray. He leered at Harry.
    â€œYou come in for the JOB?” he asked.
    Why the hell is everybody trying to put me to work? thought Harry.
    â€œNo,” Harry answered.
    â€œWe have an opening for a dishwasher. Fifty cents an hour and you get to grab Rita’s ass every once in a while.”
    The waitress walked by. Harry looked at her ass.
    â€œNo, thanks. Right now, I’ll take a beer. In the bottle. Any kind.”
    The chef leaned closer. He had long nostril hairs, powerfully intimidating, like an unscheduled nightmare.
    â€œListen, fucker, you got any money?”
    â€œI got it,” said Harry.
    The chef hesitated for some time, then walked off, opened the refrigerator and yanked a bottle out. He snapped the cap off, walked back to Harry, banged the brew down.
    Harry took a long drink, set the bottle down gently.
    The chef was still examining him. The chef couldn’t quite make it out.
    â€œNow,” said Harry, “I want a porterhouse steak, medium-well done, with french fries, and go easy on the grease. And bring me another beer, now.”
    The chef loomed before him like an angry cloud, then he cleared off, went back to the refrigerator, repeated his act, which included bringing the bottle and slamming it down.
    Then the chef went over to the grill, threw on a steak.
    A glorious pall of smoke arose. The chef stared at Harry through it.
    Why he dislikes me, thought Harry, I have no idea. Well, maybe I do need a haircut (plenty off everywhere, please) and a shave, and my face is a bit beat-up, but my clothes are fairly clean. Worn but clean. I am probably cleaner than the mayor of this fucking city.
    The waitress walked up. She didn’t look bad. Nothing extra but not bad. She had her hair piled up on top of her head, kind of wild, and she had ringlets hanging down the sides. Nice.
    She leaned forward over the counter.
    â€œYou didn’t take the dishwasher’s