The Captain Is Out to Lunch by Charles Bukowski Page B
Authors: Charles Bukowski
Tags: United States, Fiction, Literary, General, Historical, Biography & Autobiography, Literary Criticism, Authors, Business & Economics, Poetry, Diaries, Management
Ads: Link
the famous. I made for the bark. Drinks were free. There was a huge black bartender. I ordered my drink and told him, "After I drink this one, we'll go out back and duke it out.“
The bartender smiled.
"Bukowski!“
"You know me?“
"I used to read your "Notes of a Dirty Old Man“ in the L.A. Free Press and Open City.“
"Well, I'll be god-damned...“
We shook hands. The fight was off.
Linda and I talked to various people, about what I don't know. I kept going back to the bar again and again for my vodka 7's. The bartender poured me tall ones. I'd also loaded up in the limo on the way in. The night got easier for me, it was only a matter of drinking them down big, fast and often.
When rock star came in I was fairly far gone but still there. He sat down and we talked but I don't know about what. Then came black-out time. Evidently we left. I only know what I heard later. The limo got us back but as I reached the steps of the house I fell and cracked my head on the bricks. We had just had the bricks put in. The right side of my head was bloody and I had hurt my right hand and my back.
I found most of this in the morning when I rose to take a piss. There was the mirror. I looked like the old days after the barroom fights. Christ. I washed some of the blood away, fed our 9 cats and went back to bed. Linda wasn't feeling too well either. But she had seen her rock show.
I knew I wouldn't be able to write for 3 or 4 days and that it would a couple of days before I got back to the racetrack.
It was back to classical music for me. I was honored and all that. It's great that the rocks start read my work but I've heard from men in jails and madhouses who do too. I can't help it who reads my work. Forget it.
It's good sitting here tonight in this little room on the second floor listening on the radio, the old body, the old mind mending. I belong here, like this. Like this. Like this.
2/21/93 12:33 AM
Went to the track today in the rain and watched 7 consensus favorites out of 9 win. There is no way I can make it when this occurs. I watched the hours get slugged in the head and looked at the people studying their tout sheets, newspapers and Racing Forms. Many of them left early, taking the escalators down and out. (Gunshot outside now as I write this, life back to normal.) After about 4 or 5 races I left the clubhouse and went own to the grandstand area. There was a difference. Fewer whites, of course, more poor, of course. Down there, I was a minority. I walked about and I could feel the desperation in the air. These were 2 dollar bettors. They didn't bet favorites. They bet the shots, the exactas, the daily doubles. They were looking for a lot of money of a little money and they were drowning. Drowning in the rain. It was grim there. I needed a new hobby.
The track had changed. Forty years ago there had been some joy out there, even among the losers. The bars had been packed. This was a different world. There was no money to blow to the sky, no to-hell-with-it money, no we'll-be-back-tomorrow money. This was the end of the world. Old clothing. Twisted and bitter faces. The rent money. The 5 dollars an hour money. The money of the unemployed, of the illegal immigrants. The money of the petty thieves, the burglars, the money of the disinherited. The air was dark. And the lines were long. They made the poor wait in long lines. The poor were used to long lines. And they stood in them to have their small dreams smashed.
This was Hollywood Park, located in the black district, in the district of Central Americans and other minorities.
I went back upstairs to the clubhouse, to the shorter lines. I got into line, bet 20 win on the second favorite.
"When ya gonna do it?“ the clerk asked me.
"Do what?“ I asked.
"Cash some tickets.“
"Any day now,“ I told him.
I turned and walked away. I could hear him say something else. Old bent white haired guy. He was having a
The bartender smiled.
"Bukowski!“
"You know me?“
"I used to read your "Notes of a Dirty Old Man“ in the L.A. Free Press and Open City.“
"Well, I'll be god-damned...“
We shook hands. The fight was off.
Linda and I talked to various people, about what I don't know. I kept going back to the bar again and again for my vodka 7's. The bartender poured me tall ones. I'd also loaded up in the limo on the way in. The night got easier for me, it was only a matter of drinking them down big, fast and often.
When rock star came in I was fairly far gone but still there. He sat down and we talked but I don't know about what. Then came black-out time. Evidently we left. I only know what I heard later. The limo got us back but as I reached the steps of the house I fell and cracked my head on the bricks. We had just had the bricks put in. The right side of my head was bloody and I had hurt my right hand and my back.
I found most of this in the morning when I rose to take a piss. There was the mirror. I looked like the old days after the barroom fights. Christ. I washed some of the blood away, fed our 9 cats and went back to bed. Linda wasn't feeling too well either. But she had seen her rock show.
I knew I wouldn't be able to write for 3 or 4 days and that it would a couple of days before I got back to the racetrack.
It was back to classical music for me. I was honored and all that. It's great that the rocks start read my work but I've heard from men in jails and madhouses who do too. I can't help it who reads my work. Forget it.
It's good sitting here tonight in this little room on the second floor listening on the radio, the old body, the old mind mending. I belong here, like this. Like this. Like this.
2/21/93 12:33 AM
Went to the track today in the rain and watched 7 consensus favorites out of 9 win. There is no way I can make it when this occurs. I watched the hours get slugged in the head and looked at the people studying their tout sheets, newspapers and Racing Forms. Many of them left early, taking the escalators down and out. (Gunshot outside now as I write this, life back to normal.) After about 4 or 5 races I left the clubhouse and went own to the grandstand area. There was a difference. Fewer whites, of course, more poor, of course. Down there, I was a minority. I walked about and I could feel the desperation in the air. These were 2 dollar bettors. They didn't bet favorites. They bet the shots, the exactas, the daily doubles. They were looking for a lot of money of a little money and they were drowning. Drowning in the rain. It was grim there. I needed a new hobby.
The track had changed. Forty years ago there had been some joy out there, even among the losers. The bars had been packed. This was a different world. There was no money to blow to the sky, no to-hell-with-it money, no we'll-be-back-tomorrow money. This was the end of the world. Old clothing. Twisted and bitter faces. The rent money. The 5 dollars an hour money. The money of the unemployed, of the illegal immigrants. The money of the petty thieves, the burglars, the money of the disinherited. The air was dark. And the lines were long. They made the poor wait in long lines. The poor were used to long lines. And they stood in them to have their small dreams smashed.
This was Hollywood Park, located in the black district, in the district of Central Americans and other minorities.
I went back upstairs to the clubhouse, to the shorter lines. I got into line, bet 20 win on the second favorite.
"When ya gonna do it?“ the clerk asked me.
"Do what?“ I asked.
"Cash some tickets.“
"Any day now,“ I told him.
I turned and walked away. I could hear him say something else. Old bent white haired guy. He was having a
Similar Books
