"A Dollar and Twenty Cents"
a story by Charles Bukowski
More than anything, he liked the end of summer, no, autumn, maybe it was autumn; either way, it was cold at the beach, and he loved to take walks along the shore just after sunset. There was nobody around, and the water looked dirty, the water resembled death, and the seagulls didn’t want to fall asleep; they hated falling asleep. And the seagulls swooped low, flying low, asking him for his eyes, his soul, what remained of his soul. If you don't have much soul left, and you know it, you still have some soul. Then he would sit down and stare at the water all the way to the horizon, and when you stare at the water all the way to the horizon, it becomes hard to believe in anything. For example, that there were nations like China or the United States or a place like Vietnam. Or that he had once been a child. No, think a bit more; it wasn't so hard to believe; his childhood had been hell, he couldn't forget something like that. And adulthood: all the jobs and all the women, and then no women, and now no job. A bum at 60. Finished. A nothing. He had a dollar and twenty cents in change. A week’s rent already paid. The ocean... he thought back to the women. Some had been nice to him; others had simply been dull, moochers, a bit crazy, and terribly hard. Rooms and beds and houses and Christmases and jobs and songs and hospitals, and boredom, boring days and nights, meaningless, with no chance. Now at 60, he was worth a dollar and twenty cents. Then he heard them laughing behind him. They had blankets and bottles and cans of beer, coffee and sandwiches. They were laughing, laughing. Two boys, two girls. Slender, lithe bodies. Not a worry in the world. Then one of them saw him. “Hey, what is THAT?” “Jesus, I don’t know?” He didn’t move. “But is it a human being?” “Does he breathe? DOES HE FUCK?” “Fuck WHAT?” They all laughed together. He held up his bottle of wine. There was still a bit left. It was the right time to drink it. “HE’S MOVING! Look, HE’S MOVING!” He got up and shook the sand off his pants. “But he has arms, legs! He has a face!” “A FACE?” They burst out laughing again. He couldn't understand. Boys don’t act like that; boys aren’t that mean. What were these? They came closer. “There’s no need to be ashamed of being old.” One of the boys was pouring a can of beer down his throat. He tossed it aside. “But you should be ashamed of wasted years, grandpa. You give me the feeling of wasted stuff.” “I’m still a good guy, kid.” “Suppose one of these girls showed you some pussy, grandpa, what would you do?” “Rod, don’t TALK like that!” It had been a girl with long red hair who spoke. She was fixing her windswept hair. She seemed to sway in the wind, her feet planted in the sand. “What do you say, grandpa? What would you do? Huh? What would you do if one of these girls gave it to you?” He started to walk, took a few steps.
