One day Bukowski was standing there in the grass with his dog. I don't know what kind of dog it was but it was little and ugly. Bukowski was scowling in my general direction, smoking a cigarette, styling and profiling in a yellow tank top and stained work pants. I was intimidated but I knew what to say.
"I've read all your books. I'm really good at blow jobs."
"You must be confused. I'm not a writer."
"Okay. So I'm not your type."
"I don't know that I have a type. But I know I don't have a typer."
"You ARE Bukowski! Bukowski called typewriters 'typers.' You dig Beethoven, right? Mahler? Wagner? Betting on horses? Getting drunk with whores? You staged a good death. People are right about you. You are a genius, baby. No one would ever think to look for you in San damn Antonio!"
"Lady, I don't know what you're talking about. Never heard of this Bukowski fella. Can't afford whores or horses. I do get drunk on occasion. I'm drunk now. I'll let you buy me a drink at the corner store and then you can join me in my humble abode for some good old-fashioned dick sucking."
He wasn't really Bukowski. He had Catholic art (Jesus and the saints and various angels) all over his walls. No radio. No books. But he bought me a Shiner Bock and a Slim Jim so I followed through and then I thanked him profusely for giving me something to write about.
"I've read all your books. I'm really good at blow jobs."
"You must be confused. I'm not a writer."
"Okay. So I'm not your type."
"I don't know that I have a type. But I know I don't have a typer."
"You ARE Bukowski! Bukowski called typewriters 'typers.' You dig Beethoven, right? Mahler? Wagner? Betting on horses? Getting drunk with whores? You staged a good death. People are right about you. You are a genius, baby. No one would ever think to look for you in San damn Antonio!"
"Lady, I don't know what you're talking about. Never heard of this Bukowski fella. Can't afford whores or horses. I do get drunk on occasion. I'm drunk now. I'll let you buy me a drink at the corner store and then you can join me in my humble abode for some good old-fashioned dick sucking."
He wasn't really Bukowski. He had Catholic art (Jesus and the saints and various angels) all over his walls. No radio. No books. But he bought me a Shiner Bock and a Slim Jim so I followed through and then I thanked him profusely for giving me something to write about.
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