Speaking of Bukowski, it reminds me of a story I heard up in Alaska, my first summer on the rails:

Chris Rosemond was this brash, gravelly-voiced longhair cook. He loved to get in yer face. He’d yell and cuss and complain and get real mean. But not to us. And by “us” I mean, the “people in the kitchen”…me as the dishwasher and some other fella as the other cook. He protected us. But to those servers…watch out.

Anyway, he was a Bukowski fan and told me about this time in Los Angeles where he had heard from a friend that Bukowski was in a bar nearby. He raced down to the bar, and approached the old man and proceeded to tell him how much he loved his work and so on.

Bukowski looked up and snarled, “Get the fuck outta my face you longhair faggot.”

Or something like that.

And Chris loved it. He was told off by one of his heroes. It all made sense.

- - - -

One of the last things Chris told me was, “I know you can’t wait to get back to the states and all, but, Alaska is a part of you now. Trust me on this one.”

I remember shaking my head and laughing, as, I was literally counting down those hours to getting back to my little world in Bend, and, my first computer.

I have to say, he was spot on. It was a part of me. It dragged me back for three more summers, and, each May, I get to thinking about getting my ass back up there.

And I think of Rosemond, and that voice.