SHORT STORY

Looking for Bukowski’s Grave

Sharing a stiff one with Hank at his California cemetery

Locating Bukowski’s headstone was like finding a needle in a haystack. I had the map and the general direction. Still, there were thousands of similar-looking monuments, some with masonic symbols, some with Christian crosses, and several others in Japanese and German.

But I knew I had to keep looking. I didn’t want to make the journey to Rancho Palos Verdes, California, for nothing.

Once at the cemetery, the woman at the desk said, “There’s a book cover on the curb. You can’t miss it.”

“What’s the name of the book?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never read Bukowski.”

Some help she was. A literary icon was buried in her cemetery and never read any of his books. Well, I can’t blame her. Bukowski had misogynist traits, and his prose was often vulgar and disrespectful to women. People either loved or hated him.

And so, I walked gingerly on the graves, trying not to step on anyone’s gravestones or trip over a raised monument. I was on a mission, looking for the deceased author of Ham on Rye and The Pleasures of the Damned. As Charles Bukowski lay six feet under, probably decomposed and replaced by an army of transgressive earthworms, I wandered the cemetery like a man with dementia, not knowing where I was going. And when I wasn’t having any luck, I wondered if the universe was telling me something.

About to give up and go home, I saw a cemetery employee in overalls driving a golf cart.

“Hey!” I shouted and waved.

The older man stopped, and without me saying a word, he knew what dead person I was searching for. He said in a Mexican accent, “You lookin’ for Bu-kowski?”

I smiled. “Yeah, Bukowski!”

He was a cemetery angel who buried the dead and probably came from the heavenly part of East L.A.

“Well, you won’t find him there. You’re going the wrong way.”

“Can you show me?”

He nodded.

I wasn’t allowed to ride in his vehicle, so I followed him. We circled back to where I started the search. The grave was only a few feet from where I parked my car, right in front of my nose.

“Are you his son?” the man asked.

“No,” I said with a chuckle. “Just an avid admirer.”

“Round here, we call them Bu-kowalski-heads. A different guy comes each day, looking for his grave. Some read him their letters; others hold candles. You see that?”

He pointed to a picture on the curb of a bird flying into a mailbox.

“That’s how you know Bu-kowski is buried here.”

“Hm, I think it’s from Post Office,” I said.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “It might be referring to his poem, Bluebird.”

“So you read him?”

“Sure do. I’ve read every one of his novels. I have to hide the books from my wife because she doesn’t want me to read them. She says he uses too many bad words and doesn’t want our kids getting any bad ideas.”

“Can’t blame her,” I said.

We talked for a while about our favorite Bukowski quotes. His was, “Great art is bull shit. Buy tacos.” While I told him that mine was “Poetry can happen when nothing else can.”

He showed me a shortcut when I come next time and a cheap place to buy flowers and alcoholic beverages.

“And don’t do anything stupid,” he said, “like diggin’ up Bu-kowski for a closer look.”

“No,” I laughed. “I don’t know how to do autopsies.”

Once the man in overalls left, I sat on the grass and breathed in the dead author’s spirit. I pictured Bukowski’s wrinkled face and his pock-marked bulbous nose and told him how much I enjoyed his work and wished I could write as witty and honestly as he did. I put my hand on his grave and left it there for a few minutes, hoping to feel a connection.

Bukowski had a simple, humble headstone with the inscription “Don’t try.” He was an author who believed that writing should be enjoyable and relaxing, and if you tried too hard, it would defeat the purpose.

A dead rose was on his grave, and the headstone was soiled. It was no way to treat one of America’s most famous writers. I got a bottle of water and a rag from my trunk and quickly cleaned his grave before anyone had the wrong idea. I got into my car and went to the convenience store the man in overalls suggested, coming back with fresh flowers and a six-pack of beer.

I sat on the lawn again, opened a beer, and took a sip. It was a hot day, and a cold beer was refreshing. I took another beer, flipped open the lid, and placed it near Bukowski’s headstone.

“This one’s for you, Hank — enjoy. ’Cause I know, even in death, you’d like a cold one.”

I imagined a smile forming on Bukowski’s face. I then tossed the dead flower and replaced it with a fresh bunch of gladiolas.

I read a chapter of “Notes from a Dirty Old Man” in a low voice so as not to scare or disturb any of the deceased. Then, after I finished reading and chugged down the last of my beer, I promised Bukowski I’d come back for his birthday and bring him a cheap bottle of whiskey. He thanked me for the beer and said he could rest in peace better since he had a little buzz.

© 2023 Mark Tulin

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