it was the 4th of July and I was living with an Alvarado Street whore, I was on my last unemployment check and we had a room on the first floor of a Beacon Street hotel next to a housing development. it was 11 a.m. and I was puking, trying to get a can of ale down, the whore in bed next to me in her torn slip mumbling about her children in Atlanta then sleeping, snoring her belly like a watermelon fattening with green beer and red wine, she was the best I could do on and off with her for two years – then two kids came up and threw a firecracker FLANNNNGGGG! against the screen of our window. “oooh shit,” said the whore. I got up out of bed in my torn shorts: “hey, you fuckers! don’t do that again!” they laughed and ran off. “I miss my children,” said the whore, “I wonder if I’ll ever see Ronnie and Lila again?” “will you stop that shit?” I asked. “I heard that shit all last night long!” the whore began crying. I went to the bathroom and puked again, cracked a new can of ale and sat next to the whore in my bed. “don’t mourn, Lilly,” I said, “you give a great blowjob and that counts for something.” FLANNNNGGGG! it was another firecracker. “ooh shit,” said the whore. I leaped up and ran to the window. I was 25 year old and a mean s.o.b. I had nothing to lose and was willing to lay it down anywhere. “I told you fuckers! that’s all! that’s the end of it! the next time will be the last time!” they just stood there and laughed at me, two little kids maybe ten or eleven years old, they laughed at me, me who duked it out once or twice a week with the most violent characters in the neighborhood, maybe not always winning but hardly ever shamed. one of the kids lit another cracker and tossed it, FLANNNNGGGG! I opened the screen and leaped through the window into the yard. the kids backed off. “go get your father,” I said, “and I’ll kick his ass good!” they stood looking at me. “fucking drunk,” said the tallest kid and he pulled out a switchblade, hit the button, the knife flicked out and he jammed it into a tree, then pulled it out. I moved toward him and he stood there making movements with the blade. I closed in on him, he flicked out, ran a gash along my right arm above the wrist and then I had the knife twisted it away from him and kicked him in the ass. “now get your father,” I said. they both left and I stood there waiting in my torn shorts… a minute, two minutes, three minutes, then I got afraid the heat might arrive so I went back and crawled into the window, got back in the bed and played with the knife, flicking the blade in and out. I took a hit of ale and didn’t puke. I felt masterful – nobody could have handled it better – I was one 25-year-old mean rattlesnake bastard, it didn’t pay to fuck with me. “ooh, you’re bleeding,” noticed the whore. “I’m having my period,” I told her. “I always thought you were a queer,” she said. “I never knew queers had periods.” it was a beautiful knife, I sat there flicking it in and out. I opened a new ale. I never liked holidays. this one was no exception.
You can find this poem in Charles Bukowski’s brilliant book of poetry—Dangling in the Tournefortia
4TH JULY
Jefferson, Adams and Washington
All died on Independence Day, the celebrations
Presumably too much for them, perhaps
Frightened (like dogs and cats) by the fireworks
On the plus side, Garibaldi
The Italian nationalist, was born. Louis
Armstrong, the trumpeter. Gina Lollobrigida
Jack Johnson broke John Jeffries nose in Reno
And the Communist Manifesto was published
My great-grandfather was named after Garibaldi
Having lived LA for forty years I just love the way he uses "Alvarado Street like that says it all because it does. He could find them anywhere and if you took him to Yosemite, he'd find them there though they wouldn't sound like Thoreau (I know Walden Pond was not in Yosemite). I used to see him at Hollywood Park on the clubhouse level, leaning against the back wall with his racing form. I wanted to scream "Chinanski you fucking lunatic, who do you got in the seventh?" But I didn't want to be "that" guy or god forbid try to read him a poem. Besides, we were both at work, me in a suit because my holocaust survivor mother in law was a gambling addict and turf club member, and they had a dress code. We went everyday to gather the crumbs and make our dope habit. If I had told Bukowski that he might have appreciated it or might he have just told me to fuck off! Both would have been good.