Last week a young woman came to see me from Costa Mesa. She said she was a reader of my books. She was a handsome girl, about 21, and since I was a writer always in search of material, I let her in. She sat in a chair across the room looking at me, not speaking. The silence lasted some minutes. “Beer?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said.
“Then you can speak.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m going to Mexico to study creative writing. I’m taking a six week course,” she added.
“The best way to study creative writing is to live.”
“I think a course helps.”
“No, it hinders. It tightens. Too much bad praise and bad criticism. Too much admixture of similar personalities. It’s destructive. Even if you want to meet a man, that’s the worst place to meet a man.”
She didn’t answer.
We drank some more beer and I talked. Then the beer was gone.
“I like bars,” she said, “let’s go to a bar.”
We walked on down the street and went in. I ordered two scotch and waters. When she went to the restroom the bartender came back on down.
“God o mighty, Bukowski,” he said, “you’ve got another one. They’re all young. How do you do it?”
“It’s all platonic, Harry. Plus a matter of research.”
“Balls,” said Harry and walked off. Harry was a crude guy.
She came back and we had another after that one. She still didn’t talk. What the hell’s she want? I thought.
“Why did you come to see me?” I asked.
“You’ll see . . . ”
“O.K., babe.”
Scotch and waters in a bar add up a bill fast. I suggested we get a 5th and go back to my place.
“All right,” she said . . .
I filled her glass with half scotch and half water. Likewise, my own. I talked about this and that, being a bit embarrassed by her continual silence. She drank right along with me. Then, after the 3d or 4th drink she began to change. Her face changed. Her face began to take on a strange shape. The eyes became smaller and different, the nose seemed to become sharper, the lips seemed to show teeth. I am serious about this.
“I want to tell you something,” she said.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“I’ll get right to it,” she said. “I am a rat in the body of a woman. The rats have sent me to you.”
“I see,” I said.
“Rats, you see, are more intelligent than people. We have been waiting for centuries to take over the world. We’re getting ready now. Do you understand this?”
“Wait,” I said. I went out and poured two more drinks.
“Tell me more,” I said.
“It’s simple,” she said, “the rats have sent me to you to help us take over the world. We want your help.”
“I’m honored,” I said. “I haven’t been too fond of people for some time.”
“You’ll help us then?”
“Well, I’m not too fond of rats either.”
“Well, all right,” she said, “you have to choose a side. Which side do you want? The rats are going to win. If you’re wise, you’ll side with us.”
“Let me think it over.”
“All right,” she said, “I’ll write you from Mexico.”
She stood up.
“You going now?”
“Yes,” she said, “my mission is completed.”
“O.k.,” I said. I walked her to the door, in fact, I walked her to her mother’s new Cadillac, a white Cadillac, and she got in and drove off.
Now I’m waiting for the letter. I’m not quite sure what my answer will be. Those rats are getting there—drinking scotch, driving white Cadillacs and taking creative writing courses in Mexico. I suppose the final war will be between the rats and the cockroaches. I suppose they have an edge on the human race; I doubt they concentrate on killing each other . . .
Yesterday my girlfriend brought over her dog and came to see me. I live in a front court and there are a great many cats who belong to people in the other courts. One cat came and stood on my porch. The dog barked up a great racket, I couldn’t quiet him. The guy from next door who owned the cat came over to get him.
“What kind of dog is that?” he asked. The guy was drunk.
“He’s just a mutt, a low-life mutt.”
“Let him out. My cat can handle him.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s not my dog.”
“Whose dog is it?”
“It belongs to a friend.”
“Let him out.”
“No,” I said, “I like animals.”
“They’ve got a lot more sense than people,” he said.
“You’re goddamned right,” I said.
And that’s not a very profound way to end this but I figure it’s good enough. Hang in, observe, and I’ll probably send you instructions for the future.
The Looney Ward
When the student nurses came in, some of the fellows masturbated under their gowns, although one or two of them simply took their things out and did it in the open.
The student nurses wore these very short uniforms and you could see through them. So you could hardly blame the fellows. It was an interesting place, this hospital. Then the doctor would come in. His name was Dr. McLain, a very fine fellow. He’d walk around, look at us and say, “Yes, 140 cc’s for this one, and, ah, give this one . . . ah, 100 cc’s of . . . ” And then he’d look at me and snap his fingers, “Ha, ha! Drugs! Drugs! Let’s have a big party! Where’s the big party, Bukowski?” he’d ask.
I was in . . . well, they ‘d caught me with an overdose and I was trying to stay in a while because I’d passed a few bad checks and was waiting for the heat to die down.
“The big party’s right under my balls, doctor. I can hear it down there!”
“Under your balls, hey, my man?”
“Yes, directly under. I can even hear it down there.”
It usually went on and on like that.
In the evening they’d bring us our juice. We always made a big thing about the juice.
“I