By Charles Bukowski
Larry awakened, got out of the twisted sheets, walked to the window which overlooked the neighborhood to the east and he saw the garage roofs and the trees with their barren branches. His hangover was about standard and he walked to the bathroom to piss, did that, turned to the basin to wash his hands, then he splashed water on his face, and then he did it: He looked at the face in the mirror, found it less than enchanting… He let the bathwater run, thinking, the problem with the History of Man is that it doesn’t lead anywhere except toward certain death for the individual, and that was drab and ugly, garbage-disposal stuff…
His cat, Hog, walked in. Hog just stared at him, he wanted his cat food. That animal, thought Larry, is just a walking belly, and if I ever want to fly back East for a couple of weeks I’ve either got to board the son of a bitch or shoot him. Maybe if I ever want to fly back East I ought to shoot myself—but I don’t want to shoot myself: too many men have been shot, I want something more individual. Like pills? No, pills were too blasé, even when they induced death.
Larry checked his face in the glass again: Shave? No. Why?…
Larry made it to his 11 A.M. class.
There they were: those young girls, the promise that never lasted, those young girls, those great momentary decorations, so bright, so fresh. He liked them. The boys were almost like the girls. As the decades rolled on, the boys and the girls were becoming almost one. The boys had a grace that the boys of his age never had; they also had more of a seeming …
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Author: High Times / High Times
