Run With the Hunted by Charles Bukowski Page B

job?”
    â€œI like the pay but it isn’t my line of work.”
    â€œWhat’s your line of work?”
    â€œI’m an architect.”
    â€œYou’re full of shit,” she said and walked off.
    Harry knew he wasn’t much good at small talk. He found that the less he talked the better everyone felt.
    Harry finished both beers. Then the steak and fries arrived. The chef slammed them down. The chef was a great slammer.
    It looked like a miracle to Harry. He went to it, cutting and chewing. He hadn’t had a steak in a couple of years. As he ate he felt new strength entering his body. When you didn’t eat often it was a real event .
    Even his brain smiled. And his body seemed to be saying, thank you, thank you, thank you.
    Then Harry was finished.
    The chef was still staring at him.
    â€œO.K.,” said Harry, “I’ll have the same thing all over again.”
    â€œYou’ll have the same thing all over again?”
    â€œYeah.”
    The stare turned into a glare. The chef walked over and threw another steak on the grill.
    â€œAnd I’ll have another beer, please. Now.”
    â€œRITA!” the chef yelled, “GIVE HIM ANOTHER BEER!”
    Rita came up with the beer.
    â€œFor an architect,” she said, “you suck a lot of suds.”
    â€œI’m planning on erecting something.”
    â€œHa! Like you could!”
    Harry worked on the beer. Then he got up and walked to the men’s room. When he got back he finished the beer off.
    The chef came out and slammed the new plate of steak and fries in front of Harry.
    â€œThe job’s still open if you want it.”
    Harry didn’t answer. He began on the new plate.
    The chef walked over to the grill where he continued to glare at Harry.
    â€œYou get two meals,” the chef said, “ and the grab.”
    Harry was too occupied with the steak and fries to answer. He was still hungry. When you were on the bum, and especially when you were drinking, you could go for days without eating, oftentimes not even wanting to, and then—it struck you: an unbearable hunger. You began to think of eating everything and anything: mice, butterflies, leaves, pawn tickets, newspaper, corks, whatever.
    Now, working on the second steak, Harry’s hunger was still there. The french fries were beautiful and greasy and yellow and hot, something like sunlight, a nourishing and glorious sunlight one could bite into. And the steak was not just a slice of some poor murdered thing, it was something dramatic that fed the body and the soul and the heart, that made the eyes smile, made the world not quite so hard to bear. Or be in. At that moment, death didn’t matter.
    Then he was finished with the plate. All that was left was the bone of the porterhouse and that had been stripped clean. The chef was still staring at him.
    â€œI’ll have it once more,” Harry told the chef. “Another porterhouse and fries and another beer, please.”
    â€œYOU WILL NOT!” the chef screamed. “YOU WILL PAY UP AND GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”
    He came around the grill and stood in front of Harry. He had an order pad. He scribbled angrily on the order pad. Then he tossed the check into the center of the dirty plate. Harry picked it up off the plate.
    There was one other customer in the restaurant, a very round pink man with a large head of uncombed hair dyed a rather discouraging brown. The man had consumed numerous cups of coffee while reading the evening paper.
    Harry stood up, dug out some bills, peeled off two and placed them down next to the plate.
    Then he walked out of there.
    Early evening traffic was beginning to clog the avenue with cars. The sun slanted down behind him. Harry glanced at the drivers of the cars. They seemed unhappy. The world was unhappy. People were in the dark. People were terrified and disappointed. People were caught in traps. People were defensive and frantic. They felt as