Bukowski Meets Camus At A Bar

If Camus and Bukowski met at a bar, it would go like this.

Charles Bukowski enters a bar on Hollywood Boulevard, staggers to one of the stools by the counter. There is a jukebox playing, the music mixing with the sound of a fan that doesn’t move the air that much. The barman, an old geezer in his seventies with crooked teeth and saggy eye bags, fidgets with a car key while leaning on the other side of the counter.

“Any chance of getting a drink here?” asks Bukowski.

The barman lifts his head and slowly makes his way to where Bukowski is sitting.

“Vodka 7, forget the lime.”

The barman takes a good 5 minutes and returns with the drink, still fidgeting with the car key in his other hand.

“Thank you, now please make me another while you are in motion.”

A man is sitting at a table staring at Bukowski. He is wearing a grey, three-piece suit and has a cigarette in his hand, a cup of coffee in the other. It seems like he has been studying Bukowski since he got into the bar.

“Nice day, isn’t it fellow?” asks Bukowski.

“Pardon?” said the other man in a French accent, while adjusting his glasses on his nose.

“Ah..never mind..”