Charles Bukowski, “Love is a Dog From Hell”
About a week back, a little punk girl who had the same haircut as me — bangs hanging over one eye, the rest of her hair sheared close — came into the store.
She was selling books. I went through her bag and found that she all her books were either by Neil Gaiman, Hunter S. Thompson, or Charles Bukowski.
I’ll need all of your addresses so I’ll know where to send the wedding invitations.
Kidding, kidding. Well, not kidding about the girl with my haircut, or what she was selling back to me, but I’m skeptical about whether she actually read any of these books. As I’m sure many of you can attest, it is impossible to read a Charles Bukowski book without it becoming absolutely filthy by the time you finish it.
It doesn’t matter how you treat a book. You could read Ham on Rye in a bio-dome experiment with controlled airflow and zero pollutants and you would still walk out with a cover soiled with several black inky spots on the cover and something that looked like congealed grease on the pages.
It’s not your fault. That’s just what happens.
But these books she brought into the store were immaculate. I’m talking pristine condition, looking newer than it would look if you bought it at Barnes and Nobel, though if you’re shopping for Bukowski or Hunter S. Thompson at Barnes and Noble, you’re no friend of mine.
In fact, these were in such good shape that I wondered if we weren’t the drop-off for some elaborate heist involving cult authors. I asked a few questions and got her identification, which served two purposes – it covered the store in case they did turn up to be stolen, and I was able to discover that she was a scant five years younger than I.
So I won’t need those addresses, as we’re going to elope.
This book wasn’t from her pile, however, as I would feel weird about having a Bukowski book that was cleaner than I was. Unfortunately, it turned out to be more poetry, which isn’t too bad if you read really quick and try and forget that that they’re poems. Not to say there weren’t some unbelievable stinkers in here.
This particular copy, in fact, had a bookmark in it featuring stamps from the Arab Republic.
If the former owner read this, it’s no wonder they hate us.
