One morning in May of 1992 when the sinus-burning scent of smoke from the Molotov-cocktail-induced fires of the Rodney King riots still clung like a vise over East Hollywood, Bukowski awoke fitfully in his gray-striped soiled mattress, hungover and with a head throbbing like a kettle drum beaten by a cretin with no sense of rhythm , as usual, and with only a very vague recollection of events from the evening previous, also as usual.
He groped for the pack of Winstons on the nightstand and regarded the slats of sun trying to sneak passage through the green venetian blinds with what could be described as disregard at best. The Bic lighter was secreted in the hip pocket of the sweat pants that he slept in nightly. He lit the cigarette, rose with an exaggerated groan, and considered his thin-ankled feet dangling over the bed; red knit socks adorned both of his feet.
“What the hell …?” He pulled on the cigarette, long and hard until his lungs expanded, and considered the bright red socks; he didn’t own a pair of red socks, just white cotton socks, the kind his mom bought him for gym class in high school. Woolworths in Santa Monica. Five bucks for a pack of ten.
Bukowski reclined on the bed again and tried to recall how red socks might have wound up binding his feet. He remembered through a vague haze — maybe a better picture would emerge after a bowl of Fruit Loops — a meeting at Musso and Frank in Hollywood the night before with a journalist from a French lit mag. Francine? Frances? He had told her that his daily writing routine could never commence until he first moved his bowels in the morning.
“Why is that?” she had asked, lined eyebrows rising provocatively. She was intriguing, that was for sure, and she had just that right naive quality that Bukowski found enticing.
“Because only then can I get the shit out of my system and write the truth.”
She had devoured the answer feverishly, flashing that ridiculous grin that journalists flash when they think they’re getting an inside scoop, scribbling furiously in her notebook, an apostle writing down the messiah’s words as they flowed from his mouth like honey — albeit a tainted and total bullshit kind of honey– and that had pleased him immensely.
But it still did not explain how he ended up with two red socks on his feet.
Crossing over the writing threshold into realville and that is why they k great — Buk, Carver, Kerouac, Steinbeck, you!
Okay. It is going to be better now. I am going to get an attorney an escape the hell I have been in that was somebody else’s idea of what my life should be. I know you did it too, Rodg. I bet Hurricane did too.
This was great.
I woke up thinking about Carver, his editor and how he met Tess — later.
This time around we are going to take Hwood by storm because we can. My agent is going to be your agent too. He is.
This time the writer is king because they have nothing in terms of content. We will use one industry to get funding for the types of other films we want to make. Easy. I bet you can pop off a scrennplay in three days if not less. You have permission from me to do that with any of those VB stories at CS. And then, we will give them to Ken and he can do the business deals — you have the knowledge and old contacts.
I’m thinking Heffy-poo?
Might need a nice refreshing 60′s jolt about now?
Because of all the grotesque competition out there.
VB teamed with Vargas.
I like Taschen Books? Their look for things Erotique.
At the writers conference when my pieces were read a man said I’d want these in a coffee table Arty book so that is our market?
Majorly UPSCALE.
Feeling better this am as I am changing my life.
When we get the $$$$$$$$$$
I am going to get you the best treatments for what your skin has suffered. I have never been able to stand that pain for you. We will.
I love you Rodg.
Your big sis,
Adrienne
kiddo, maybe we were writers in a prior lifetime, dunno.
hugs.
Okay. It is going to be better now. I am going to get an attorney an escape the hell I have been in that was somebody else’s idea of what my life should be. I know you did it too, Rodg. I bet Hurricane did too
Just think of divorce as a long, protracted business negotiation because that’s really all it is in the long run.
okay.
boy am i glad i ever found you in here!
whew.
Rodger,
I really want a pair of those red socks. Not sure why, but I do. Ah, the power of fiction.
To the words ….
I don’t believe I’ve ever worn a pair of red socks in my life.
Any sock color beyond white and black on men is always a point of interest to me because it’s damn rare. I got excited over the weekend when I realized that one of our male friends actually matches his socks to his pants. (Interesting in this case because they were both the same shade of greenish khaki.)
This sentence seemed off to me though:
“She was enticing, that was for sure, and she had just that right naive quality that Bukowski found enticing.”
The repition of “enticing” did not seem intentional. Maybe it was. But it stood out to me as out of place.
You were right, Julie, it was a deliberate double use of the word in the same sentence but I see now that it didn’t work so I changed it. Thanks!
Just think of divorce as a long, protracted business negotiation because that’s really all it is in the long run.
Mine was short and negotiation was nearly nil. Because my father-in-law handled it and they were all rich anyway, I simply surrendered to any fate at all, and when you do that your fate may not be a bad one. Almost any arrangement two people make is going to be better one that four people make where the two intruders are incentivized to be as greedy as possible. My divorce and probate formula is, keep it cordial, personal, attorney-free, and seemingly surrender early, while keeping bigger sticks in reserve; let them think you might get tougher later and you just might settle happily early.
Joseph is on the money.