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

more beer, at least?”
    â€œYes, I know somebody.”
    â€œFine, then. And a couple of cigars.”
    â€œWhat kind?”
    â€œAny kind. Cheap. Ten or 15 cents. And thanks.”
    There were 20 or 30 people there and I had already stocked the refrigerator once. So this is the way this bullshit works?
    I picked out the finest looking woman in the house and decided to make her hate me. I found her in the breakfastnook sitting at a table alone.
    â€œBaby,” I said, “that damned Hemingway is a sick man.”
    â€œI know it,” she said.
    â€œI know he wants to be nice but he can’t let go of Literature. Christ, what a disgusting subject! You know, I never met a writer I liked? They’re all little figs, the worst of human crap ...”
    â€œI know,” she said, “I know ...”
    I pulled her head around and kissed her. She didn’t resist. Hemingway saw us and walked into the other room. Hey! The old boy had some kool! Remarkable!
    Belford got back with the stuff and I piled a bunch of beer in front of us and I talked, and kissed and fondled with her for hours. It wasn’t until the next day that I found out she was Hemingway’s wife ...
    I awakened in bed, alone, on a second floor somewhere. I was probably still in Hemingway’s house. I was more seriously hungover than usual. I turned my face away from the sunlight and closed my eyes.
    Somebody shook me.
    â€œHank! Hank! Wake up!”
    â€œShit. Go away.”
    â€œWe’ve got to leave now. You’re reading at noon. It’s a long drive. We’ll barely make it.”
    â€œLet’s not make it.”
    â€œWe’ve got to make it. You signed a contract. They’re waiting. They’re going to put you on t.v.”
    â€œT.v.?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOh my god, I might vomit in front of the camera ...”
    â€œHank, we’ve got to make it.”
    â€œAll right, all right.”
    I got out of bed and looked at him. “You’re all right, Belford, to look after me and take all my shit. Why don’t you get angry and cuss me or something?”
    â€œYou’re my favorite living poet,” he said.
    I laughed. “God, I could probably take my pecker out and piss all over you ...”
    â€œNo,” he said, “it’s your words not your piss that I’m interested in.”
    There, he had properly put me down and I felt good for him. I finally got on what I had to and Belford helped me down the stairway. There was Hemingway and his wife.
    â€œGod, you look awful!” said Hemingway.
    â€œI’m sorry about last night, Ernie. I didn’t know it was your wife until ...”
    â€œForget it,” he said, “how about a bit of coffee?”
    â€œFine,” I said, “I need something.”
    â€œHow about something to eat?”
    â€œThanks. I don’t eat.”
    We all sat around quietly drinking our coffees. Then Hemingway said something. I don’t know what it was about. James Joyce, I think.
    â€œOh god damn it!” said his wife, “can’t you ever shut up?”
    â€œListen, Hank,” said Belford, “we better be leaving. It’s a long drive.”
    â€œO.k.,” I said.
    We stood up and walked toward the car. I shook Hemingway’s hand.
    â€œI’ll walk you to the car,” he said.
    Belford and H. walked toward the door. I turned to her.
    â€œGoodbye,” I said.
    â€œGoodbye,” she said, and then she kissed me. I’d never been kissed like that. She just gave over, gave everything up. I’d never been screwed like that.
    Then I walked outside. Hemingway and I shook hands again. Then we drove off and he walked back into his house to his wife ...
    â€œHe teaches Literature,” said Belford.
    â€œYeah,” I said.
    I was really sick. “I don’t know if I can make it. It’s senseless to give a reading at high noon.”
    â€œThat’s