YOU AND YOUR BEER AND HOW GREAT YOU ARE by Charles Bukowski
Jack came through the door and found the pack of cigarettes on the mantle. Ann was on the couch reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. Jack lit up, sat down in a chair. It was ten minutes to midnight.
“Charley told you not to smoke,” said Ann, looking up from the magazine.
“I deserve it. It was a rough one tonight.”
“Did you win?”
“Split decision but I got it. Benson was a tough boy, lots of guts. Charley says Parvinelli is next. We get over Parvinelli, we get the champ.”
Jack got up, went to the kitchen, came back with a bottle of beer.
“Charley told me to keep you off the beer,” Ann put the magazine down.
‘” ‘Charley told me, Charley told me’ . . . I’m tired of that. I won my fight. I won 16 straight, I got a right to a beer and a cigarette.”
“You’re supposed to stay in shape.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can whip any of them.”
“You’re so great, I keep hearing it when you get drunk, you’re so great. I get sick of it.”
“I am great. 16 straight, 15 k.o.’s. Who’s better?”
Ann didn’t answer. Jack took his bottle of beer and his cigarette into the bathroom.
“You didn’t even kiss me hello. The first thing you did was go to your bottle of beer. You’re so great, all right. You’re a great beer-drinker.”
Jack didn’t answer. Five minutes later he stood in the bathroom door, his pants and shorts down around his shoes.
“Jesus Christ, Ann, can’t you even keep a roll of toilet paper in here?”
“Sorry.”
She went to the closet and got him the roll. Jack finished his business and walked out. Then he finished his beer and got another one. “Here you are living with the best light-heavy in the world and all you do is complain. Lots of girls would love to have me but all you do is sit around and bitch.”
“I know you’re good. Jack, maybe the best, but you don’t know how boring it is to sit around and listen to you say over and over again how great you are.”
“Oh, you’re bored with it, are you?”
“Yes, god damn it, you and your beer and how great you are.”
“Name a better light-heavy. You don’t even come to my fights.”
“There are other things besides fighting. Jack.”
“What? Like laying around on your ass and reading Cosmopolitan?”
“I like to improve my mind.”
“You ought to. There’s a lot of work to be done there.”
“I tell you there are other things besides fighting.”
“What? Name them.”
“Well, art, music, painting, things like that.”
“Are you any good at them?”
“No, but I appreciate them.”
“Shit, I’d rather be best at what I’m doing.”
“Good, better, best . . . God, can’t you appreciate people for what they are?”
“For what they are? What are most of them? Snails, blood-suckers, dandies, finks, pimps, servants . . .”
“You’re always looking down on everybody. None of your friends are good enough. You’re so damned great!”
“That’s right, baby.”
Jack walked into the kitchen and came out with another beer.
“You and your god damned beer!”
“It’s my right. They sell it. I buy it.”
“Charley said . . .”
“Fuck Charley!”
“You’re so god damned great!”
“That’s right. At least Pattie knew it. She admitted it. She was proud of it. She knew it took something. All you do is bitch.”
“Well, why don’t you go back to Pattie? What are you doing with me?”
“That’s just what I’m thinking.”
“Well, we’re not married, I can leave any time.”
“That’s one break we’ve got. Shit, I come in here dead-ass tired after a tough ten rounder and you’re not even glad I took it. All you do is complain about me.”
“Listen. Jack, there are other things besides fighting. WTien I met you, I admired you for what you were.”
“I was a fighter. There aren’t any other things besides fighting.
That’s what 1 am—a hghter. That’s my tile, and 1m good at it. The best. I notice you always go for those second raters . . . like Toby Jorgenson.”
“Toby’s very funny. He’s got a sense of humor, a real sense of humor. I like Toby.”
“His record is 9, 5, and one. I can take him when I’m dead drunk.”
“And god knows you’re dead drunk often enough. How do you think I feel at parties when you’re laying on the floor passed out, or lolling around the room telling everybody, ‘I’M GREAT, I’M GREAT, I’M GREAT!’ Don’t you think that makes me feel like an ass?”
“Maybe you arc an ass. If you like Toby so much, why don’t you go with him?”
“Oh, 1 just said I liked him, I thought he was funny, that doesn’t mean I want to go to bed with him.”
“Well, you go to bed with me and you say I’m boring. I don’t know what the hell you want.”
Ann didn’t answer. Jack got up, walked over to the couch, lifted Ann’s head and kissed her, walked back and sat down again.
“Listen, let me tell you about this fight with Benson. Even you would have been proud of me. He decks me in the first round, a sneak right. I get up and hold him off the rest of the round. He plants me again in the second. I barely get up at 8. I hold him oft again. The next few rounds I spend getting my legs back. I take the 6th, 7th, 8th, deck him once in the 9th and twice in the 10th. I don’t call that a split. They called it a split. Well, it’s 45 grand, you get that, kid? 45 grand. I’m great, you can’t deny I’m great, can you?”
Ann didn’t answer.
“Come on, tell me I’m great.”
“All right, you’re great.”
“Well, that’s more like it.” Jack walked over and kissed her again. “I feel so good. Boxing is a work of art, it really is. It takes guts to be a great artist and it takes guts to be a great fighter.”
“All right. Jack.”
“‘All right, Jack,’ is that all you can say? Pattie used to be happy when I won. W^e were both happy all night. Can’t you share it when I do something good? Hell, are you in love with me or are you in love with the losers, the half-asses? I think you’d be happier if I came in here a loser.”
“I want you to win. Jack, it’s only that you put so much empha-
sis on what you do . . .”
“Hell, it’s my living, it’s my life. I’m proud of being best. It’s like flying, it’s like flying off into the sky and whipping the sun,”
“What are you going to do when you can’t fight anymore?”
“Hell, we’ll have enough money to do whatever we want.”
“Except get along, maybe.”
“Maybe I can learn to read Cosmopolitan, improve my mind.”
“Well, there’s room for improvement.”
“Fuck you.”
“What?”
“Fuck you.”
“Well, that’s something you haven’t done in a while.”
“Some guys like to fuck hitching women, I don’t.”
“I suppose Pattie didn’t bitch?”
“All women bitch, you’re the champ.”
“Well, why don’t you go back to Pattie?”
“You’re here now. I can only house one whore at a time.”
“Whore?”
“Whore.”
Ann got up and went to the closet, got out her suitcase and began putting her clothes in there. Jack went to the kitchen and got another bottle of beer. Ann was crying and angry. Jack sat down with his beer and took a good drain. He needed a whiskey, he needed a bottle of whiskey. And a good cigar.
“I can come pick up the rest of my stuff when you’re not around.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll have it sent to you.”
She stopped at the doorway.
“Well, I guess this is it,” she said.
“I suppose it is,” Jack answered.
She closed the door and was gone. Standard procedure. Jack finished the beer and went over to the telephone. He dialed Pattie’s number. She answered.
“Pattie?”
“Oh, Jack, how are you?”
“I won the big one tonight. A split. All I got to do is get over Parvinelli and I got the champ.”
“You’ll whip both of them, Jack. I know you can do it.”
“What are you doing tonight, Pattie?”
“It’s 1:00 a.m. Jack. Have you been drinking?”
“A few. I’m celebrating.”
“How about Ann?”
“We split. I only play one woman at a time, you know that Pattie.”
“Jack . . .”
“What?”
“I’m with a guy.”
“A guy?”
“Toby Jorgenson. He’s in the bedroom . . .”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. Jack, I loved you … maybe I still do.”
“Oh, shit, you women really throw that word around …”
“I’m sorry. Jack.”
“It’s o.k.” He hung up. Then he went to the closet for his coat. He put it on, finished the beer, went down the elevator to his car. He drove straight up Normandie at 65 m.p.h., pulled into the liquor store on Hollywood Boulevard. He got out and walked in. He got a six-pack of Michelob, a pack of Alka-Seltzers. Then at the counter he asked the clerk for a fifth of Jack Daniels. While the clerk was tabbing them up a drunk walked up with two six-packs of Coors.
“Hey, man!” he said to Jack, “ain’t you Jack Backenweld, the fighter?”
“I am,” answered Jack.
“Man, I saw that fight tonight. Jack, you’re all guts. You’re really great!”
“Thanks, man,” he told the drunk, and then he took his sack of goods and walked to his car. He sat there, took the cap off the Daniels and had a good slug. Then he backed out, ran west down Hollywood, took a left at Normandie and noticed a well-built teenage girl staggering down the street. He stopped his car, lifted the fifth out of the bag and showed it to her.
“Want a ride?”
Jack was surprised when she got in. “I’ll help you drink that, mister, but no fringe benefits.”
“Hell, no” said Jack.
He drove down Normandie at 35 m.p.h., a self-respecting citizen and third ranked light-heavy in the world. For a moment he felt like telling her who she was riding with but he changed his mind and reached over and squeezed one of her knees.
“You got a cigarette, mister?” she asked.
He flicked one out with his hand, pushed in the dash lighter. It jumped out and he lit her up.
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