Sitting here in the cafe, an old, obese, grey haired man with a plaid flannel shirt and holey sweatpants hobbles in past me, the pungent smell of body odor, alcohol, and days-old-underwear suffocates me. He sits down, scribbles something on a piece of college-lined paper, holds it up to the light to focus his eyes upon it, and laughs maniacally, the decibel level making my heart beat a bit faster. And then it hits me:
Raunchy motel rooms, dirty money slipping in and out of his hands, early morning beer shits, prostitutes aplenty, beer, beer, and more beer before vomit and then beer, beer and even more beer… While Bukowski was a bad-ass writer, I wonder how the bastard SMELLED?!?!