the night I saw George Raft in Vegas
bet on #6, I try red, I stare at the women’s legs and breasts,
wonder what Chekhov would do, and over in the corner three men with
blue plates sit eating the carnage of my youth, they have beards
and look very much like Russians and I pat an imaginary pistol over
my left tit and try to smile like George Raft sizing up a French
tart. I play
the field, I pull out dollars like turnips from the good earth, the lights
blaze and nobody says stop.
Hank, says my whore, for Christ’s sake you’re losing everything except me,
and I say don’t forget, baby, I’m a shipping clerk. what’ve I got to lose
but a ball of string?
the gentlemen in the corner who look like Russians get up, knock
their plates and cups on the floor and wipe their mouths on the tablecloth.
some belch (and one farts). they laugh evilly and leave without anyone bothering
them. a ribbed and moiled cat comes out of somewhere,
begins licking the plates on the floor and then jumps up on the
table and walks around like his feet are wet.
try black. the croupier’s eyes dart like beetles. he makes futile
almost habitual movements to brush them away.
switch back to red. I look around for George Raft and spill my drink
against my chest. Hank, says my whore, let’s get out of here!
well, at least,
say, I ought to get a blow job out of this. you needn’t get filthy,
the whore
says. I say, baby, I was born filthy. I try #14.
DEATH COMES SLOWLY LIKE ANTS TO A FALLEN FIG.
mirrors enclose us, I say to the croupier, ignoring the scenery of our despair.
slap away a filthy thing that runs across my mouth. the cat
leaps and snatches it up as it spins upon its back kicking its
thousand legs.
then George Raft walks in. hello kid, he says, back again? I place
my last few coins on the chest of a dead elephant.
the lightning flares, they are stabbing grapefruit in the backroom, somebody
drops a glove and the place, the whole place, goes up in smoke.
we walk back to the car and fall asleep.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
