Bukowski Meets Karloff

Bukowski sat on the crapper, reading the L.A. Times. The ad was in the far right corner of the Saturday TV listings.

POET APPRECIATION DAY

Clip this coupon for 50% off paid admission to Universal Studios Theme Park. Simply bring your valid I.D. and a copy of your latest published work and receive half-price admission! Today only.

Bukowski parked a smoldering cigarette in the corner of his mouth and carefully liberated the coupon from the paper. He then tore a long strip of newspaper, folded it into quarters, and wiped his ass. Ordinarily he wouldn’t be caught dead, living, or sober in a tourist trap like Universal but he had to go out to get toilet paper anyway and it was a nice day for a drive through the Cahuenga Pass.

At the ticket window, the young woman with laughing eyes turned three shades of crimson when Bukowski handed over the coupon and a battered copy of Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions, And General Tales of Ordinary Madness.

“You wrote this?” The girl trembled. She had soft lips highlighted by peach-colored gloss.

“You think anyone would claim to that title other than the author?” He slapped his driver’s license down. Suddenly in a rush, the pretty brunette examined the ID cursorily, counted out Bukowski’s change, and slid admission ticket, change, and book across the counter.

“Enjoy your visit at Universal Studios.” There was absolutely no joy in her salutation.

Bukowski hated the tram packed full of tourists in loud Hawaiian shirts and short pants that showcased the varicose veins on their pale Midwestern legs. The hard plastic seat annoyed his hemmorhoids.

The pimple-faced tour guide pointed out the backlot soundstage where McMillan and Wife was filmed. Bukowski thought the cop show was totally unbelievable. How many fucking police commissioners actually go around solving cases with their ditzy wife by their side? Did the sadistic bastard enjoy putting his wife in harm’s way? And what the hell was the deal with that house maid? She seemed to be perpetually soused.  

They were herded off the tram like cattle and led into a cavernous soundstage that housed a replica of the office set from the Raymond Burr show, Ironside. Bukowski had trouble buying into the concept of a wheelchair-bound detective. He lingered against a far wall while the tour guide droned on. There was a poke at his elbow and a tug at his sleeve.

Bukowski slowly pivoted on his heels to confront a vaporous mist, a swirl of smoke dancing in the air before him, an otherworldly visage with the face of Boris Karloff.

“Bukowski,” Karloff intoned in a half-whisper in that trademark voice of his. “Remember this, Bukowski: All poets die in steaming piles of shit.”

And then the spectre of Karloff faded away like a TV signal going bad. Bukowski bolted for the exit, nearly colliding with the ghosts of Abbott and Costello.