Happy Birthday Charles Bukowski

Henry Charles Bukowski
1920-1994

Ghost of the Dead Writer

Ray Timmins

Around midnight the wine began to kick in. Half a three liter jug of rotgut red had been spent and the Social Distortion CD was repeating for the third or fourth time. I’d been building up quite a tolerance for the wine which is why I was drinking the cheap stuff.

My place was a mess: books scattered everywhere, papers important and otherwise littered the floor and bed. The TV had a layer of dust worthy of a winter coat on it. A piece of my artwork hung crooked on the wall and the sink was full of dirty dishes. A pervasive smell of patchouli, cigar and cigarette smoke, spilled wine and spoiled food lingered in the air. I decided to add another aroma to the list.

I had packed a bowl an hour earlier but couldn’t keep my mind off The Brothers Karamazov and poured over each page faster than I normally would read a book.

“That Dmitry Karamazov!” I yelled, steadying the pipe in front of me, half-drunk, half-witted and fully enjoying myself. The mirth of the moment was overflowing in a manic haze. I was in love with the world. I thought of my noble neighbors and how peaceful our little apartment building was.

I took the first hit and while holding it in concentrated on the corner of the room near the door: the dust and dirt; the hair and particles of food and skin; a dead roach on its back. The ceiling fan suddenly felt wonderful when I exhaled through my nose. I took another hit, then another and kept on till it was done and I was stoned.

I took a slug of wine, the thought of not knowing my neighbors persisted. They seemed like good enough folk. Private, like myself. The wine was doing a number on my usual introverted nature. I sprang up, took my glass of wine and headed out the door. I knocked on the neighbor’s door and waited. We’d said hello a few times—Italian, I could tell from his accent. Nice guy. Perhaps drinking some wine right now himself. I sipped mine.

No answer. I knocked again. I imagined myself partying with the guy, maybe smoking him out, talking about women or literature or astronomy. Maybe current events—I’d been zoning out to CNN most of the day.

After a moment I decided to move on to the next door where the guy in the wheelchair lived. Before I knocked I ran inside my place and packed another bowl figuring, for some reason, he’d definitely want to smoke. Again, no answer after a couple knocks. Disappointed, I made my way back to my stoop and sat. I could hear my music playing from inside.

Feeling very Bukowski that night, I pretended the dead writer was sitting on the stoop next to me. I passed him the wine, he drank it. I passed him the pipe. He only took two hits, I smoked the rest and we talked about Dostoevsky and fathers.

“My father threw a 2X4 at me while I was mowing the lawn,” Hank told me.

“My step dad was criticizing my mowing technique one day and I shot him the bird. He chased me around the yard.”

“He catch you?”

I shook my head no and smiled.

“I died for your sins,” he told me, grinning broadly.

“I know. I’ll make you proud, Buk.”

“You’d better.”

We stared at the moon for a moment.

“More wine?” he asked.

“Plenty.”

“Good.”

I went inside, grabbed the bottle and went back outside. But he was gone. I drank alone. I hadn’t written a word in days and nothing significant for weeks. The clutter in my room had gotten out-of-hand and I decided that it was detracting from the general feng shui of the place.

My job sucked. Working at a copy shop, constantly hitting the green button, refilling paper trays, lining up documents on the glass or stacking them into automatic feeders. Sometimes getting high is the only salvation a man can have. No women to be found lately. Couldn’t relate to the drunken ones though I had become quite the drunk myself. I still longed for the princess of my dreams. But she was nowhere to be found.

I hadn’t even had a decent conversation with a woman in over a year and things didn’t seem to be looking up. I spent the whole of my time either at work or at home. One block from the beach, my feet never touched its sand, my eyes never scanned the ocean’s surface. My habit was too expensive for the bars and clubs that lined the streets around me. My voice was too quiet to be heard above the din of tourists and traffic in that quaint little beach town. I’d walk to the grocery store or the liquor store and look at the ground, occasionally glance from leg up to eyes and wonder what was wrong with me, which variable I couldn’t solve the equation for.

As gregarious as I was feeling I decided to take a walk to the beach. I rolled a joint to take with me. Already feeling a bit quieter than I had when Bukowski had visited, I quickly downed another glass of wine hoping for a boost.

I stepped out and locked the door. Making my way to the sidewalk, past darkened rooms and doors I hadn’t knocked on I nearly tripped in the darkness over a child’s toy of which I was unable to discern. The streetlight caught my attention, I watched it change from green to yellow to red before I looked away. I saw a couple walking down the opposite sidewalk towards me, the woman holding the man up as they staggered and giggled, the woman kissing the man’s forehead now and then.

I rounded the corner and saw people seated outside on barstools. Curly blondes and brunettes seemed to be the pick tonight. The bars weren’t packed, being Thursday, but there was a pretty good crowd, all things considered. This wasn’t the most happening of scenes in Fort Lauderdale but it still got its share. I walked across the street to where the two bars were and ogled a curly-haired brunette sitting by herself. She smiled then looked back at the bar and sipped a fruity drink. I had two dollars and change in my pocket. Oh well. Maybe there’d be some people on the beach.

I lit a cigarette and headed to the ocean. I sat on the sand and stared at the lighthouse way off in the distance. I let the light, spinning round and round, hit my eyes each time. I looked to the ocean, at the lights dotting the horizon and imagined myself on one of those ships, adrift in the calm waters, marlin, dolphin and shark beneath me, the ship’s wake smacking against the side of the ship.

By the light of the moon I spied a cute redhead crossing my path. I smiled and she smiled back, saying hello. I turned around when she passed, checking her out. Wonderful, as I’d thought. Should’ve just asked her if she wanted to smoke, she wasn’t a cop or anything. She would’ve said no anyhow, thinking I’m some kinda weirdo.

The moment captured me and I didn’t care about women anymore. I pulled out the joint stashed in my wallet, straightened it out and lit it up. I got up and took a walk down the barren beach. A person appeared in the distance. I walked away from the shore so as not to attract attention with the smell. Some guy walking his dog. A pit bull from what I could tell. With half the joint left I walked towards the shore again and sat down. The water licked my shoes. I finished the joint and put the roach in my cigarette pack.

It was getting late and I had to work the next day. I lit up a cigarette and walked back home. The brunette at the bar I’d made eye contact with was gone and for some reason I felt sad. I pulled out a cigarette but when I went to spark it, my lighter was dead. As I rounded the corner, the ghost of Bukowski appeared and lighted my cigarette. I nodded and walked on. The streets grew silent as I made my way to my door and shuffled inside to sleep off the rest of the melancholy night.