Charles Bukowski. Short stories collectionConfession of a CowardGod, she thought lying in bed naked and re-reading Aldington's Portraitof a Genius, But... he's an impostor! Not D.H. Lawrence, but her husband-Henry-with his bauble of a belly and all the hair he never combed and theway he stood around in his shorts, and the way he stood naked before thewindow like an Arabian and howled; and he told her that he was turning intoa toad and that he wanted to buy a Buddha and that he wanted to be old anddrown in the sea, and that he was going to grow a beard and that he felt asif he was turning into a woman.And Henry was poor, poor and worthless and miserable and sick. And hewanted to join the Mahler Society. His breath was bad, his father was insaneand his mother was dying of cancer.And besides all this, the weather was hot, hot as hell."I've got a new system," he said. "All I need is four or five grand.It's a matter of investment. We could travel from track to track in atrailer."She felt like saying something blas+ like, "We don't have four or fivegrand," but it didn't come out. Nothing came out: all the doors were closedand all the windows were down, and it was in the middle of the desert-noteven vultures-and they were about to drop the Bomb. She should have stayedin Texas, she should have stayed with Papa-this man is a goon, a gunnysack,a gutless no-nothing in a world of doers. He hides behind symphonies andpoetic fancies; a weak and listless soul."Are you going to take me to the museum?" she asked."Why?""They're having an Art Exhibit.""I know.""Well, don't you want to see Van Gogh?""To hell with Van Gogh! What's Van Gogh to me?"The doors closed again and she couldn't think of an answer."I don't like museums," he continued. "I don't like museum-people."The fan was going but it was a small apartment and the heat held as ifenclosed in a kettle."In fact," he said, peeling off his T-shirt and standing in just hisshorts, "I don't like any kind of people."Amazingly, he had hair on his chest."In fact," he continued, pulling his shorts down and over the end ofone foot, "I'm going to write a book some day and call it Confession of aCoward."The doorbell rang like a rape, or the tearing of ripe flesh."Jesus Christ!" he said like something trapped.She jumped off the bed, looking very white and unpeeled. Like a candybanana. Aldington and D.H. Lawrence and Taos fell to the floor.She ran to the closet and began stuffing herself inside the flyingcloth of female necessaries."Never mind the clothes," he said."Aren't you going to answer?""No! Why should I?"It rang again. The sound of the bell entered the room and searched themout, scaled and scalded their skins, pummeled them with crawling eyes.Then it was silent.And the feet turned with their sound, turning and guiding some monster,taking it back down the stairwell, one two three, 1, 2, 3; and then gone."I wonder," he said, still not moving, "what that was?"
"I don't know," she said, bending double at the waist and pulling herpetticoat back over her head."Here!" she yelled. "Here!" holding her arms out like feelers.He finished yanking the petticoat off over her head with some distaste."Why do you women wear this crap?" he asked in a loud voice.She didn't feel an answer was necessary and went over and pulledLawrence out from under the bed. Then she got into bed with Lorenzo and herhusband sat on the couch."They built a little shrine for him," he said."Who?" she asked irritably."Lawrence.""Oh.""They have a picture of it in that book.""Yes, I've seen it.""Have you ever seen a dog-graveyard?""What?""A dog-graveyard.""Well, what about it?""They always have flowers. Every dog always has flowers, fresh, all inneat little clusters on each grave. It's enough to make you cry."She found her place in the book again, like a person searching forsolitude in the middle of a lake: So the bitter months dragged by miserably,accompanied by Lorenzo's tragic feeling of loss, his-"I wish I had studied ballet," he said. "I go about all slumped overbut that's because my spirit is wilted. I'm really lithe, ready to tumble onspring mattresses of some sort. I should have been a frog, at least. You'llsee. Someday I'm going to turn into a frog."Her lake rippled with the irritating breeze: "Well, for heaven's sake,study ballet! Go at night! Get rid of your belly! Leap around! Be a frog!""You mean after WORK?" he asked woefully."God," she said, "you want everything for nothing." She got up and wentto the bathroom and closed the door.She doesn't understand, he thought, sitting on the couch naked, shedoesn't understand that I'm joking. She's so god-damned serious. EverythingI say is supposed to carry truth or tragic import, or insight or something.I've been through all that!He noticed a pencil-scrawled piece of paper, in her handwriting, on theside table. He picked it up:My husband is a poet published alongside Sartre and Lorca;he writes about insanity and Nietzsche and Lawrence,but what has he written about me?she reads the funniesand empties garbageand makes little hatsand goes to Mass at 8 AMI too am a poet and an artist, some discerning criticssay, but my husband wrote about me:she reads the funnies...He heard the toilet flush, and a moment later, out she came."I'd like to be a clown in a circus," he greeted her.She got back on the bed with her book."Wouldn't you like to be a tragicomic clown stumbling about with apainted face?" he asked her.She didn't answer. He picked up the Racing Form:POWER 114 B.g.4, by Cosmic Bomb-Pomayya, by PompeyBreeder, Brookmeade Stable.1956 12 2 4 1 $12,950
July 18-Jam I I/16 1:45 1/5ft. 3 122 21/2 3 2h GuerinE'Alw 86"I'm going to Caliente next Sunday," he said."Good. I'll have Charlotte over. Allen can bring her in the car.""Do you believe she really got propositioned by the preacher in thatmovie like she claimed?"She turned the page of her book."God damn you, answer me!" he screamed, angry at last."What about?""Do you think she's a whore and making it all up? Do you think we'reall whores? What are we trying to do, reading all these books? Writing allthe poems they -send back, and working in some dungeon for nothing becausewe're not really interested in money?"She put the book down and looked back over her shoulder at him. "Well,"she said in a low voice, "do you want to give it all up?""Give WHAT all up? We don't have anything! Or, do you mean Beethoven'sFifth or Handel's Water Music? Or do you mean the SOUL?""Let's not argue. Please. I don't want to argue."Well, I want to know what we are trying to do!"The doorbell rang like all the bells of doom sweeping across the room."Shhh," he said, "shhh! Be quiet!"The doorbell rang again, seeming to say, I know you are in there, Iknow you are in there."They know we're in here." she whispered."I feel that this is it, " he said."What?""Never mind. Just be quiet. Maybe it will go away.""Isn't it wonderful to have all these friends?" she took up the joke-cudgel."No. We have no friends. I tell you, this is something else!"It rang again, very short, flat and spiritless. "I once tried to makethe Olympic swimming team," he said, getting completely off the point."You make more ridiculous statements by the minute, Henry.""Will you get off my back? Just for that!," he said, raising his voice,"WHO IS IT?"There was no answer.Henry rose wide-eyed, as if in a trance, and flung the door open,forgetting his nakedness. He stood there transfixed in thought for sometime, but it was obvious to her that nobody was therein his state of undressthere would have been quite a commotion or, at the very least, somesophisticated comment.Then he closed the door. He had a strange look on his face, a round-eyed almost dull look and he swallowed once as he faced her. His pride,perhaps?"I've decided," he announced, "that I'm not going to turn into a womanafter all.""Well, that will help matters between us considerably, Henry.""And I'll even take you to see Van Gogh. No wait, I'll let you takeme.""Either way, dear. It doesn't matter.""No," he said, "you'll have to take me!"He marched into the bathroom and closed the door."Don't you wonder," she said through the door, "who that was?""Who what was?""Who that was at the door? Twice?""Hell," he said, "I know who it was.""Who was it, then?""Ha!"
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Bukowski, Charles - Short Stories Collection
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| Upload Date: | 11/29/2009 |
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