used to drive those trucks so hard
and for so long that
my right foot would
go dead from pushing down on the
accelerator.
delivery after delivery,
14 hours at a time
for $1.10 per hour
under the table,
up one-way alleys in the worst parts of
town.
at midnight or at high noon,
racing between tall buildings
always with the stink of something
dying or about to die
in the freight elevator
at your destination,
self-operated elevator,
opening into a large bright room,
uncomfortably so
under unshielded lights
over the heads of many women
each bent mute over a machine,
crucified alive
on piecework,
to hand the package then
to a fat son of a bitch in red
suspenders.
he signs, ripping through the cheap
paper
with his ballpoint pen,
that’s power,
that’s America at work.
you think of killing him
on the spot
but discard that thought and
leave,
down into the urine-stinking
elevator,
they have you crucified too,
America at work,
where they rip out your intestines
and your brain and your
will and your spirit.
they suck you dry, then throw
you away.
the capitalist system.
the work ethic.
the profit motive.
the memory of your father’s words,
work hard and you’ll be
appreciated.”
of course, only if you make
much more for them than they pay
you.
out of the alley and into the
sunlight again,
into heavy traffic,
planning the route to your next stop,
the best way, the timesaver,
you knowing none of the tricks
and to actually think about
all the deliveries that still lie ahead
would lead to
madness.
it’s one at a time,
easing in and out of traffic
between other work-driven drivers
also with no concept of danger,
reality, flow or
compassion.
you can feel the despair
escaping from their
machines,
their lives as hopeless and
as numbed as
yours.
you bre ak through the cluster
of them
on your way to the next
stop,
driving through teeming downtown
Los Angeles in 1952,
stinking and hungover,
no time for lunch,
no time for coffee,
you’re on route #10,
new man,
give the new man the
ball-busting route,
see if he can swallow the
whale.
you look down and the
needle is on
red.
almost no gas left.
too fucking bad.
you gun it,
lighting a crushed cigarette with
one hand from a soiled pack of
matches.
shit on the world.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
