an unliterary afternoon

Roger came by with his well-trimmed beard and puffing his
pipe.
Roger was literary in the old-fashioned sense: almost
everytime he opened his mouth you would hear
“Balzac” or “Hem” or “F. Scott”.

I was drinking with Gerda who was also on the speed.
Lorraine was passed out in the bedroom and I don’t know
what she was on.

I gave Roger a can of beer and he drank that and I gave
him another and he began talking away:
“did you know that Celine and Hemingway died on the
same day?”

“no, I didn’t know…”

“hey, who’s that babe laying on your bed?”

“oh that?   that’s Lorraine…..”

he walked into the bedroom and climbed into bed with
Lorraine, shoes and all.
Lorraine was out.

“hey… baby!”

Roger reached over and into her dress and grabbed one of her
breasts.

Lorraine leaped out of bed:   “hey, you son of a bitch!   what
do you think you’re doing PLAYING WITH MY TITTY?!”

“oh, I’m sorry…”

Lorraine ran into our room.

“WHO IS THAT SON OF A BITCH?   THAT SON OF A BITCH
GRABBED MY TITTY!”

then Roger came out of the bedroom:   “listen, I didn’t mean
any harm…”

“YOU KEEP YOUR MOTHERFUCKING HANDS IN YOUR POCKERS YOU
FUCKING HUNK OF SOGGY SHIT!”

“yeah,” said Gerda, throwing an empty can of beer onto the
rug, “go play with yourself!”

Roger walked to the door, opened it, closed it and was
gone.

“WHO WAS THAT SON OF A BITCH?” Lorraine asked.

“yeah?   who? asked Gerda.

“that was John Dos Possos,” I said.

“YEAH?   WELL, YOU TELL HIM TO KEEP HIS HANDS IN HIS
POCKETS!”

“I will,” I told Lorraine.

“I don’t know where you get your fucking friends,”
she said.

“neither do I,” I answered.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1980
Source
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: