Sucker                                                                                               by Joe Smith It was the third day of their five-day visit. The TV screamed its lethargic dialog so we conversed by yelling so that we could hear each other over the sitcom laugh tracks. The talk bordered on interrogation. The questions were like crowbars: How’s work? Do you like your job? Are the people nice? I learned long ago that when people ask these questions they don’t want honest answers. They want: Great. I like it a lot. The people are very nice. I had to get out of the house so I drove to bookstore 30 minutes away. After 10 minutes of browsing, I found a copy of Bukowski’s War All the Time, and cracked its spine. As luck would have it, I turned to a poem about working in a factory. In it, Bukowski refers to himself as a “sucker” because he knew that the work he was doing only made a rich man richer. I took it as a sign for, like Bukowski, I was a sucker, too. Like Bukowski, I knew in my heart that the game was rigged. Like a fool, though, I kept right on playing. I kept right on hoping that my luck would change—even though I knew there was no such thing. I paid for the book, got in the car, and drove home. Thankfully, everyone was asleep when I returned. Immediately, I went to my desk, reopened the book, and picked up where I had left off in the store. Bukowski went to work right away. The flames of inspiration ignited something in my gut and the venom welled up in my veins. Suddenly, everything was … right. But then, about 10 poems in, the fire that was burning so nicely died without warning. Bukowski began writing about his ex-lovers and his success at the track. He made life sound like it was worth the hassle, like there was a way out of the game. “What happened to the war?” I wondered. I bought the book because I wanted to feel the hopeless of class conflict, the sting of self-abuse, and the hollow pain of self- deprecation. Instead, all I got for my $14 were some words about the satisfaction of a well-placed bet and the silhouette of his girlfriend’s ass in the dark. Writers, they say, do their best work when they’re longing for someone who has passed away, searching for a reason to explain the unreasonable mess of humanity, or in desperate need of answers that don’t exist. The poems in War All the Time, however, were written when Bukowski was in his 60s. By then he had penned a screenplay, published many novels, and written several books of poetry. By then he wasn’t longing for anything. Of all the writers I admire, I never thought Bukowski would give in. His fire, I was sure, wouldn’t burn out until his life did. Like I said, I’m a sucker.