Another Tale of Norse Mythology
Featuring Charles Bukowski
By David Macpherson


Charles Bukowski goes to the Well of Wisdom and sits his ass down at the end of the bar. He says to the fucker behind the stick, "Mimir, you old bitch, give me the house special. I'm thirsty like a busted school bus."

Mimir wipes his greasy hands on his stained apron and says, "Charles Bukowski, we sell wisdom here. Makes you smart like an old whore who's still working. Goes down hard, like a tire iron or at least like Maker's Mark."

Charles Bukowski smiles and says, "That's the shit for me. Order me up a tall one of that."

Mimir shrugs, "That will be one eye. One right eye."

"What the hell for?"

Mimir smiles, "Ya cheap ass bastard. That's what wisdom costs, in this part of town anyways. One right eye."

Charles Bukowski says, "Ah, hell. These eyes have seen fuck all. You can take both for all I care."

Mimir shakes his head, "Nah, the cost is one eye, and that's what you got to pay. Lean on over the bar, I can help you with that." Charles Bukowski leans over the bar and with a fast thumb, Mimir pushes into the socket and the eye plops out. It hits the mirror behind the bar and ricochets down to the floor. Mimir picks it up, brushing off sawdust. It goes in his front pocket.

Mimir pours a shot of liquor and Charles Bukowski tilts it back into his throat. "Balls," he says, "this don't taste like Maker's Mark. It's more like Bushmills."

"And wisdom," Mimir says.

"Whatever you say," Charles Bukowski says, "I ain't never tasted something like that before."

You can find Charles Bukowski at the track, looking at the racing form through one eye. Ravens land on his shoulder. He pushes them off saying, "Fuck off, you god-damned pidgeons." He goes back to the form. He makes his selections: the trifecta, the double, the win, the show. And he craps out every single time. He loses so much, like it was his plan all along.


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David Macpherson lives in Central Massachusetts with his wife Heather and son George.