Drinking With Bukowski (short story)
Today was the first day, in over a year, that I didn't go straight home after work. I tried. Heck, I had every intention, but Harry pulled up in front of my car, killed the ignition on his motorcycle, and thumped the kickstand down with some kind of purpose. I peered at him through my bug splattered windshield, leaned my head out the driver side window and whistled.
"What are you doing, old man? Need me to show you how to ride it?" I bantered with a grin. Harry smiled and hunched forward to adjust something on the side of his bike before replying. He was wearing black shorts, black shirt, work boots, and a Harley Davidson doo-rag.
"Come have a drink with me at the sportsman club, Mickey."
For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why he started calling me Mickey, but it started soon after he got hired on. As I sat there, my brain sorted through excuses for why I couldn't join him, but my spirit animal kicked in and growled for even considering saying no to his invitation, so I told him yes.
"Alright, lead the way, hot shot."
"Attaboy!" Harry fired up his bike and sped away.
I followed him for twenty miles through the twisting back roads of Pennsylvania, catching a whiff of exhaust every time he cranked it on a straight away. Twice, he had to brake and swerve to avoid deer standing dangerously close to the road edge. None of them took the death plunge, though one did cross after we passed. I watched it skid and fall as it tried finding traction on the pavement before finally disappearing from my rearview. Harry turned off the main road and began making his way down a terribly paved secondary road riddled with potholes. On either side of the road, one could observe run-down homes and trailers filled with families living hard lives. On one front porch, sat a woman in a lawn chair watching life go by. She wore a bikini top and jean shorts and had a drink in one hand, a book in the other. She waved by holding up her drink as we drove by. Harry honked; I nodded and smiled.
We reached the sportsman club and I counted five vehicles in the parking lot as Harry dismounted and fished his wallet from a leather saddlebag.
"She was checking you out, Mickey," he said, still hunched over.
"Nah, I'm pretty sure her eyes were on that shiny bike," I replied.
He found his wallet and held it up like a prize. "We used to be neighbors. I punched her ex-husband in the nose and she still holds a grudge over it. Says I broke up her marriage. She was definitely smiling at you," he answered.
We went inside, found two seats at the bar and ordered our first round. I spun in my chair and did a slow take of the place. It was very country, with a hunting and fishing motif on most of the walls. Behind the bar were typical liquor shelves and beer taps, but in addition to those, a shelf with large bins filled with small, cardboard lottery pull tabs ranging from one to five bucks per play. The bartender's name was Shawn and he was much younger than the crowd gathered around him. He was in the process of counting out twenty of the pull tabs. He set them down in front of an old lady and wished her luck, then walked over to us.
"Hi Harry.. a Michelob?" Shawn asked. Harry nodded. "And what about the new guy?" he asked while pausing in front of me.
"Gin & tonic."
"Hey Shawn, this is my buddy, Mick," Harry mentioned, leaning partially from his chair. I was glad he didn't introduce me as Mickey.
"Nice to meet you, Mick."
"Likewise."
After a few rounds and lighthearted conversation with the people seated near me, I decided it was time to check out the bathroom. I told Harry I'd be right back and he pointed to the far wall over by the entrance. As I neared the bathroom hallway, the front door buzzed open and in walked the girl from the lawn chair, still holding her book. She was attractive, middle aged, and was now wearing a tank top over her bikini.
"Hey, you're the girl from the front porch!" I remarked.
"And you're Harry's shadow!"
I laughed and shrugged, she smiled and made her way to the bar as I finished my business trip to the bathroom. Upon returning, I was pleased to see her sitting in the bar stool next to mine. I sat down, ordered another drink and asked what she was having. When she said gin & tonic, I couldn't hide my amusement as I motioned two fingers to Shawn. To my right, Harry sat shaking his head while displaying a silly grin.
"What the hell you grinning at, punchy?" porch girl asked while leaning around me.
"I'm grinning at the two of you dopes, ordering the same drink," Harry replied. "Two peas in a freaking pod, I'll tell ya," he added while turning the glass of beer in his hands. It was common to see people rotate their drinks while talking, though I never understood why. I even caught myself turning my own empty glass as I sat there pondering the psychology behind it. I chased the thought from my head and turned to my new neighbor.
"I'm Mick."
"Hiya, Mick, I'm Sky."
She offered her hand and I gave it a momentary, gentle squeeze. Her skin was warm and soft and her tiny hand felt like an extension of serenity waiting to take me places. I fell in love with the feel of it and wished I hadn't let go. She placed it down on top of the book next to her, covering up the title. I tried peeking through her fingers, but only a few letters were visible and I couldn't venture a guess. It felt like a game of Wheel Of Fortune.
"So Mick, what are you doing with that guy?" she teased while nodding toward Harry. I looked over at him.
"Who, him? Ah, I found him begging for change near my car and decided to bring him out for a drink," I joked back.
Sky giggled. "Did he tell you he busted up my marriage few years back?"
"He did mention it; sorry to hear it," I replied, not really knowing what else to say. The drinks arrived and I was glad to have something new to spin.
"He was a no good chump anyhow," Harry added to the conversation. "These younger guys have no decency.. no respect. You're better off without him, Sky."
She leaned in close to me, almost placing her cheek on my shoulder as she whispered, "I ain't gonna argue the fact."
"See! I did her a favor and she knows it!" Harry expressed excitedly. He pounded his beer and stood up, stretching his arms out while growling. "I gotta take a leak. Hey, Sky, you should show Mickey the Johnny Pond," he remarked before walking away. I cringed at hearing my nickname, hoping she hadn't noticed. I tried changing the subject in an attempt to divert her attention.
"Hey, so what are you reading?" I asked her.
She slid her hand off the book, exposing the title for the first time: Love Is A Dog From Hell. My eyes opened wide and I could feel my palms get clammy as my brain tried wrapping itself around the sudden discovery. My basic motor functions ceased and I found myself staring at the book like a goon, saying nothing, and creating an awkward silence that went unnoticed to myself.
Sky noticed, however. She snapped her fingers at me.
"You, uh.. you okay there, Mickey? she asked.
I looked up at her. She had green, penetrating eyes nested above plump cheeks, packaged above a mouth and lips I wanted to kiss very badly.
"I'm fine," I chuckled. "I'm just surprised to see Bukowski, that's all. I didn't expect it."
"What did you expect... Country Cooking?"
"Ha, well.. I dunno really. I guess anything but him?"
The old lady who had been tearing open lottery tabs paused what she was doing to include herself in the conversation. "Sky is the only one of us who gives a shit about him. Rest of us could care less, ain't that right?" she said out loud to anyone listening. Several others seated around the bar mumbled in the affirmative and the old lady went back to opening her lottery tabs. Just then, bartender Shawn appeared.
"Buncha folk 'round here are related," he mentioned.
"R-related?" I stammered. "To Bukowski, you mean? Or are you making a drunk joke?"
Shawn and Sky laughed. "Both, actually," Shawn answered. "And this one here, she's Buk's granddaughter. Or at least she thinks so, anyway," he added before walking away to tend an empty bottle at the other side of the bar. I turned my attention back to Sky and watched her slowly turn the gin & tonic in front of her. I looked back down at the book, then back to her again. She was pretty, but not in an overly so sense, and she conversed confidently and with quick humor. She carried herself like a lit firecracker that did not want to blow.
"Are you really related to him?" I quietly ask her. She sat for a minute, staring at her drink, before answering.
"Why the interest? And does it matter, either way?"
"No, honest, it doesn't matter, but do me a favor. Turn to page 239," I said.
Her curiosity piqued, Sky scooped up the book and thumbed through the pages, landing on a poem titled My Comrades. After reading it, she closed the book and looked at me.
"So.. you some kinda poet, Mr Mick?" she asked while gulping down the last of her drink. She slid the empty glass away and plopped a few dollars down. "Next one is on me, by the way. Drink up."
I did as instructed, bottomed-up my cup, and slid it next to hers. She continued talking.
"I don't carry the last name, but.. she does.. and.. thaaat guy over there," she said while pointing her finger across the bar, "they are both Bukowski's. Couple others in town too. Leftovers from when the originals immigrated here from Germany. The lineage started in Maryland before moving out to Cali, some snuck up here to PA. Pretty cool, huh?"
I looked over at the two people she mentioned and stared for a minute, imagining their connection. They both looked completely normal, but also old and drunk. But then again, so did everyone else.
"Okay, so what about you?" I asked.
"Okay, about me. Turn to page 249," she said while sliding me the book. I turned to the page and read a poem titled Sitting In A Sandwich Joint that Buk wrote about his daughter, who he obviously adored. I shut the book and gasped.
"Holy shit! Is this your mom?"
"Um, no. He wrote that for Marina, the daughter everyone knows of. I'm Sky, the daughter of a drunk stripper he knocked up. He mentioned my mom a few times in some poems. Not very glowingly, I might add. They aren't in this book. Different time and chapter of his life. But anyway, so yeah... bunch of Bukowski's live around here. Crazy, huh?"
I sat for a minute, trying to take it all in; the impossible odds of this occurrence bounced around my head like a broken bolt. It felt like the first time I read Bukowski and recognized the curvature of my own writing, how it was born from hard times and drenched by the liquor I tried drowning myself in. It felt like the feeling of walking into fire and not wanting out. I sighed and smiled at her, not knowing what more to say. Our drinks arrived. She grabbed hers and stood up, motioned for me to do the same.
"Lemme show you the Johnny Pond."
We told Shawn and Harry we'd be back, and Sky and I went outside and walked down a gravel pathway together that led to a fish pond, roughly the size of a football field. We stopped when we got the edge and stood side by side, looking at the calm water. I pointed to a turtle head poking through the surface and she laughed.
"Do you know why they call it the Johnny Pond?" she asked. I said no. "Awhile back, ten years or so, old man Johnny lived in a trailer just up the hill there. Well, he got good and drunk, like he always did, and during his walk home he staggered over to the pond to take a piss, fell in and drowned. That was that. Next evening, few fellas got liquored up and decided they wanted to shoot at turtles, so they grabbed their guns and came down here to the pond and saw what they thought was a turtle, took aim and fired off several rounds.. right into Johnny's bare bottom! His body was floating right out there, face down, britches still pulled down, only his bare ass showing. Them boys thought Johnny was a turtle! Anyway, it created a helluva stir, you can imagine. The law thought for sure it was a murder and every town around began to gossip about why Johnny got killed. Eventually, it was settled an accident and things returned to normal, but ever since then, we call it the Johnny Pond."
I took a long sip of my drink and gazed out at what looked like a turtle. I could make out a shell, just barely visible beneath the surface. I understood the shooters' confusion. I fished an ice cube from my cup and tossed it into the pond and watched as it plopped into the water. The turtle head instantly vanished, causing ripples to expand in every direction. I turned back to Sky.
"You're very pretty and you tell fun stories," I told her. "How did you end up way over here in rural Pennsylvania?"
"Aww, thanks," she blushed. "After my mom got pregnant, her stripping days came to an end and she grew bitter and became an even bigger drunk. She kept harassing Buk for money to help support her and me, but he didn't want none of it. At this point in his life, his writing was making him money and he had enough to pay off my mom and make her go away. We moved to Ohio and she tried her best to raise me, but she ended up dying from an overdose when I was 15. I was named appropriately. My mom was high as the sky when she conceived me. Anyway, long story short, a family friend reached out and invited me to come live here among my daddy's namesake. And I've been here ever since, living quietly in the woods near a bar filled with Bukowski's. Seems like fiction, huh."
"It reads like poetry, that's for sure," I remarked as I reached out and touched her hand. Her finger instantly curled around mine and squeezed like a snake. We stood together that way for a few minutes, staring out at the water. Eventually one finger became two, then three four five until we were fully holding hands. I enjoyed the feel of it. A turtle suddenly surfaced directly in front of us, as if to approve of the moment. I turned toward her.
"Did you get bit by the writer's bug? Did your dad pass it down?" I asked.
"Well, sort of. I dabbled a little in my late teens, early twenties. I wrote awful poetry and couldn't understand why I was even writing it. It just.. it just sort of flowed out of me every time I was alone. Then I got into boys and for many years, that was fucking a mess. I didn't do much writing during that time period, but God knows I had plenty of stuff to vent. Eventually, one of my relatives sat me down and explained who my dad was and showed me a book he had written. I remember holding it in my hands, thumbing through all the pages. I remember the way it felt like a foreign thing that I knew nothing about. A book? My dad wrote a book? I didn't do well in school and I hated reading, but there I was, holding a whole book that my asshole dad had written. And then I discovered he wrote many more books. Like.. a shit ton of them! And my mind was blown open like ole Johnny's ass."
I couldn't hold back a laugh and I felt her hand squeeze me in response.
"I'm sorry, but that was funny," I said.
She agreed and continued talking. I liked watching her talk. I liked the way her neck muscles contorted and moved when she got excited during certain parts of a story. I liked the way her eyes twinkled and her voice found a higher pitch when things meant a great deal to her. It seemed like I was in a dream standing there with her, listening to her past come to life. I was riveted by every word she spoke and I didn't want the night to end.
The turtle disappeared beneath water as Sky finished her story. I turned to face her and grabbed hold of her other hand. The excitement of storytelling quickly faded and she was left exposed, looking up at me, feeling vulnerable and unsure of what should come next. I pulled her in and kissed her. Softly and quickly, almost like a thank you, but with a hint of hidden romance. Our lips parted and she stood there awkwardly, hoping for an asteroid strike. I started to laugh again, but she shushed me with another kiss, this time more deeply, as though our lips were the only thing keeping us safe from a space attack. It was this or obliteration. Our life expectancy depended on a kiss.
We watched the sun descend past the tree line and dusk appear all around us, like a friend daring us to dance in the dark. Her body retreated into mine, fitting like a lost puzzle piece needed to complete the picture. As I stood there holding her, I wondered if everything she told me was just a wild fantasy created from a clever mind. She felt real to me in my arms, and her story resonated to the point of explosion. To believe or not to believe, that was the question. In that moment, I certainly didn't care much either way. I was filled with joy from the unexpected. We kissed one more time, quite passionately, before heading back to the bar. As we approached the front door I told her to hang on a second as I went to my car. After a brief moment, I returned with my book bag. I rummaged through and pulled out a small Bukowski poetry chapbook autographed by him in 1989. I showed it to her and watched as she held onto it like precious metal. She ran her finger over his signature and a tear formed in her eye. She saw all the napkin scraps marking the poems I adored the most. She thanked me for showing it to her and handed it back. We walked back in the bar to our seats where Harry greeted us with a big goofy look on his face.
"Did she tell you about the Johnny Pond, Mickey?" he asked.
"That and a whole lot more, Harry," I replied.
"Did she tell you how I punched her ex in the nose?" he asked while chuckling. Harry seemed really proud of the story. I laughed and bought him a beer. In the middle of all this, Sky had been rummaging through her purse and produced a folded piece of paper, to which she motioned for me to read it. I unfolded the paper and began to read:
"My darling Sky.
My heart grieves knowing it
will never know you.
Your mother and I were an impossibility,
this is not your fault.
I only hope you find happiness
in this life
no matter where it takes you.
Please be wary of the monsters,
they look just like me."
It was signed, "Dad.. Charles Bukowski" and the handwriting and signature perfectly matched the one inside my autographed book. With a trembling hand, I gave her back the note. Her hand touched mine and it was my turn to fight back a tear. I turned my head so Harry couldn't see. Sky reached up and wiped it away with her finger and smiled.
I leaned in and whispered, "I don't know what to say."
She whispered back, "We got all the time in the world for words. Just kiss me, stupid."
THE END.
that one lives with his mother
and that one is supported by a red-faced alcoholic father
with the brain of a gnat.
this one takes speed and has been supported by
the same woman for 14 years.
that one writes a novel every ten days
but at least pays his own rent.
this one goes from place to place
sleeping on couches, drinking and making his spiel.
this one prints his own books from a duplicating machine.
that one lives in an abandoned shower room
in a Hollywood hotel.
this one seems to know how to grant after grant,
his life is a filling-out of forms.
this one is simply rich and lives in the best
places while knocking on the best doors.
this one had breakfast with William Carlos Williams.
and this one teaches.
and that one teaches.
and this one puts out textbooks on how to do it
and speaks in a cruel and dominating voice.
they are everywhere.
everybody is a writer.
and almost every writer is a poet.
poets poets poets poets poets poets
poets poets poets poets poets poets
the next time the phone rings
it will be a poet.
the next person at the door
will be a poet.
this one teaches
and that one is living with his mother
and that one is writing the story of Ezra Pound.
oh, brothers, we are the sickest and the
lowest of the breed.
Ahhhh I love this ❤️
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