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.”
LMAO—your gift is taking the overlooked–over the edge.
By: Scot on April 13, 2008
at 7:23 am
The challenge here, Scot, was in trying to make the predictible ending somewhat unpredictible. Not easy.
By: Rodger Jacobs on April 13, 2008
at 10:21 am
Excellent advice, and I’m not even a camel.
Here’s a whistle and a nod for the nice character touch in the second paragraph, when a camel (an animal not known for its pretty face) walks in, but Bukowski’s “bloodshot eyes fixed on his own ugly mug in the mirror behind the bar.”
By: Sandy on April 13, 2008
at 2:24 pm
Thank you for noticing that layering, Sandy.
By: Rodger Jacobs on April 13, 2008
at 2:30 pm
Him smoking winstons is a nice touch. love the photo of you at vesuvios you look a million miles away…
By: Don on April 13, 2008
at 6:49 pm
Yeah, that was probably not one of my better days, Don, judging from the faraway look on my face.
By: Rodger Jacobs on April 13, 2008
at 7:54 pm