He choked. I think it was strangled laughter. “How did you get here?” “Strike action.” “You don’t strike me as the typical irate proletariat.” “Oh, well, I guess I had a run of bad luck, too.” “Figured it as such.” “Figured would suggest you can count,” I said. The big man moved like a boxer, meaty hand gripped my neck, pinned me to the thin partitioning wall. He smelled of boiled bratwurst. Man next door yapped like a teacup dog. “I know you.” He glanced at my newspaper rug. “You’re some big shot reporter. What are you doing here? Think you’re gonna make changes with some big shot exposé? “An exposé won’t change much. Better with gasoline and a match.” “You’re cute,” he said. “Don’t assume my pleasant demeanor as me giving a shit. What … are … you … doing … here?” “Two months of strike action. I got bored.” “Newspaper strike’s still on, but I hear you been typing all-hours. Tell it so as I don’t have to pitch you out a window.” “I spent a week on the picket line at the Daily News building. Nothing’s going to change. I got bored. Had too much time on my hands.” “Lay it on thick, kid. You owe me a week’s money. Charm me, Bukowski. Sing.” “Give me a quarter, I’ll sing.” “Look at you, kid. Still in your twenties and a broke loser,” he said. “I’m starting to like you,” he said. “I don’t swing that way.” He choked. I think he was gargling gravel. “I’m gonna do you a favor. You’re gonna work for me, Charlie. Earn a little money. Pay your rent. But mainly, I’m gonna keep you round just to see you blow up.” “You get off on that?” He leaned closer. Oily sauerkraut sweat and hair tonic. “Down to the front desk at nine p.m.,” he said, “You’re the new night porter.” “What’s the pay?” “Wooden nickels.” “I’m gonna need more than that.” “You a Jew or something?” “I need cash.” “Fifty bucks. End of the week.”
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