The Captain Is Out to Lunch by Charles Bukowski

and left. I left ten minutes before post. I got to my car and moved out. At the end of parking on Century Boulevard by the signal there was an ambulance, a fire engine and two police cars. Two cars had hit head-on. There was glass everywhere, the cars were really mangled. Somebody had been in a hurry to get in and somebody had been in a hurry to get out. Horseplayers.
    I moved around the crash and took a left on Century.
    Just another day shot through the head and buried. It was Saturday afternoon in hell. I drove along with the others.

9/15/92 1:06 AM

    Talk about a writer's block. I believe I was bitten by a spider. Three times. Noticed these 3 large red welts on my left arm the night of 9-08-92. Around 9 p.m. There was a slight pain to the touch. I decided to ignore it. But after 15 minutes I showed the marks to Linda. She had been to an emergency room earlier in the day. Something had left a stinger in her back. Now it was after 9 p.m., everything was closed except the Emergency Ward of the local hospital. I had been there before: I had fallen into a hot fireplace while drunk. I had not fallen into the fire directly but had fallen upon the hot surface while only wearing my shorts. Now, it was this. These welts.
    "I think I'd feel like a fool going in there with just these welts. There are people in there bloodied from car crashes, knifings, shootings, attempted suicides, and all I have are 3 red welts.
    "I don't want to wake up with a dead husband in the morning,“ Lidna said.
    I thought about it for 15 minutes, then said, "All right, let's go in.“
    It was quiet in there. The lady at the desk was on the telephone. She was on the telephone for some time. Then she was finished.
    "Yes?“ she asked.
    "I think I've been bitten by something,“ I said. "Maybe I should be looked at.“
    I gave her my name. I was in the computer. Last visit: TB time.
    I was walked into a room. The nurse did the usual. Blood pressure. Temperature.
    The the doctor. He examined the welts.
    "Looks like a spider,“ he said, "they usually bite 3 times.“
    I was given a tetanus shot, a prescription for some antibiotics and some Benadryl.
    We drove off to an all-night Sav-on to get the stuff.
    The 500 mg Duricef was to be taken one capsule every 12 hours. The Benadryl one every 4 to 6 hours.
    I began. And this is the point. After a day or so I felt similar as I had to the time I had been taking antibiotics for TB. Only then, due to my weakened state, I was barely able to walk up and down the stairway, having to pull myself along by the banister. Now it was just the nauseous feeling, the dullness of mind. About the 3rd day I sat down in front of this computer to see if anything would come out of it. I only sat there. This must be, I thought, the way it feels when it finally leaves you. And there is nothing you can do. At the age of 72 it was always possible that it would leave me. The ability to write. It was a fear. And it was not about fame. Or about money. It was about me. I release of writing. The safety of writing. All that mattered was the next line. And if the next line wouldn't come, I was dead, even though, technically, I was living.
    I have been off the antibiotics now for 24 hours but I still feel dull, a bit ill. The writing here lacks spark and gamble. Too bad, kid.
    Now, tomorrow, I must see my regular doctor to find out if I need more antibiotics or what. The welts are still there, though smaller. Who knows what the hell?
    Oh yes, the nice lady at the receptionist's desk, just as I was leaving, began talking about spider bites. "Yes, there was this fellow in his twenties. He got bit by a spider, now he's paralyzed from the waist up.“
    "Is that so?“ I asked.
    "Yes,“ she said, "and there was another case. This fellow...“
    "Never mind,“ I told her, "we have to leave.“
    "Well,“ she said, "have a nice night.“
    "You too,“ I said.

11/6/82 12:08 AM

    I feel poisoned