Bukowski and Joe Camel

Joe Camel settled onto the empty bar stool next to Bukowski. He shook a Winston out of a soft pack, lit it, and ordered a Bud on tap.

“Find any work yet?” Bukowski mumbled, bloodshot eyes fixed on his own ugly mug in the mirror behind the bar.

“Not a fuckin’ thing, Bukowski. I’m telling ya, days are over for camels in this town. They don’t make desert pictures anymore. At my peak — at my peak, mind you — I was in Lawrence of Fucking Arabia. You know what my goddamn agent recommended for me last week? Huh? You ready for this shit?”

Joe stabbed his cigarette into an ashtray and lit another with trembling hooves.

“He said, Bukowski, that I can get a gig as a spokesman for Camel cigarettes. Can you believe that horseshit? I mean, the money’s good but they want me to endorse these –” He held his cigarette aloft. “I can’t go there, not in good conscience. No.”

Bukowski sipped his beer. “You’re a camel in Hollywood, Joe. Shut the hell up and take the money and run.”