The Pleasures of the Damned. Charles Bukowski

man who draws cartoons for The New Yorker ask a goldfish ask a fern shaking to a tapdance ask the map of India ask a kind face ask the man hiding under your bed ask the man you hate the most in this world ask the man who drank with Dylan Thomas ask the man who laced Jack Sharkey’s gloves ask the sad-faced man drinking coffee ask the plumber ask the man who dreams of ostriches every night ask the ticket taker at a freak show ask the counterfeiter ask the man sleeping in an alley under a sheet of paper ask the conquerors of nations and planets ask the man who has just cut off his finger ask a bookmark in the bible ask the water dripping from a faucet while the phone rings ask perjury ask the deep blue paint ask the parachute jumper ask the man with the bellyache ask the divine eye so sleek and swimming ask the boy wearing tight pants in the expensive academy ask the man who slipped in the bathtub ask the man chewed by the shark ask the one who sold me the unmatched gloves ask these and all those I have left out ask the fire the fire the fire— ask even the liars ask anybody you please at any time you please on any day you please whether it’s raining or whether the snow is there or whether you are stepping out onto a porch yellow with warm heat ask this ask that ask the man with birdshit in his hair ask the torturer of animals ask the man who has seen many bullfights in Spain ask the owners of new Cadillacs ask the famous ask the timid ask the albino and the statesman ask the landlords and the poolplayers ask the phonies ask the hired killers ask the bald men and the fat men and the tall men and the short men ask the one-eyed men, the oversexed and undersexed men ask the men who read all the newspaper editorials ask the men who breed roses ask the men who feel almost no pain ask the dying ask the mowers of lawns and the attenders of football games ask any of these or all of these ask ask ask and they’ll all tell you:

      a snarling wife on the balustrade is more than a man can bear.

       a future congressman

      in the men’s room at the

       track

       this boy of about

       7 or 8 years old

       came out of a stall

       and the man

       waiting for him

       (probably his father)

       asked,

       “what did you do with the

       racing program?

       I gave it to you

       to keep.”

       “no,” said the boy,

       “I ain’t seen it! I don’t

       have it!”

      they walked off and

       I went into the stall

       because it was the only one

       available

       and there

       in the toilet

       was the

       program.

      I tried to flush

       the program

       away

       but it just swam

       sluggishly about

       and

       remained.

      I got out of

       there and found

       another

       empty stall.

      that boy was ready

       for his life to come,

       he would undoubtedly

       be highly successful,

       the lying little

       prick.

       eulogy

      with old cars, especially when you buy them secondhand and drive them for many years

       a love affair is inevitable:

       you even learn to

       accept their little

       eccentricities:

       the leaking water pump

       the failing plugs

       the rusted throttle arm

       the reluctant carburetor

       the oily engine

       the dead clock

       the frozen speedometer and

       other sundry

       defects.

       you also learn all the tricks to

       keep the love affair alive:

       how to slam the glove compartment so that

       it will stay closed,

       how to slap the headlight with an open palm

       in order to have

       light,

       how many times to pump the gas pedal

       and how long to wait before

       touching the starter,

       and you overlook each burn hole in the

       upholstery

       and each spring

       poking through the fabric.

       your car has been in and out of

       police impounds,

       has been ticketed for various

       malfunctions:

       broken wipers,

       no turn signals, missing

       brake light, broken tail lights, bad

       brakes, excessive

       exhaust and so forth

       but in spite of everything

       you knew you were in good hands,

       there was never an accident, the

       old car moved you from one place to

       another,

       faithfully

       —the poor man’s miracle.

       so when that last breakdown did occur,

       when the valves quit,

       when the tired pistons

       cracked, or the

       crankshaft failed and

       you sold it for

       junk

       —you then had to watch it carted

       away

       hanging there

       from the back of the tow truck

       wheeled off

       as if it had no

       soul,

       the bald rear tires

       the cracked back window and

       the twisted license plate

       were the last things you

       saw, and it

       hurt

       as if some woman you loved very

       much

       and lived with

       year after year

       had died

       and now you

       would never

       again know

       her music

       her magic

       her unbelievable

       fidelity.