The Bell Tolls for No One by Charles Bukowski Page B

4th best simply because they are lonely, simply because they are afraid, simply because they lack the guts to live alone. They accept all the flaws in another person simply to have them around.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by ‘flaws’?”
    â€œI mean what people do to you because they simply don’t care enough. 98 percent of the people in America live together but don’t love each other. It’s a compromise and a lie.”
    â€œYeah,” he said, “and then the games begin. The flirtings, the cheatings, the fucks on the side, meanwhile each one claiming innocence and love.”
    â€œYeah, they sure use the word LOVE easily. ‘Oh, I love you, o my god I love you!’ They usually say it after you send your cock home after a good warm-up. But they don’t mean it.”
    â€œAnd we’re chauv pigs, you know, our ideas on women are all wrong.”
    â€œOf course,” I said.
    We sat silent, drinking our beers. Then he said, “Yeah, those guys at S.C. were just too much, especially the ones from the higher-income families. They had a thing they learned from the boys at Yale, it was called ‘Drifting Diligently.’ Nobody ever saw them study. They studied in the early morning hours, like from 3 a.m. to 7 a.m. Nobody ever saw them study. They were always lolling around the tennis courts or bullshitting on the lawn. It always confused the other guys.”
    â€œLife is good for some,” I said, “but you know, the pressure must get off a man’s back in one way or the other before he can really become clever. It’s hard to be clever standing in a line outside the Union Rescue Mission waiting for some watery beans.”
    â€œI wonder what these guys do for women?”
    â€œThey forget them. At least they’re at peace in that area.”
    â€œYou’ve heard the old joke about the screw in the bellybutton, how it falls out and your cock and asshole drop off?”
    â€œNo, I haven’t heard it,” I said. “Tell it to me.”
    â€œOh no, I don’t want to tell it.”
    â€œOh, go on.”
    â€œNo, no, no.”
    â€œThis screw drops out,” I said, “and the asshole and cock drop off. That’s good, How about the balls?”
    â€œThe balls too.”
    â€œThen what happens?”
    â€œForget it,” he said. “You know when we were kids it was hard to get fucked. Now everybody fucks. Even the dolts and morons get it. But when we were kids it was something else. Remember the old Stink-Finger?”
    â€œYeah, I remember it.”
    â€œYeah,” he said, “these guys used to come around and hold their finger under your nose and say, ‘Smell that, baby, you know where it’s been?’”
    â€œThe old Stink-Finger.”
    â€œYou could get it,” he said, “by rubbing your finger against mutton. Guys used to go around rubbing their fingers against mutton. That’s what it smells like: mutton.”
    â€œIt sure does,” I said. “And remember the old Dry-Fuck?”
    â€œMemories,” he said. “Stop it, you’re going to make me cry.”
    â€œThe Dry-Fuck,” I said. “The girls didn’t want to give it up. The word got out too fast and that killed marriage prospects. Girls used to want to get married.”
    â€œStop it,” he said, “you’re going to make me cry.”
    â€œGrass used to be called Tea, and if you had some Tea the girls sometimes gave way because they claimed they were under the influence and it didn’t really count. You couldn’t get them to drink though, and most of us couldn’t get any Tea.”
    â€œYeah, mostly the musicians had it.”
    â€œSo you’d go to work on a girl in the back seat. Hot kisses. We’d kiss 5 or 6 hours. You’d get one hot enough you’d finally get that finger up under those tight panties and get it in there. Or you’d