Je vais donc profiter de cet épisode Bukowskien pour rendre hommage à mon ami Ron Graham, maire de Forestville dans la paradisiaque Vallée de Sonoma, CA. Ron n'a rien à apprendre de Bukowski en matière de bières et de vocabulaire, et il a un coeur en or. Dans "Dirty old man", le plus important c'est "man". La dernière fois que nous avons rendu visite à Ron, il avait perdu un oeil à moitié, mais sa maison tenait toujours debout grâce aux piles de vieux livres et disques, car Ron valorise les DMS. C'est avec lui que j'ai acheté ma première voiture en 86, une Chevrolet Impala blanche qui avait bien 15 ans mais nous a transporté jusqu'à Manhattan sans pépins à part le premier jour où j'ai rencontré la police sans papiers, sans permis, sans assurance, mais je n'ai jamais reçu l'amende... Mais place à l'artiste, et bonjour à Miyako et Marisa, si vous les voyez du côté de San Francisco.
From: Ron Graham
Received: 18 Jan 2001 23:48:02 -0000
Yeh, the army sent me some medals, too, about ten years after I got
discharged. Sent me the good-conduct ribbon and medal, as I recall. Lt
Jack Roles, my company commander, hated me so he didn't bother to get
those medals to me as was the routine procedure at that time for all
company commanders when somebody in their company got discharged. He was
a total asshole company commander, First Lt. Jack Shithead I used to call
him behind his back, who tried TWICE to court-martial me during the last
6 months of my 3-year hitch. He failed because I worked for a bunch of
Captains, majors and a Col, and they liked me and saved my ass from his
wrath. One of them gave him a Missouri cussing when I told him Lt.
Roles was picking on me. That cussing gave me some prestige with my
fellow Army Chair Corps workers, because it was done so that everybody in
neighboring offices could hear it. Later, at a party, I humiliated him
in front of all the troops. Seems I was dancing with some German girl of
loose morals, and he came out to me on the dance floor and gave me a
penny and said: "Hey, Graham, put this down her blouse and see if it
falls off!"
Well, being somewhat drunk on Deutcher Sect, I had to defend the girl's
honor, so when he sat down with the enlisted men in our 39th Engr Group
company, I took the penny and tossed it as hard as I could from the dance
floor onto his table. I heard a clink. I screamed for the whole damned
dance hall to hear: "Lt Roles! Shove this up your ass!" Jesus Christ!
The entire dance hall got silent. Next day I asked a roommate who was
at the party: "Why was it so quiet? Didn't they hear me?" Yeh, I was
that kind of naive dumb. Right off the damned cowshit farms of Buck
Creek, Indiana.
This same roommate, who was at the table with Lt Roles, told me the
penny hit his beer mug and landed in his glass. That was the "clink"
sound. A perfect pitch! I coulda been another Bob Feller. Lt. Roles,
naturally, he called my Private E-2 ass into his office the next day and
told me I had insulted him publicaly. I wasn't scared, mostly, and I
just said: "Sir, you insulted my girl!" Heh heh. He KNEW if he tried
to court martial me on that matter that he would be publicly embarrassed
because even then I had a big mouth. I thank Brother Jack for this
big, loud mouth. He picked on me so much as a kid that my mouth was my
only defense. And swearing. I learned all my swear words from Jack and
his fucker friends like Tom Bates.
The final part of this story is that a motor-pool stud that I envied
his power of getting laid often, well, he took this same girl home that
night, threw a fuck into her, and got the itch and the clap! Bahaha!
Considering I was 22 at the time and an ignorant farm boy from the wilds
of Indiana, I guess I did pretty good. I won a minor skirmish in the
battle of life.
That dumb sonofabitch 1st Lt. Jack Roles tried to court-martial me two
more times while I was defending two recruits who got into minor
trouble--friends of mine. I defended them and got both their
court-martials tossed out! He did get me confined to barracks for a
weekend and made me Latrine Commander! Big inspection time, so I
painted all the toilets green! All but the insides! The other recruits
thought I'd get in trouble, but I thought, fuck it. Green toilets. I
painted the area around them green and the stalls themselves green. Lot
easier than using kitchen cleanser.
Lt. Roles was FURIOUS, but I played dumb and used "Sir" a lot and got
away with it. So, in the last 90 days of my soldiering in that
Headquarters Company I took a 15 day leave and a 45 day leave just to
stay away from the bastard. It worked. I flew all over Europe free on
MATS (Military Air Transportation Service). Spain, England, Ireland,
Paris several times, Munich where I got my first piece of ass (2nd
actually, but this one was in bed, not in a car) etc. The good life. I
guess I'm one of the few soldiers that really loved the military. I "ate
that shit up" as the pencil heads would tell me--thinking they were
embarrassing and humiliating me. Some of those dumb college bastards
layed around in their rooms on their bunks all day bitching and whining.
They did this for months. I travelled and explored and had some
memorable adventures. Once some Punks tried to beat shit out of me in
Munich. A scar-faced German man and his wife chased them away, took me
home and put me to bed and fed me next morning. I was so drunk I could
hardly walk. I travelled alone then. I nearly always travelled alone
for some reason. Anyway, the German man who chased the punks away had
been in the old German army where you used swords and the scars were a
sign of honor. He had those scars. They were illegal, but were still
around in fraternities and elite Krauts right into the 1950's. I wrote
to this German couple when I got back to Indiana. Have some postcards
from them someplace. Their faces etc. are all a blur now.
War stories. That's all most old farts like you got left. Not me.
I'm going out traveling and screaming about the Criminal Bush family and
continuing to try to enlighten the masses--you being one of them. I can
only take the sedantary life for so long. Itchy feet. Marisa seems to
have that trait, too. Like the PAINT YOUR WAGON song sung by Lee Marvin
in the movie: "Where am I going? I don't know. What'll you do there?
I'm not certain. When'll I get there, I'm not prepared to say. Hey!
But who gives a damn we're on our way." And--"When I get to heaven.
Tie me to a tree. Or soon I'll begin to roam, and you'll know where I'll
be. I was born, under a wandering star. A wandering, wandering star."
That's one of the songs I still have on 7-inch reel-to-reel tapes I took
with me in 1960 from Indiana to California. Still sounds great on the
same 1955 model Wollensak tape recorder.
My coffee is ready. Bye
Brother Ron
Pace Setter of Park Avenue
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