On the 2nd floor on Coronado Street, I used to get drunk and throw the radio through the window while it was playing, and, of course, it would break the window. The radio would sit there on the roof, still playing, and I'd tell my woman, "Ah, what a marvelous radio!" The next morning, I'd take the window off the hinges and carry it down the street to the glass man, who would put in another pane. I kept throwing that radio through the window each time I got drunk, and it would sit there on the roof still playing. It was a magic radio--a radio with guts. Each morning, I'd take the window back to the glass man. I don't remember how it ended exactly, though I do remember we finally moved out. There was a woman downstairs who worked in the garden in her bathing suit; she really dug with that trowel. She put her behind up in the air, and I used to sit in the window and watch the sun shine all over that thing while the music played.
Written by Charles Bukowski