I recently watched Born Into This, a documentary about Bukowski’s life that paints him as both a reckless drunk (which he was) and a vulnerable humanist (which he was, as well).  At one point early in the flick, a few different literary heads and celebrities describe exactly how they first came to read Bukowski, which got me thinking about the first time I’d read him.

During my sophomore year of college I was slogging through medieval and romantic literature tomes trying my best to stay interested and afloat in boring English survey classes.  I was living with a few friends who were not the best influences on things like my liver and my lungs at the time, and so, I was in one of those collegiate modes where four hours of sleep, a half pack of cigarettes, a slice of pepperoni pizza, and one intelligent comment per class could get you through the day.

It was also one of those times when we got blacked out every weekend because the liquor was there and so were the women.  A few roommates and I were walking to a house where we’d heard some bands would be playing, sipping from flasks and watching our breaths freeze in the stiff winds of the cornfields.  We ran into a group of kids with less clothing on than was necessary, white thighs goose-pimpled and huffing down cigarettes, headed in the same direction as us.  A few obligatory niceties and shared spirits and we were all best friends for the night.  That’s how easy it was.

There was one, who turned her nose up at me all night once we were at the party.  She had a piercing where Marilyn Monroe’s mole was and dark brunette hair that accented cheeks smoother and more fulfilling than buttered toast.  A hot cup of coffee of a girl that would burn at your stomach harsher than the cigarettes you’d down to accompany her.  Sparing the details, I eventually got enough courage to ask her to dance.  She smiled, said it’s about time.

Two days later, walking to a class, she came up from behind and grabbed me by the arm.  She looked different than I’d remembered, but only in the sense that she had her senses about her this time.  Seeing her in this context, where the first thing on my mind wasn’t fucking or drinking, took me aback.

take this.  read it.  if you like it, come to the show at canopy club on friday.

She was already walking away and I was suddenly holding a copy of Bukowski’s “The Most Beautiful Woman in Town.”  The irony of the whole situation not being lost on me, I took the long path to class.  Slodging through the muddied snow in the opposite direction of the girl.

I read the first story, the title story, of a beautiful girl who is tired of the attention.  Who self-mutilates in order to figure out if men really love her or her beauty.  Who seemed eerily like the girl who had handed me the book.

I showed up on Friday, gave the book back to her, fully read.

We stepped outside for a cigarette; a coquettish grin crossed her face when I told her I’d read it and loved it.  Her only reply though was,

Good.  I’ve got to get back to my boyfriend.

The next time I saw her, she was fucking my roommate.

I don’t know whether I agree with everything he has to say.  But back then, just as sure as you could find another pair of arms to fall into that looked exactly like her on the weekend, I was sure he was right.