Shit, there was Harvey standing there.
Ya got a beautiful son, Harvey.
Your boy, Peter-" "Paul." "Sorry.
The Biblical." "I understand." (The rich understand; they just don't do anything about it.) Harvey uncorked a new fifth.
We talked about Kafka.
Dos. Turgenev, Gogel.
All that dull shit.
Then there were candles every-where.
The Zen master wanted to get on with it.
Roy had given me the two rings.
I felt.
They were still there.
Everybody was waiting on us.
I was waiting for Harvey to drop to the floor from drinking all that scotch.
It wasn't any good.
He had matched me one drink for two and was still standing.
That isn't done too often.
We had knocked off half a fifth in the ten minutes of candle- lighting.
We went out to the crowd.
I dumped the rings on Roy.
Roy had com- municated, days earlier, to the Zen master that I was a drunk --- unreliable --- either faint-hearted or vicious ---therefore, during the ceremony, don't ask Bukowski for the rings because Bukowski might not be there.
Or he might lose the rings, or vomit, or lose Bukowski.
