Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski Read Free Book Online Page A

and sat in front of my green beer.
    â€œYou’re reading tonight at .............?” one of them asked me.
    I didn’t answer.
    â€œWe’ll all be there.”
    â€œI’ll probably be there too,” I said.
    I had to be. I’d already cashed and spent their check. The other place, the next day, maybe I could get out of that.
    All I wanted to do was get back to my room in L.A., all the shades down while drinking COLD TURKEY and eating hard-boiled eggs with paprika, and hoping for some Mahler on the radio ...
    9 p.m.... Belford guided me in. There were little round tables with people sitting at them. There was a stage.
    â€œYou want me to introduce you?” Belford asked.
    â€œNo,” I said.
    I found the steps that led up to the stage. There was a chair, a table. I put my traveling bag up on the table and started taking things out.
    â€œI’m Chinaski,” I told them, “and this is a pair of shorts and here are some stockings and here is a shirt and here is a pint of scotch and here are some books of poetry.”
    I left the scotch and the books on the table. I peeled the cellophane from the scotch and had a drink. “Any questions.”
    They were quiet.
    â€œWell, we might as well begin then.”
    I gaeve them some of the old stuff first. Each time I took another drink the next poem sounded better – to me. College students were all right anyhow. They only asked one thing – that you didn’t purposely lie to them. I thought that was fair.
    I got through the first 30 minutes, asked for a ten minute break, got down off the stage with my bottle and sat at a table with Belford and 4 or 5 other students. A young girl came up with one of my books. God o mighty, baby, I thought, I’ll autograph anything you’ve got!
    â€œMr. Chinaski?”
    â€œSure,” I said with a wave of my genius hand. I asked her name. Then wrote something. Drew a picture of a naked guy chasing a naked woman. Dated it.
    â€œThanks very much, Mr. Chinaski!”
    So this was how it worked? Just a bunch of bullshit.
    I took my bottle out of some guy’s mouth. “Look mother, that’s the 2nd hit you’ve taken. I’ve got to sweat another thirty minutes up there. Don’t touch that bottle again.”
    I sat in the middle of the table. Then I took a pull, sat it back down.
    â€œWould you suggest writing as a career?” one of the young students asked me.
    â€œAre you trying to be funny?” I asked him.
    â€œNo, no, I’m serious. Would you advise writing as a career?”
    â€œWriting chooses you, you don’t choose it.”
    That got him off me. I had another drink, then climbed back on stage. I always saved what I preferred for last. It was my first college reading but I’d had a drunken two night stand at an L.A. bookstore for a warmup. Save the best for last. That’s what you did when you were a kid. I read it on out, then closed the books.
    The applause surprised me. It was heavy and it kept on. It was embarrassing. The poems weren’t that good. They were applauding for something else. The fact that I’d made it through, I suppose ...
    There was a party at this professor’s house. This professor looked just like Hemingway. Of course, Hemingway was dead. The professor was rather dead too. He kept on talking about literature and writing – of all the disgusting fucking subjects. No matter where I went he trailed me. He followed me everywhere but to the bathroom. Everytime I turned around, there he was –
    â€œAh, Hemingway! I thought you were dead!”
    â€œDid you know that Faulkner was a drunkard too?”
    â€œYeh.”
    â€œWhat do you think of James Jones?”
    The old boy was sick: he never got off it.
    I found Belford. “Listen, kid, the refrigerator is dry. Hemingway doesn’t stock much shit ...”
    I gave him a 20. “Look, you know anybody who can go out and get some