Factotum

by Charles Bukowski

Frankly, I was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep, and keep himself clothed. So I stayed in bed and drank. When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn’t have you by the throat.

I understood it too well now—that great lovers were always men of leisure. I fucked better as a bum than as a puncher of timeclocks.

The bums lived down there by the hundreds in little cement alcoves under the bridges and overpasses. Some of them even had potted plants in front of their places. All they needed to live like kings was canned heat (Sterno) and what they picked out of the nearby garbage dump. They were tan and relaxed and most of them looked a hell of a lot healthier than the average Los Angeles business man. Those guys down there had no problems with women, income tax, landlords, burial expenses, dentists, time payments, car repairs, or with climbing into a voting booth and pulling the curtain closed.

Everytime I drive down the street I marvel at the fact that there isn’t an accident every few seconds. Every day I see two or three people simply run through red lights as if they didn’t exist. I’m no preacher but I can tell you this—the lives that people lead are driving them crazy and their insanity comes out in the way they drive.