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Me, Bukowski And The Indignity Of Work

by Russ Litten
21 October 2013 30 Comments

As a child, the adult world of work loomed heavily on the horizon. Luckily I found Charles Bukowski to read when I got home from the days hawking spuds and selling puppets...

I’ve always been deeply unsettled by the idea of work. It seemed like a horrifying imposition to me, the notion of giving up your precious time on this bright and beautiful planet purely to make money for someone else; someone who would, more often than not, gladly work you to the edge of the grave and then skip merrily over your lifeless body in search of the next servile victim. This seemed like complete and utter madness to me. It railed against my most basic concept of human freedom.

All through my childhood, the adult world of work loomed over me like the shadow of a malevolent stepfather. The message was etched clearly in the tired and grimy faces of the adults around me: work wore you out. It sucked the life marrow from you on a daily basis. Work wasn’t about doing the things you wanted to do. It was about doing tedious shit that someone else demanded.

Then I left school and all my worst fears were confirmed. The offices and shops and factories were staffed by dull witted sadists who made you get out of bed when it was still dark and then barked orders they barely understood themselves for eight hours solid until it was time to go home.

Like everyone else on the chain gang, I stepped into line, kept my mouth and mind shut and my sense of injustice quelled. This, it seemed, was how the world revolved. But I still couldn’t help thinking that the act of going to work was like queuing up for a daily punishment dished out by churlish medieval glove puppets. I acknowledge I’m not alone in this idea. Most people probably feel the same. But I couldn’t help thinking that there was an escape route somewhere. I would stagger home in the summertime, past packed pub beer gardens and wonder how the hell they managed to balance the time/money equation to their benefit.

This attitude was probably forged by a recognition flash ignited from an early childhood book: Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer. I stood directly behind Tom when his spirit crumbled at the yawning length of Aunt Polly’s fence. And I punched the air with glee when he managed to shackle his free spirited peers into slapping on the whitewash. Work is anything a body is obliged to do, he said. Dead right, Tom. Only problem was, unlike Tom, I couldn’t talk anyone else into doing my graft for me.

Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn were probably the first two books I read all the way through. They lit something up in me. I didn’t want to be part of straight and so-called respectable society, a set up that killed your time and crushed your spirit; I wanted to run away from the city and live the life of a carefree hobo. Which is all well and good if you live in the Deep South Of America at the turn of the century. You can pull catfish from the Mississippi and smoke a corncob pipe as your raft punts gently downstream. If you tried to live a similar dream in the North of England in the Eighties you were more likely to end up picking half eaten kebabs out of waste paper bins.

I would scour Factotum when I got back exhausted from work, crashed out on the couch, afternoon TV on, volume down, the room heavy and blue with smoke. Its lines were so clean and simple and true. I rampaged through it, and then hoovered up every other bit of Bukoswki I could find.

And then, when was in my late teens, I discovered Charles Bukowski. It came as something of a revelation to me, to find books like that: brutal and beautiful, simple and seemingly profound. Books about everything and nothing. Some bloke who was surplus to requirements who just stumbled around in a daze. There it was, the flashbulb in my head again, that light of recognition. I would examine Bukowski nightly. They became the most heavily thumbed books at my bedside.

I’d first heard about Charles Bukowski via “Barfly”, the film with Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway. I thought the central Chinaski character was hilarious; W.C Fields with a dirty mouth and an oddly saintly mind, a tramp with poise, a piss-stained angel with attitude.

I went looking for his books and found “Factotum” first. I was living in a crumbling manor in a sketchy area and Factotum chimed true with me. It was another one of those rare and precious times when a book reads you. I would scour Factotum when I got back exhausted from work, crashed out on the couch, afternoon TV on, volume down, the room heavy and blue with smoke. Its lines were so clean and simple and true. I rampaged through it, and then hoovered up every other bit of Bukoswki I could find.

At this point, I was working in the wholesale food industry, i.e., I used to ride shotgun on a wagon visiting local grocers and chip shops and supermarkets, stacking their back yards and cold stores with cut-price King Edwards. It was one of the best jobs I ever had, especially in the summertime. It was like riding around the lawless trading posts of the Old Wild West. I encountered psychopaths and sweethearts in equal measure; there were enough characters in the fruit shops and fish shops to fill ten novels twice over. My partner and I struck cutthroat deals and pulled off outrageous stunts. We traded in bulk carbohydrates and other essential goods, and dealt in cash only. It was like being a pirate on a sea of grimy traffic.

I’ve had loads of different jobs and I’ve tried to make the best of all of them. Puppet seller seemed quite a promising career. My pal Sean had an Uncle who had a job lot of “Huggy Buggs”, a Sesame Street style character who clung around your neck with the aid of Velcro paws. One mohair-encased arm formed the neck of the puppet and the hand would mouth the words, a pair of rolling cartoon eyes perched on your knuckles. When you were laden down with half a dozen Huggy Buggs you were like the Pied Piper of Withernsea Market. I sold dozens of the little buggers. The only problem came when you were down to the last one. Then people just assumed you were a wandering eccentric.

Bukowski’s book seemed to understand the obvious insanity of situations such as this; the way what’s left of your brain gets pulped into strawberry jam by the endless grinding dismay of it all. Your body drained by day and your mind sucked dry at night. I still don’t think anybody has captured the relentless pointless horror of work as perfectly as Bukowski did in Factotum - although Fred Voss came close with Goodstone. Books like this can make you feel less alone if you ever feel like the world of work has got you by the throat.

Now I am lucky enough to make my money by writing, which has never felt like work to me. But even so, old habits still die-hard. That last sentence took me four hours to write, in-between wandering off to make cups of tea and stare blankly out of the window. Maybe I should have been a Lollipop Man. They don’t have to start work until they’re sixty-five.

Now that’s what I call a proper job.

Click here to buy Russ Litten’s debut novel, Scream if you Want to go Faster

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Dan 10:56 am, 15-Feb-2011

Brilliant Russ. I love Bukowski for the fact that he never gave up on his dream - to write, drink and enjoy life - hanging on until he finally achieved his goal in middle-age. The problem with hanging onto a dream that long, is that you inevitably end up doing shit jobs just to survive, while your peers are getting settled into their careers, buying houses and going on nice holidays. Living 'the dream' while you flounder from one ridiculous situation to the next. The payoff only comes if you're lucky enough to live your live on your own terms. Then you never have to suffer that horrible moment of dread when you have to go to a job that you hate, spending more time with colleagues that you hate, than friends and family that you love. Bukowski nailed this better than anyone. John Fante's The Road To Los Angeles, is the best novel I've read on the topic, by anyone else.

Bluer 1:27 pm, 15-Feb-2011

Excellent

Gareth 11:04 pm, 15-Feb-2011

Thank fuck I'm not alone in pissing my life away, writing poems and reading Bukowski. The man's lived inside my head for 15 years and I'm doubtful that he'll leave soon. Dan, there is no 'living the dream' 'cause that'd involve a lot more pussy and giraffe tongues then right now. Live how you want- if your peers get mortgages and cars they can't afford so what? If you have a shit job but smile on your days off - fuck it. Don't compete with others. Go at your own pace. Who, when it comes to it, gives a fuck? dirtysuitcase.blogspot.com

Owen Blackhurst 12:30 am, 16-Feb-2011

Two days after my 16th birthday, five months after being expelled from school and i'm lay in a tent on the Van Waverens tulip factory campsite in Hillegom, Holland. I'd gone to see my uncle and I was crashing in the recently vacated, weed stinking tent of his mate Henry. My uncle had two days left to work, so I bought a crate of Amstel and a bottle of bessen, a 50g pack of samson halfzware shag and sat down to read a battered copy of Dangling in the Tournefortia he had given me. I was hooked. It's horribly fucking cheesy to say that I felt that Bukowski was talking to me, but I did. I loved his poetry straight away, but i fucking adore his prose. Women, Post Office, Factotum, Hollywood, Pulp, he gives it to you so straight, so raw and so true that you just want to read it over and over and over. I was 27 when I got my first byline as a journalist rather than a writer of fiction. I worked in a boatload of shit jobs and was in a number of shit relationships before that and Hank kept me going. His books on my shelf make me happy. And I truly believe what he says about 'all these people that never go crazy...'

Mark Sanderson 12:53 pm, 16-Feb-2011

Yes Russ, I cant's compete with Owen, but I do remember stumbling on a copy of Post Office during a time when I was working the night shift at a printing press factory with a sex case some years ago and enjoying it an awful lot; Post office that is, not the lonely hours spent in that dark hot place.

Sean Bell 1:40 pm, 16-Feb-2011

Those were the days... dealing spuds for big 'H' earning just enough to save a little, and have a Saturday night out in 'Square... the soles of your shoes sticking to Admiral's carpet.

Andrew 8:43 pm, 16-Feb-2011

Great article. Someone once told me that reading Bukowski was a depressing experience, but I think otherwise. Maybe it's a combination of not feeling so alone with the daily grind and living life by your own terms that I find uplifting, but I think most importantly Bukowski showed that I didn't have to be a success to live an interesting life.

Dick Panama 4:17 pm, 25-Feb-2011

"Then people just assumed you were a wandering eccentric." Fantastic!

mr monday 10:11 pm, 27-Feb-2011

It's Sunday night and I'm going to work on a building site tomorrow. Maybe me and my work 'mates' will talk about football or what a cunt so and so is, or we'll hide in corners looking at porn on our phones. When I started writing this I thought it would sound grim, but I'm quite looking forward to tomorrow now.

Tracy Garnish 7:51 pm, 28-Feb-2011

That is THE best thing I have read in years.I am going to order as much of his writing as I can dig out...he speaks my mind and I salute you!!!

Paul D Brazill 4:10 pm, 14-Mar-2011

Fantastic, Russ!

Simon 4:30 pm, 14-Mar-2011

Beautifully written piece. You channelled him perfectly. Cheers

Johnny Two R's 12:27 pm, 24-Mar-2011

Just finished "Ham on Rye" which I bought after reading this. Loved it and will hunt out more.

Owen Blackhurst 12:31 pm, 24-Mar-2011

Two Rs if that is the first you've read I'm so jealous. Factotum next, then Post Office, then Women then onto Hollywood and Pulp. Some great short story collections too - tales of ordinary madness springs to mind. Poetry is blinding too but he nails existence in his prose. You lucky fucker.

Russ 12:43 pm, 24-Mar-2011

His letters are worth a look as well, Screams From The Balcony being the first one, I think.

Dina 10:33 pm, 15-Apr-2011

Never ventured into Bukowski, but I'll have a look

noely gee! 11:41 pm, 15-Apr-2011

My old man gave me a copy of post office for my 18th birthday - i loved it but didn't fully appreciate it till i was unhappy with my own job 10 years later. Looking back its funny he thought to give me something which was exactly the opposite of the "work hard and you'll make it" message he gave me verbally. I think it says a lot about how he felt about his own job at the time. Or maybe just about how life is. In any case I've been a massive Bukowski fan ever since - recently moved to his poetry after all the novels and enjoying them just as much - and in some ways it was the best present my dad ever gave me!

Danny 1:58 pm, 23-Sep-2011

I've just been let go from my job. Along side 575 poor saps. While for the most part, they see this as a tragedy, I see it as a kick up the arse to use my creativity. This article is most excellent. I shall look into Bukowski at once.

Johnny L 6:46 am, 28-May-2012

As ever, great writing Russ. I still don't get the appeal of Bukowski mind.

Stick 1:36 pm, 4-Oct-2012

Great article Russ. Bukowksi is my hero.

le rouge 3:36 pm, 4-Oct-2012

Bukowski = hope for the normal spod who has to actually work for a living. What a Man. Bit of a cunt as well. His writing is unequalled, and so a massive thank you for this article both from me and the people who will be reading him for the first time as a result of it. My first read was 'Tales of Ordinary Madness'. I have never forgotten it; nor Women, Ham on Rye, or the line in the poen that U2 so cruelly nicked in the early 90's: 'the days run away like horses over the hills'. Beautiful, beautiful words. I've read all of his novels, most of his poetry and some of the collected letters books; all as good as each other. I was genuinely sad when he finally ran out of embalming fluid. Thanks to chuck I also read 'Journey to the end of Night' by Celine. If anyone fancies that, it's definitely worth it. Again, great article.

Amadmaninsingapore 1:21 pm, 18-Oct-2012

Thank you, I really enjoyed this piece of writing. Where can I read more by you?

Russ 3:02 pm, 18-Oct-2012

Hello Amadmaninsingapore Glad you liked the piece; few more bits and bobs on here.

Harry Paterson 8:50 pm, 21-Mar-2013

Russ, simply excellent and sums up well what many of us Bukowski-ites felt on encountering him for the first time. Totally agree with Owen, too, on the suggested reading order. It's this sort of high-quality commentary which makes me proud to be a ST contributor.

amancalledbuck 9:56 pm, 21-Mar-2013

Lovely stuff.

Martin 1:05 am, 22-Mar-2013

Wonderful artical which (combined with some brilliant comments) has sent me off to a certain online dealer ,with South American connections ,to find all the Bukowski stuff I can. Thanks !!!

Shaun 12:23 pm, 22-Mar-2013

Great article. Thanks. It was Bukowski's book post Office that gave me the final push to give up my career and pursue my dreams of opening my own business in Ibiza. For me personally Post Office is one of the best books I've read. Hilarious at times yet it can be a stark reminder of how mundane and drawn out life is for the majority of people.

Winston 3:16 pm, 27-Mar-2013

Great piece mate. Hank rules my bookshelf!

Booner Cope 9:20 am, 29-Mar-2013

Love Bukowski, love that he drifted. I tell myself it would have been easy to do during WW2, as in Factotum. I've wanted to jump on a train. By wine and fall onto a bar with easy women lol. There is an emerging UK Bukowski though, but very, very funny. Check Jonny Gibbings. He has the drifter gene, prison, drunk etc.

Matt 4:50 pm, 21-Oct-2013

I knew I had read this before. What a strange thing, that it has been redated for today?!

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