backforthmenu Don’t Try. Driving home today, the left side of my face thick and heavy from Dr. Braithwaite’s Novocain, I decide to pull into the cemetery on Western—Green Hills Memorial Park. I feel on the verge of a nervous breakdown and I have to stop and see where Charles Bukowski, the bard of Los Angeles, is buried. I drive past this place every day—twice—but have never before entered. The last time I was in a graveyard was on a dare, at night, on my bike, at top speed (unless, of course, you count Pet Haven, where my cat was cremated). This time I’m driving, and at the required speed of 15 miles-per-hour. I’m imagining if this is anything like at the cementary where my father is buried in Jackson, Mississippi. The anniversary of his death is tomorrow. Nine years and I still haven’t been to his grave. Green Hills is much bigger than I imagined. The section you can see from Western is big enough—but the entire park is at least ten times that size. I realize I would never find his plot in here without asking someone, so I make my way back to the main building. Visitor Information. I walk in. It’s quiet. Roomy. There’s a family of large, colorfully dressed people on the left, waiting on sofas. What are they waiting for? I hold my head down and walk towards the reception area. “Hi,” I whisper. “HELLO, MAY I HELP YOU?” The small woman may as well be working in the post office. Why did I have the impression you were supposed to be quiet around the dead? The movies. I speak up and repeat the line I rehearsed in the car, “I’m looking for a particular plot...” “LAST NAME?” “Bukowski.” “Oh yes,” she says, voice volume coming down a bit. “I recognize that name. He’s been getting a lot of visitors lately.” “Why is that, I wonder?” out loud. “Weeeell...” she flips through her file. “Probably because he died this week three years ago. March 14th, 1994.” I feel stupid. She knows now, that I never knew him. I’d forgotten when he died, strange I should show up today. She scribbles his name and plot number on a piece of paper and points me to a small room. “A director will be with you shortly to show you where Mr. Bukowski’s plot is. Have a seat, make yourself comfortable.” Is that possible? I stand. There’s an aerial view photograph of Green Hills framed on the wall. Various brochures on a round table in the middle of the room. I start to wonder why I need to see a director. Why couldn’t she just give me a map? Is he going to ask me why I need to see Bukowski? Is he some sort of post-mortem secretary. I can’t just barge in and see Charles Bukowski without an appointment. Just when I’m about to bail, a tall, old man walks in and greets me. Bob Schulz, Pre-Arrangement Sales Counselor. “How can I help you, son?” his tone and manner are very friendly. “Did she write down the plot number for you?” I hand him the piece of paper. Plot number 875I on the Ocean View property. “Okay.” He sits down slowly, “Let’s have a look.” Bob is completely in black, making his very pale skin seem almost translucent, his scarce, wispy white hair is surrounded by tan and brown spots. “Ocean View Property...” he whispers to himself while fumbling through a large notebook. His hands are huge, the veins a faded denim blue and the diameter of pencils. “Here it is.” He pulls out a detailed plot map, the numbers WAY too small for him to see. “This property is one of the oldest. Started sometime in ‘48, I believe. That’s why the numbering is all hob-knobbed like this...” I find the spot on the map way before he does, but I let him show me the way. I can see he’s already pointed many to this spot, it is marked by layers of finger smudges. “Here it is, somewhere in here.” We stand, I shake his big, steady hand and he gives me a Green Hills brochure for “when you need it.” I thank him and turn to leave, wondering how long he’s worked here and where his pre-arranged resting spot is. I find the general area. I park. There are a lot of flowers on a plot up a slight hill. I imagine that to be it and start walking. Nope. I look around. I begin to think this could be tougher than I thought when I see a beer bottle resting on a gravestone. I’ve found it. Henry Charles Bukowski. I look around to see the view. Not much to it. There are empty plots on either side of his. Shit. THIS IS IT. What the hell am I doing here, standing on Bukowski? Closer than I’d ever gotten to him in life. Closer than he’d ever want me to get to him in life. I look around again hoping no one will see me here. I am an impostor. I have to pee real bad. “Don’t Try,” is the inscription. I think fleetingly of peeing near the tree a few feet away, but decide to leave instead. I drive the required 15 mph back to the entrance. I’ve got to make that trip to Mississippi... 3/18/97