my life as a sitcom
stepped into the wrong end of the Jacuzzi and twisted my
right leg which was bad to begin with, then that night got drunk
with a tv writer and an actor, something about using my
life to make a sitcom and luckily that fell through and the next
day at the track I get a box seat in the dining area, get a
menu and a glass of water, my leg is really paining me, I
can barely walk to the betting window and back, then
about the 3rd race the waiter rushes by, asks, “can I
borrow your menu?” but he doesn’t wait for an answer,
he just grabs it and runs off.
couple of races go by, I fight through my pain and continue to
make my bets, get back, sit down just as the waiter rushes by again.
he grabs all my silverware and my napkin and runs off.
HEY!” I yell but he’s gone.
all around me people are eating, drinking and laughing.
check my watch after the 6th race and it is 4:30 p.m.
haven’t been served yet and I’m 72 years old with
hangover and a leg from hell.
pull myself to my feet by the edge of the table and manage
to hobble about looking for the maitre d’. I see him down
far aisle and wave him in.
can I speak to you?” I ask.
certainly, sir!”
look, it’s the 7th race, they took my menu and my silverware
and I haven’t been served yet.”
we’ll take care of it right away, sir!”
well, the 7th race went, the 8th race went, and
still no ser vice.
purchase my ticket for the 9th race and take the
escalator down.
on the first floor, I purchase a sandwich.
eat it going down another escalator to the parking lot.
the valet laughs as I slowly work my leg into the
car, making a face of pain as I do so.
got a gimpy leg there, huh, Hank?” he asks.
pull out, make it to the boulevard and onto the
freeway which immediately begins to slow down because
of a 3-car crash ahead.
snap on the radio in time to find that my horse
has run out in the 9th.
flash of pain shoots up my right leg.
decide to tell my wife about my
misfortunes at the track
even though I know she will respond
by telling me that everything as always
was completely my fault
but when a man is in pain he can’t think right,
he only asks for
more.
and
gets it.
Otras obras de Charles Bukowski...
