Ask the Dust by John Fante Read Free Book Online

Eight o’clock, and I was down on Spring Street. I had a copy of The Little Dog Laughed in my pocket. She would think differently about me if she read that story. I had it autographed, right there in my back pocket, ready to present at the slightest notice. But the place was closed at that early hour. It was called the Columbia Buffet. I pushed my nose against the window and looked inside. The chairs were piled upon the tables, and an old man in rubber boots was swabbing the floor. I walked down the street a block or two, the wet air already bluish from monoxide gas. A fine idea came into my head. I took out the magazine and erased the autograph. In its place I wrote, “To a Mayan Princess, from a worthless Gringo.” This seemed right, exactly the correct spirit. I walked back to the Columbia Buffet and pounded the front window. The old man opened the door with wet hands, sweat seeping from his hair.
    I said, “What’s the name of that girl who works here?”
    â€œYou mean Camilla?”
    â€œThe one who worked here last night.”
    â€œThat’s her,” he said. “Camilla Lopez.”
    â€œWill you give this to her?” I said. “Just give it to her. Tell her a fellow came by and said for you to give it to her.”
    He wiped his dripping hands on his apron and took the magazine. “Take good care of it,” I said. “It’s valuable.”
    The old man closed the door. Through the glass I saw him limpback to his mop and bucket. He placed the magazine on the bar and resumed his work. A little breeze flipped the pages of the magazine. As I walked away I was afraid he would forget all about it. When I reached the Civic Center I realized I had made a bad mistake: the inscription on the story would never impress that kind of a girl. I hurried back to the Columbia Buffet and banged the window with my knuckles. I heard the old man grumbling and swearing as he fumbled with the lock. He wiped the sweat from his old eyes and saw me again.
    â€œCould I have that magazine?” I said. “I want to write something in it.”
    The old man couldn’t understand any of this. He shook his head with a sigh and told me to come inside. “Go get it yourself, goddamnit,” he said. “I got work to do.”
    I flattened the magazine on the bar and erased the inscription to the Mayan Princess. In place of it I wrote:
    Dear Ragged Shoes ,
    You may not know it, but last night you insulted the author of this story. Can you read? If so, invest fifteen minutes of your time and treat yourself to a masterpiece. And next time, be careful. Not everyone who comes into this dive is a bum .
    Arturo Bandini
    I handed the magazine to the old man, but he did not lift his eyes from his work. “Give this to Miss Lopez,” I said. “And see to it that she gets it personally.”
    The old man dropped the mop handle, smeared the sweat from his wrinkled face, and pointed at the front door. “You get out of here!” he said.
    I laid the magazine on the bar again and strolled away leisurely. At the door I turned and waved.

Chapter Five
    I wasn’t starving. I still had some old oranges under the bed. That night I ate three or four and with the darkness I walked down Bunker Hill to the downtown district. Across the street from the Columbia Buffet I stood in a shadowed doorway and watched Camilla Lopez. She was the same, dressed in the same white smock. I trembled when I saw her and a strange hot feeling was in my throat. But after a few minutes the strangeness was gone and I stood in the darkness until my feet ached.
    When I saw a policeman strolling toward me I walked away. It was a hot night. Sand from the Mojave had blown across the city. Tiny brown grains of sand clung to my fingertips whenever I touched anything, and when I got back to my room I found the mechanism of my new typewriter glutted with sand. It was in my ears and in my hair. When I took off my