Never invite the living,
The schedules of the dead are far more forgiving.


Meat

I’ve been stood up. Mobile phone out, I call my agent. “Jesus?” I bark.
“Yes Rod?” he replies in his best shepherd-of-mankind tone.
“Listen. I’m sitting in Zafferanos and Kurt Vonnegut has just rang to say he can’t make it. I’ve got a piece to write about a dinner with my favourite author, so sort something out.”
“Oh dear.” No one can match Jesus when it comes to addressing big crowds, but one-to-one he tends to sound quite dim. “Oh-dear indeed. Go through my list of favourites and get me anyone from the top five. Dead or alive Jesus, just get them here quickly.” I hang up. I'd booked late so my table is near the door. A slight breeze hits me for each exit and entry. The receptionist smiles as required behind rectangular glasses. I observe the subdued décor as my straight-backed chair forced rigid posture. The cream walls form the backdrop for the various displays - of food, flowers and the client's wealth. There is not much space between tables. Every table is filled.

I’d already ordered and the first course has just arrived. I’m famished. The full-bodied wine’s burning a hole in my stomach. "Beef Carpacio with truffle flakes," says a waiter with eyebrows as thick as his accent. The truffle tastes meatier than the cold beef. The delicate saltiness melts on my palate; I close my eyes to savour the sensation. I note the veiny texture of the truffle while feeling Catholic revulsion at swallowing raw meat. I wash it down with a mouthful of wine (which with food is no longer corrosive). I open my eyes, look at the open door - oh good Christ - he’s chosen number four!

He enters like he’s looking for a fight with anyone who’ll accept. His bulk fills the doorframe. I notice his clothes first because of the salubrious setting. He's wearing loose tracksuit bottoms that have faded to charcoal grey, brown strap sandals like Jesus wore before entering the agency business and a white shirt, open at the collar, revealing a sunburnt neck. Several days have elapsed since his last shave but his hair is wet and combed back. Two renegade strands hang down bisecting his creased forehead. His light blue pupils are mounted in yellow sockets cracked with burst blood vessels. His premier feature is his nose, which he’s now rubbing on cue with his thumb and forefinger. It’s a caricature of an alcoholics nose - fire engine red and dappled like the skin of an orange. Perhaps the face would have been handsome without it. He scans the reception, focuses on the display of lilies and leans forward to smell. "May I help you Sir?" The receptionist’s tone made it clear that she was not expecting him to be staying for dinner. She moves to cut off his path into the restaurant.
"May you help me with what?" He drawls. She touches her rectangular glasses rapidly.
"You have a booking?"
"Bukowski," he booms, "Jesus sent me."

"Oh fuck," I hear these words escaping my lips, though I’m unaware I've said them. I'm out of my seat, moving quickly towards them. "Delighted you could make it Mr. Bukowski." I say extending my hand, he gives a quick, firm shake, no eye contact and pushes past the receptionist (who's now eyeing me suspiciously). "Where we sittin', I'm starved?" A perfectly tanned and groomed young couple are sitting opposite our table. The woman looks at Bukowski as he passes. He catches her eye, flashes an enormous grin and bows theatrically. We sit beside an elderly couple encrusted in gold and Dior accessories. “I’d avoid the fish if I were you honey,” he slips in as he sits. “Wine?” I say, knowing how to engage a dipso writer. “To begin with, “ he replies ominously. I love this restaurant, but I fear this is my last Zafferanos supper. I pour.

“So I suppose you’re some kind of scribbler?”
“Some kind, yeah.”
“Published?”
“Not Yet.”
“That’s the spirit,” he says turning the bottle to read the Italian label. “Never mind, they’ll print any old shit these days.”
“You’re able to keep up with what’s going on in publishing…where you are?” I feel it impolite to mention his death over dinner.
“Sort of.”
“So…where…do you mind me asking…are you?”
“Knightsbridge,” then he adds in plausible Irish accent, “and it was a long way from here you were raised.”
“I mean where are you when you’re not…visiting?” He leans forward, takes out a pouch of tobacco, looks at me like he’s about to impart a serious piece of information. I mirror his forward lean.
“I have these gigs, nights like tonight, when these wannabes get writing class homework and have to meet their influences. I usually get chicks who have issues with their fathers and gay guys who are pretending they’re straight…you know the sort. That’s how I keep up with the world in general, and specifically, the arena of literature.”
“I see.”
“Well I’m glad one of us understands things. During these meetings, I’m conscious. I’m gorgeous old Charlie again. And that’s all I can tell ya.”
“Wow.”
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t wish to discuss your writing?”
“Of course,” I avert my eyes quickly to conceal my disappointment.
“Nor do I wish to discuss what you’re going to write someday.”
“No problem.”
“Nor the obstacles to writing you’re currently facing.”
“I’d no intention of…”
“Excellent. Vino poro catso duro,” (Italian spelling incorrect. Translation: Good wine, hard cock). He smells the wine, the glass dwarfed by his nose. After appreciating the bouquet he sips and pauses. He makes eye contact with me for the first time and nods his approval - this makes me feel huge, even though the waiter recommended the bottle. He downs the contents of his glass in one go. “Daddy’s comin’ baby!” He re-examines the label, refills his glass.
“So, in between visits?”
“Yeah?”
“What it like?” He shifts, crosses his legs so that his calves are touching. He’s realised I won’t stop until he answers. He sighs. “What’s what like – death or dying?”
“Well…both…if you don’t mind.”
“I’ve no idea about either.”
“Come on bud, what’s with the silent treatment?” I feel he may respond better to a more colloquial style. “I’m layin’ out serious green for this spread and at a time when I’m broke as a whore’s hymen.” Good - a jovial statement about prostitutes and women’s genitalia - that’s got to be around his level. He doesn’t smile at the humours image. Incidentally, I’m not lying about being broke. “Come on man, is there an afterlife? Reincarnation? A light at the end of the tunnel? A hospitality suite with Elvis playin’?”
“I’d like to help ya Kid, I really would.” He lights up, drinks two thirds of his glass and blows his smoke towards the elderly lady beside us. “I was lying on my deathbed…that’s a good opening line actually…you can have it for free. I was lying there on the bed and breathing was like the hardest days work you’ve ever done. It was like running up and down a steep hill carrying two crates. And the crates contained the finest whiskey known to man – life. And you couldn’t drop those motherfuckers ‘cause then you’re a goner. And Molly was crying, giving me all this ‘don’t leave me Charlie’ shit and ‘what am I goin’ to do? We’re two months behind the rent.’ Like I didn’t have enough fucking problems. I don’t know what the bitch expected me to do - get up and take back my job at the fuckin’ sorting office? Women,” he muses. He inhales from his rollup, looking over my left shoulder into the distance. I turn expecting to see a picture, maybe a mirror. He’s just staring at the cream wall. I lean forward, eyebrows forming a triangle (which in body language means, “yeah? Go on”). He pauses to drink and re-fill his glass.

“The sensation I remember most wasn’t the pain, or the desire to keep breathing, or the concept of separation from my loved ones, such as they were. The thing I remember most was the absolute, consummate, bowl-loosening fear. One minute I was lying there, the next thing I know I had my first one of these gigs.” I lean back, digesting. “Let’s get another bottle,” he adds.
“Sure,” I murmur. I’m imaging my deathbed: sheets soiled, sins regretted, hell conjured. “Say, can we get another one of these,” he says passing the bottle to the waiter with the eyebrows, “and bring me a bourbon. No…give me the best whiskey these local Isles have to offer,” he turns quickly to me, ”when in Rome,” and back to the waiter, ”and make it large friend, I’m a growing guy.” I’m too preoccupied now to be concerned with the bill.
“So you haven’t actually experienced…”
“Not personally, but I can’t speak for everyone or in any way definitively.” There are a couple of minutes during which neither of us speaks. Then he says, “The first one of these evenings I did was also with a Mick. A beautiful, big-titted honey from Cork."
"Afraid I can't compete with that."
"She looked just like this woman I used to live with, Irene. Not that they looked alike, they just moved in a similar way. Irene was a part-time lecturer at Belevedere and a fulltime fuck monster." The old lady at the next table shifts in her seat and shoots a dirty look across at Charlie. He responded by speaking louder. "Yes Sir, a full time fuck monster. Once she got me to carry a concrete building block over three hundred yards back to our place. She said it'd be worth it. She got me to put it down on the bedroom floor. She'd stand on it and get me to fuck her from behind. She said she didn't want me getting cramp from bending at the knees, can you believe that?" He leans over to the old lady, "That's consideration!" The woman looked at her companion, "Harold?" Harold was focusing all his attention on his soup (and who could blame him?).

"Did you love her?" I said, attempting to divert his attention from the people next to us.
"Of course I loved her, she was my honey." He looks like I've just questioned his sexual persuasion. He drains his whiskey, "same again," he says to no one in particular. "Did I love her? Of course I loved her. I cared enough to keep my lies up. Know what I mean?" He leaves no gap for me to say if I know or not. "I was good to her, or as good as a bastard like me could be with any woman. I generally didn't fuck around or anything. Only once." He stubs out his cigarette. A thin line of grey smoke continues to stream from the ashtray.

"I knocked the middle outta this honey while I was livin’ with Irene. I picked her up in a bar, or more accurately, she picked me up. Most of my lays came from students back then. Their legs were always open, but so were their mouths." I’m sitting facing the well-tanned young couple, so luckily Bukowski doesn’t see the woman turn, searching for the source of the vulgarity. Her face looks like she’s just got a bad smell. Her straight brown hair, tucked behind ear, reveals a pearl stud earring. She calls a waiter, I hope she isn’t complaining.

“I went with this chick just because she’d no idea who I was. And she’d walked up to me. It was nice to think that I still had this. What do I mean, ‘still had this’; to be honest I’d never had this. I'd always relied on being cool and giving a good pitch. Good-looking guys could make them swoon when they walked into a joint, but I always had to work at it. But if I got their ear for two minutes, that was it, they were fucked." He banged his empty glass twice on the table, the ice cubes hadn’t had time to melt. “So this chick from the bar convinces me to dump the track (my luck had been lousy anyhow) for the afternoon and come back to her place. In the cab on the way there she starts given me all this “you’re not expecting to jump into bed with me are ya? I’m a good person. I demand respect.” And I’m trying to talk her round, ‘cause now I’ve got right into the idea, see? Even when I was doin’ it to her she was saying “you are going to call me, right?” And I even felt guilty while I was doin’ it, which was a new one. Not because I wasn’t going to call her, but because of Irene at home.

“In the past I’d sometimes felt a little bad after fucking around on someone. But then I’d just say ‘you’re an asshole Bukowski’ and that was that. But this time I couldn’t shake it. Irene was a good woman. I lived with her and her daughter, who’d just gone two years of age. The kid, Kerry, she loved me too. So I felt like a bastard for fucking around - but I still did it.” The waiter brings his drink, “Thank you,” he says softly.

Another waiter arrives carrying two plates. “I hope you don’t mind, I went ahead and ordered before you arrived,” I explain.
“Fine by me, what we got here Paulo?” The waiter’s name isn’t Paulo, but he doesn’t object. He’s learnt that the more eccentric the client, the larger the tip (in general). He’s expecting a very big tip from Bukowski.
“Salt marsh lamb encrusted with hazelnuts”. The two chops propped each other up to form a triangle, the bone sticking out the back looks like the tail of a tiny roasted animal. Bukowski cuts off a small corner and tastes. I cut into mine and see it’s quite lightly cooked. “I like it,” says Bukowski.
“Why?” I throw back.
“Rare meat requires a lot of chewing. I find the consistency a bit funny myself. The hazelnuts provide something to crunch while you’re breaking done the meat. It works well.” Strange, I would have had him down for someone who savoured the bloody things in life. I’m surprised to see that he’s a healthy eater. His table manners, in the act of eating itself, are perfect. I think he enjoys displaying his ability to conform, highlighting that his non-conformance is the result of an informed decision rather than ignorance.

”I took little Kerry and her Mum out shopping once. Can you believe it? Me, shopping? The little one needed a new dress to go to a birthday party, so I said I’d drive ‘em. I was walkin’ around the mall with them, just smoking a cigarette and thinking about a piece that I was supposed to be writing.” He shakes his head. “Irene is in this store and I’m outside with the kid. She toddles across to this other store and starts pulling this sweater that’s on the rail. Then I hear: ‘where the hell have you been?’ I turn slowly, knowing that I know the voice, knowing it sounds like trouble. And there she was, the woman from the bar. ‘Where have you been, you haven’t called me all these weeks’, she says. So I play it cool, ‘yeah I’ve been real busy, been outta town.’ And she says ‘so busy that you couldn’t have given me a quick call?’ I know that Irene could come outta the store at any moment. And I know the sort of woman I’m speaking with here – she’s the insecure, highly-strung type. This was going to be very nasty indeed. And I cared - that’s what’s so amazing - I really fucking cared. I look around at Kerry - she’s still pulling on the sweater - how long is her attention span? I may have twenty seconds before she’s gonna turn back to me. So I say, ‘listen kid, I ain’t called you, which was shit, I have my reasons and I’ll call tonight and explain. But I’ve gotta split right now.’ So she comes back with ‘split my ass. You’re gonna talk with me. I wanna get a cup of coffee and talk, ‘cause that’s what people do.’

“I’m looking at the first store, waiting on Irene to walk out, eyes questioning. I’m looking at Kerry still pulling at the sweater. Any second now. A few years earlier I wouldn’t have given a flying fuck. I’d have said ‘now you’ve done it Bukowski, you bastard’ and then I’d have stood back and watched the show. I’d have watch them rip into each other, then into me. I’d probably get a slap or two, but who cares, it makes for a good story, right? But times had changed. Irene encouraged me to write, rather that pissing everything away on booze and at the track. I wanted to keep Irene, and maybe even the kid too….I’m just thinking that now, as I look back.” A distinct tear forms in the corner of his left eye. He shakes himself like a man entering a cold shower. He continues again, speaking faster now.

“The chick from the bar ain’t taking the hint, so I call her around the corner. There was only a key cutting place and a PhotoMe booth there. At least we couldn’t be seen when Irene came outta the store, but she’d find us in a minute. I had to think fast, I had to work out what to say, and all the time this crazy bitch is talkin’ to me, not listening to anything I say, just ranting. So I’m like ‘think Bukowski, think of something that will shake this bitch’, and then it hit me. I knew exactly what had to be said.” He drinks from my wine glass, his two glasses being empty. “’Honey,’ I said, and then I drew back and threw the hardest right hand I’ve ever thrown….I noticed her eyes widening to circles just before it connected…”
“You slapped her?”
“No, I didn’t slap her - I fucking punched the poor bitch. I hit her with the hardest punch I’ve ever thrown. Ya see, I had to make sure I did the job with just one punch. I had to knock her out. I couldn’t be kicking her on the ground in a public place like that.”
“No, ‘cause that would have been wrong.”
“Her head whipped around and she dropped like a sack of shit. She was laid out cold. I grabbed the two girls and pulled them outta there, quick style.”
“Fucking hell,” I say.
“Yeah, well, so it goes.”
“Some of my best friends are women,” I say, noticing that I haven’t been eating my lamb.
“And the thing is,” he says “I did it for love.”
“The things we say when we’re talking about love.” He holds up his glass.
“Same again!”