I looked at my
virgin cock.
"I'm a man," I said. "I can whip anybody's ass."
"I need the bathroom, Hank . . ." Jim was at the door. He went into the
bathroom. I heard him puking.
"Ah, shit . . ." I said and opened a new can of beer. After a few
minutes, Jim came out and sat in a chair. He looked very pale. I stuck a can
of beer under his nose.
"Drink up! Be a man! You were man enough to steal it, now be man enough
to drink it!"
"Just let me rest a while."
"Drink it!"
I sat down on the couch. Getting drunk was good. I decided that I would
always like getting drunk. It took away the obvious and maybe if you could
get away from the obvious often enough, you wouldn't become obvious
yourself. I looked over at Jimmy.
"Drink up, punk."
I threw my empty beer can across the room.
"Tell me some more about your mother, Jimmy boy. What did she say about
the man who drank her piss in the bathtub?"
"She said, 'There's a sucker born every minute.'"
"Jim."
"Uh?"
"Drink up. Be a man!"
He lifted his beer can. Then he ran to the bathroom and I heard him
puking again. He came out after a while and sat in his chair. He didn't look
well. "I've got to lay down," he said.
"Jimmy," I said, "I'm going to wait around until your mother comes
home."
Jimmy got up from his chair and started walking toward the bedroom.
"When she comes home I'm going to fuck her, Jimmy."
He didn't hear me. He just walked into the bedroom. I went into the
kitchen and came back with more beer.
I sat and drank the beer and waited for Clare. Where was that
whore? I couldn't allow this kind of thing. I ran a tight ship.
I got up and walked into the bedroom. Jim was face down on the bed, all
his clothes on, his shoes on. I walked back out.
Well, it was obvious that boy had no belly for booze. Clare needed a
man. I sat down and opened another can of beer. I took a good hit. I found a
pack of cigarettes on the coffee table and lit one.
I don't know how many more beers I drank waiting for Clare but finally
I heard the key in the door and it opened. There was Clare of the body and
the bright blond hair. That body stood on those high heels and it swayed
just a little. No artist could have imagined it better. Even the walls
stared at her, the lampshades, the chairs, the rug. Magic. Standing there .
. .
"Who the hell are you? What is this?"
"Clare, we've met. I'm Hank. Jimmy's friend."
"Get out of here!"
I laughed. "I'm movin' in, baby, it's you and me!"
"Where's Jimmy?"
She ran into the bedroom, then came hack out.
"You little prick! What's going on here?"
I picked up a cigarette, lit it. I grinned.
"You're beautiful when you're angry . . ."
"You're nothing but a god-damned little kid drunk on beer. Go home."
"Sit down, baby. Have a beer."
Clare sat down. I was very surprised when she did that.
"You go to Chelsey, don't you?" she asked.
"Yeah. Jim and I are buddies."
"You're Hank."
"Yes."
"He's told me about you."
I handed Clare a can of beer. My hand shook. "Here, have a drink,
baby."
She opened the beer and took a sip.
I looked at Clare, lifted my beer and had a hit. She was plenty of
woman, a Mae West type, wore the same kind of tight-fitting gown -- big
hips, big legs. And breasts. Startling breasts.
Clare crossed her wondrous legs, a bit of skirt falling back. Her legs
were full and golden and the stockings fit like skin.
"I've met your mother," she said.
I drained my can of beer and put it down by my feet. I opened a new
one, took a sip, then looked at her, not knowing whether to look at her
breasts or at her legs or into her tired face.
"I'm sorry that I got your son drunk. But I've got to tell you
something."
She turned her head, lighting a cigarette as she did so, then faced me
again.
"Yes?"
"Clare, I love you."
She didn't laugh. She just gave me a little smile, the corners of her
mouth turning up a little.
"Poor boy. You're nothing but a little chicken just out of the egg."
It was true hut it angered me. Maybe because it was true. The dream and
the beer wanted it to be something else. I took another drink and looked at
her and said, "Cut the shit. Lift your skirt. Show me some leg. Show me some
flank."
"You're just a hoy."
Then I said it. I don't know where the words came from, but I said it,
"I could tear you in half, baby, if you gave me the chance."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"All right. Let's see."
Then she did it. Just like that. She uncrossed her legs and pulled her
skirt back. She didn't have on panties.
I saw her huge white upper flanks, rivers of flesh. There was a large
protruding wart on the inside of her left thigh. And there was a jungle of
tangled hair between her legs, but it was not bright yellow like the hair on
her head, it was brown and shot with grey, old like some sick bush dying,
lifeless and sad. I stood up.
"I've got to go, Mrs. Hatcher."
"Christ, I thought you wanted to party!"
"Not with your son in the other room, Mrs. Hatcher."
"Don't worry about him, Hank. He's passed out."
"No, Mrs. Hatcher, I've really got to go."
"All right, get out of here you god-damned little piss-ant!"
I closed the door behind me and walked down the hall of the apartment
building and out into the street. To think, somebody had suicided for that.
The night suddenly looked good. I walked along toward my parents' house.
44
I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay
poor. But I didn't particularly want money. I didn't know what I wanted.
Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn't have
to do anything. The thought of being something didn't only appall me, it
sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer or a councilman or an engineer,
anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have
children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work
every day and to return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to
be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother's
Day . . . was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would
rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to
sleep.
My father had a master plan. He told me, "My son, each man during his
lifetime should buy a house. Finally he dies and leaves that house to his
son. Then his son gets his own house and dies, leaves both houses to
his son. That's two houses. That son gets his own house, that's three
houses . . ."
The family structure. Victory over adversity through the family. He
believed in it. Take the family, mix with God and Country, add the ten-hour
day and you had what was needed.
I looked at my father, at his hands, his face, his eyebrows, and I knew
that this man had nothing to do with me. He was a stranger. My mother was
non-existent. I was cursed. Looking at my father I saw nothing but indecent
dullness. Worse, he was even more afraid to fail than most others. Centuries
of peasant blood and peasant training. The Chinaski bloodline had been
thinned by a series of peasant-servants who had surrendered their real lives
for fractional and illusionary gains. Not a man in the line who said, "I
don't want a house, I want a thousand houses, now!"
He had sent me to that rich high school hoping that the ruler's
attitude would rub off on me as I watched the rich boys screech up in their
cream-colored coupes and pick up the girls in bright dresses. Instead I
learned that the poor usually stay poor. That the young rich smell the stink
of the poor and learn to find it a bit amusing. They had to laugh, otherwise
it would be too terrifying. They'd learned that, through the centuries. I
would never forgive the girls for getting into those cream-colored coupes
with the laughing boys. They couldn't help it, of course, yet you always
think, maybe . . . But no, there weren't any maybes. Wealth meant victory
and victory was the only reality. What woman chooses to live with a
dishwasher?
Throughout high school I tried not to think too much about how things
might eventually turn out for me. It seemed better to delay thinking . . .
Finally it was the day of the Senior Prom. It was held in the girls'
gym with live music, a real band. I don't know why but I walked over that
night, the two-and-one-half miles from my parents' place. I stood outside in
the dark and I looked in there, through the wire-covered window, and I was
astonished. All the girls looked very grown-up, stately, lovely, they were
in long dresses, and they all looked beautiful. I almost didn't recognize
them. And the boys in their tuxes, they looked great, they danced so
straight, each of them holding a girl in his arms, their faces pressed
against the girl's hair. They all danced beautifully and the music was loud
and clear and good, powerful.
Then I caught a glimpse of my reflection staring in at them -- boils
and scars on my face, my ragged shirt. I was like some jungle animal drawn
to the light and looking in. Why had I come? I felt sick. But I kept
watching. The dance ended. There was a pause. Couples spoke easily to each
other. It was natural and civilized.
Where had they learned to converse and to dance? I couldn't converse or
dance. Everybody knew something I didn't know. The girls looked so good, the
boys so handsome. I would be too terrified to even look at one of those
girls, let alone be close to one. To look into her eyes or dance with her
would be beyond me.
And yet I knew that what I saw wasn't as simple and good as it
appeared. There was a price to be paid for it all, a general falsity, that
could he easily believed, and could be the first step down a dead-end
street. The band began to play again and the boys and girls began to dance
again and the lights revolved overhead throwing shades of gold, then red,
then blue, then green, then gold again on the couples. As I watched them I
said to myself, someday my dance will begin. When that day comes I will have
something that they don't have.
But then it got to be too much for me. I hated them. I hated their
beauty, their untroubled youth, and as I watched them dance through the
magic colored pools of light, holding each other, feeling so good, little
unscathed children, temporarily in luck, I hated them because they had
something I had not yet had, and I said to myself, I said to myself again,
someday I will be as happy as any of you, you will see.
They kept dancing, and I repeated it to them. Then there was a
sound behind me.
"Hey! What are you doing?"
It was an old man with a flashlight. He had a head like a frog's head.
"I'm watching the dance."
He held the flashlight right up under his nose. His eyes were round and
large, they gleamed like a cat's eyes in the moonlight, But his mouth was
shriveled, collapsed, and his head was round. It had a peculiar senseless
roundness that reminded me of a pumpkin trying to play pundit.
"Get your ass out of here!"
He ran the flashlight up and down all over me.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I'm the night custodian. Get your ass out of here before I call the
cops!"
"What for? This is the Senior From and I'm a senior."
He flashed his light into my face. The hand was playing "Deep Purple."
"Bullshit!" he said. "You're at least 22 years old!"
"I'm in the yearbook, Class of 1939, graduating class, Henry Chinaski."
"Why aren't you in there dancing?"
"Forget it. I'm going home."
"Do that."
I walked off. I kept walking. His flashlight leaped on the path,
the light following me. I walked off campus. It was a nice warm night,
almost hot. I thought I saw some fireflies but I wasn't sure.
45
Graduation Day. We filed in with our caps and gowns to "Pomp and
Circumstance." I suppose that in our three years we must have learned
something. Our ability to spell had probably improved and we had grown in
size. I was still a virgin. "Hey, Henry, you busted your cherry yet?" "No
way," I'd say.
Jimmy Hatcher sat next to me. The principal was giving his address and
really scraping the bottom of the old shit barrel.
"America is the great land of Opportunity and any man or woman with a
desire to do so will succeed . . ."
"Dishwasher," I said.
"Dog catcher," said Jimmy.
"Burglar," I said.
"Garbage collector," said Jimmy.
"Madhouse attendant," I said.
"America is brave, America was built by the brave . . . Ours is a just
society."
"Just so much for the few," said Jimmy.
". . . a fair society and all those who search for that dream at the
end of the rainbow will and . . ."
"A hairy crawling turd," I suggested.
". . . and I can say, without hesitation, that this particular Class of
Summer 1939, less than a decade removed from the beginning of our terrible
national Depression, this class of Summer '39 is more ripe with courage,
talent and love than any class it has been my pleasure to witness!"
196
The mothers, fathers, relatives applauded wildly; a few of the students
joined in.
"Class of Summer 1939, I am proud of your future, I am sure of
your future. I send you out now to your great adventure!"
Most of them were headed over to U.S.C. to live the non- working
life for at least four more years.
"And I send my prayers and blessings with you!"
The honor students received their diplomas first. Out they came.
Abe Mortenson was called. He got his. I applauded.
"Where's he gonna end up?" Jimmy asked.
"Cost accountant in an auto parts manufacturing concern. Somewhere near
Gardena, California."
"A lifetime job . . ." said Jimmy.
"A lifetime wife," I added.
"Abe will never be miserable . . ."
"Or happy."
"An obedient man . . ."
"A broom."
"A stiff . . ."
"A wimp."
When the honor students had been taken care of they began on us. I felt
uncomfortable sitting there. I felt like walking out.
"Henry Chinaski!" I was called.
"Public servant," I told Jimmy.
I walked up to and across the stage, took the diploma, shook the
principal's hand. It felt slimy like the inside of a dirty fish bowl. (Two
years later he would be exposed as an embezzler of school funds; he was to
be tried, convicted and jailed.)
I passed Mortenson and the honor group as I went back to my seat. He
looked over and gave me the finger, so only I could see it. That got me. It
was so unexpected. I walked back and sat down next to Jimmy.
"Mortenson gave me the finger!"
"No, I don't believe it!"
'Son-of-a-bitch! He's spoiled my day! Not that it was worth a fuck
anyhow but he's really greased it over now!"
I can't believe he had the guts to finger you."
"It's not like him. You think he's getting some coaching?"
"I don't know what to think."
"He knows that I can bust him in half without even inhaling!"
"Bust him!"
"But don't you see, he's won? It's the way he surprised me!"
"All you gotta do is kick his ass all up and down."
"Do you think that son-of-a-bitch learned something reading all those
books? I know there's nothing in them because I read every fourth page."
"Jimmy Hatcher!" His name was called.
"Priest," he said.
"Poultry farmer," I said.
Jimmy went up and got his. I applauded loudly. Anybody who could live
with a mother like his deserved some accolade. He came back and we sat
watching all the golden boys and girls go up and
get theirs.
"You can't blame them for being rich," Jimmy said.
"No, I blame their fucking parents."
"And their grandparents," said Jimmy.
"Yes, I'd be happy to take their new cars and their pretty
girlfriends and I wouldn't give a fuck about anything like social
justice."
"Yeah," said Jimmy. "I guess the only time most people think about
injustice is when it happens to them."
The golden boys and girls went on parading across the stage. I sat
there wondering whether to punch Abe out or not. I could see him flopping on
the sidewalk still in his cap and gown, the victim of my right cross, all
the pretty girls screaming, thinking, my god, this Chinaski guy must be a
bull on the springs!
On the other hand, Abe wasn't much. He was hardly there. It wouldn't
take anything to punch him out. I decided not to do it. I had already broken
his arm and his parents hadn't sued mine, finally. If I busted his head they
would surely go ahead and sue. They would take my old man's last copper. Not
that I would mind. It was my mother: she would suffer in a fool's way:
senselessly and without reason.
Then, the ceremony was over. The students left their seats and filed
out. Students met with parents, relatives on the front lawn. There was much
bugging, embracing. I saw my parents waiting. I walked up to them, stood
about four feet away.
"Let's get out of here," I said.
My mother was looking at me.
"Henry, I'm so proud of you!"
Then my mother's head turned. "Oh, there goes Abe and his parents!
They're such nice people! Oh, Mrs. Mortenson!"
They stopped. My mother ran over and threw her arms about Mrs.
Mortenson. It was Mrs. Mortenson who had decided not to sue after many, many
hours of conversation upon the telephone with my mother. It had been decided
that I was a confused individual and that my mother had suffered enough that
way.
My father shook hands with Mr. Mortenson and I walked over to Abe.
"O.K., cocksucker, what's the idea of giving me the finger?"
"What?"
"The finger."
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
"The finger.'"
"Henry, I really don't know what you're talking about!"
"All right, Abraham, it's time to go!" said his mother. The Mortenson
family walked off together. I stood there watching them. Then we started
walking to our old car. We walked west to the corner and turned south.
"Now that Mortenson boy really knows how to apply himself!"
said my father. "How are you ever going to make it? I've never
even seen you look at a schoolbook, let alone inside of one!"
"Some books arc dull," I said.
"Oh, they're dull, are they? So you don't want to study?
What can you do? What good are you? What can you do? It
has cost me thousands of dollars to raise you, feed you, clothe you! Suppose
I left you here on the street? Then what would you do?"
"Catch butterflies."
My mother began to cry. My father pulled her away and down the block to
where their ten-year-old car was parked. As I stood there, the other
families roared past in their new cars, going somewhere.
Then Jimmy Hatcher and his mother walked by. She stopped.
"Hey, wait a minute," she told Timmy, "I want to congratulate Henry."
Jimmy waited and Clare walked over. She put her face close to
"line. She spoke softly so Jimmy wouldn't hear. "Listen, Honey,
any time you really want to graduate, I can arrange to give you
your diploma."
"Thanks, Clare, I might be seeing you."
"I'll rip your balls off, Henry!"
"I don't doubt it, Clare."
She went back to Jimmy and they walked away down the street. A very old
car rolled up, stopped, the engine died. I could see my mother weeping, big
tears were running down her cheeks.
"Henry, get in! Please get in! Your father is right but I love
you!"
"Forget it. I've got a place to go."
"No, Henry, get in!" she wailed. "Get in or I'll die!"
I walked over, opened the rear door, climbed into the rear seat.
The engine started and we were off again. There I sat, Henry Chinaski, Class
of Summer '39, driving into the bright future. No, being driven. At the
first red light the car stalled. As the signal turned green my father was
still trying to start the engine. Somebody behind us hooked. My father got
the car started and we were in motion again. My mother had stopped crying.
We drove along like that, each of us silent.
46
Times were still hard. Nobody was any more surprised than I when Mears-
Starbuck phoned and asked me to report to work the next Monday. I had gone
all around town putting in dozens of applications. There was nothing else to
do. I didn't want a job but I didn't want to live with my parents either.
Mears-Starbuck must have had thousands of applications on hand. I couldn't
believe they had chosen me. It was a department store with branches in many
cities.
The next Monday, there I was walking to work with my lunch in a brown
paper bag. The department store was only a few blocks away from my former
high school.
I still didn't understand why I had been selected. After filling out
the application, the interview had lasted only a few minutes. I must have
given all the right answers.
First paycheck I get, I thought, I'm going to get myself a room near
the downtown L.A. Public Library.
As I walked along I didn't feel so alone and I wasn't. I noticed a
starving mongrel dog following me. The poor creature was terribly thin; I
could see his ribs poking through his skin. Most of his fur had fallen off.
What remained clung in dry, twisted patches. The dog was beaten, cowed,
deserted, frightened, a victim of Homo sapiens.
I stopped and knelt, put out my hand. He backed off.
"Come here, fellow, I'm your friend . . . Come on, come on . . ."
He came closer. He had such sad eyes.
"What have they done to you, boy?"
He came still closer, creeping along the sidewalk, trembling, wagging
his tail quite rapidly. Then he leaped at me. He was large, what was left of
him. His forelegs pushed me backwards and I was flat on the sidewalk and he
was licking my face, mouth, ears, forehead, everywhere. I pushed him off,
got up and wiped my face.
"Easy now! You need something to eat! FOOD!"
I reached into my bag and took out a sandwich. I unwrapped it and broke
off a portion.
"Some for you and some for me, old boy!"
I put his part of the sandwich on the sidewalk. He came up, sniffed at
it, then walked off, slinking, staring back at me over his shoulder as he
walked down the street away from me.
"Hey, wait, buddy! That was peanut butter! Come here, have some
bologna! Hey, boy, come here! Come back!"
The dog approached again, cautiously. I found the bologna sandwich,
ripped off a chunk, wiped the cheap watery mustard off, then placed it on
the sidewalk.
I he dog walked up to the bit of sandwich, put his nose to it, sniffed,
then turned and walked off. This time he didn't look back. He accelerated
down the street.
No wonder I had been depressed all my life. I wasn't getting proper
nourishment.
I walked on toward the department store. It was the same street I had
walked along to go to high school.
I arrived. I found the employees' entrance, pushed the door open and
walked in. I went from bright sunlight into semi- darkness. As my eyes
adjusted I could make out a man standing several feet away in front of me.
Half of his left ear had been sliced off at some point in the past. He was a
tall, very thin man with needlepoint grey pupils centered in otherwise
colorless eyes. A very tall thin man, yet right above his belt, sticking out
over his belt -- suddenly -- was a sad and hideous and strange pot belly.
All his fat had settled there while the remainder of him had wasted away.
"I'm Superintendent Ferris," he said. "I presume that you're Mr.
Chinaski?"
"Yes, sir."
"You're five minutes late."
"I was delayed by . . . Well, I stopped to try to feed a starving
dog," I grinned.
"That's one of the lousiest excuses I've ever heard and I've been
here thirty-five years. Couldn't you come up with a better one
than that?"
"I'm just starting, Mr. Ferris."
"And you're almost finished. Now," he pointed, "the time- clock is over
there and the card rack is over there. Find your card
and punch in."
I found my card. Henry Chinaski, employee #68754. Then I
walked up to the timeclock but I didn't know what to do.
Ferris walked over and stood behind me, staring at the time- clock.
"You're now six minutes late. When you are ten minutes late we
dock you an hour."
"I guess it's better to be an hour late."
"Don't be funny. If I want a comedian I listen to Jack Benny. If
you're an hour late you're docked your whole god-damned job."
"I'm sorry, but I don't know how to use a timeclock. I mean,
how do I punch in?"
Ferris grabbed the card out of my hand. He pointed at it.
"See this slot?"
"Yeah."
"What?"
"I mean, 'yes.'"
"O.K., that slot is for the first day of the week. Today."
"Ah."
"You slip the timecard into here like this . . ."
He slipped it in, then pulled it out.
"Then when your timecard is in there you hit this lever."
Ferris hit the lever but the timecard wasn't in there.
"I understand. Let's begin."
"No, wait."
He held the timecard in front of me.
"Now, when you punch out for lunch, you hit this slot."
"Yes, I understand."
"Then when you punch back in, you hit the next slot. Lunch is
thirty minutes."
"Thirty minutes, I've got it."
"Now, when you punch out, you hit the last slot. That's four punches a
day. Then you go home, or to your room or wherever, sleep, come back and hit
it four more times each working day until you get fired, quit, die or
retire."
"I've got it."
"And I want you to know that you've delayed my indoctrination speech to
our new employees, of which you, at the moment, are one. I am in charge
here. My word is law and your wishes mean nothing. If I dislike anything
about you -- the way you tie your shoes, comb your hair or fart, you're back
on the streets, get it?"
"Yes, sir!"
A young girl came flouncing in, running on her high heels, long brown
hair flowing behind her. She was dressed in a tight red dress. Her lips were
large and expressive with excessive lipstick. She theatrically pulled her.
card out of the rack, punched in, and breathing with minor excitement, she
put her card back in the rack.
She glanced over at Ferris.
"Hi, Eddie!"
"Hi, Diana!"
Diana was obviously a salesgirl. Ferris walked over to her. They stood
talking. I couldn't hear the conversation but I could hear them laughing.
Then they broke off. Diana walked over and waited for the elevator to take
her to her work. Ferris walked back toward me holding my timecard.
"I'll punch in now, Mr. Ferris," I told him.
"I'll do it for you. I want to start you out right."
Ferris inserted my timecard into the clock and stood there. He waited.
I heard the clock tick, then he hit it. He put my card in the rack.
"How late was I, Mr. Ferris?"
"Ten minutes. Now follow me."
I followed along behind him. I saw the group waiting.
Four men and three women. They were all old. They seemed to have
salivary problems. Little clumps of spittle had formed at the corners of
their mouths; the spittle had dried and turned white and then been coated by
new wet spittle. Some of them were too thin, others too fat. Some were near-
sighted; others trembled. One old fellow in a brightly colored shirt had a
hump on his back. They all smiled and coughed, puffing at cigarettes. Then I
got it. The message.
Mears-Starbuck was looking for stayers. The company didn't care
for employee turnover (although these new recruits obviously weren't going
anywhere but to the grave -- until then they'd remain grateful and loyal
employees). And I had been chosen to work alongside of them. The lady in the
employment office had evaluated me as belonging with this pathetic group of
losers.
What would the guys in high school think if they saw me? Me, one of the
toughest guys in the graduating class.
I walked over and stood with my group. Ferris sat on a table facing us.
A shaft of light fell upon him from an overhead transom. He inhaled his
cigarette and smiled at us.
"Welcome to Mears-Starbuck . . ."
Then he seemed to fall into a reverie. Perhaps he was thinking about
when he had first joined the department store thirty-five years ago. He blew
a few smoke rings and watched them rise into the air. His half-sliced ear
looked impressive in the light from above.
The guy next to me, a little pretzel of a man, knifed his sharp little
elbow into my side. He was one of those individuals whose glasses always
seem ready to fall off. He was uglier than I was.
"Hi!" he whispered. "I'm Mewks. Odell Mewks."
"Hello, Mewks."
"Listen, kid, after work let's you and me make the bars. Maybe we can
pick up some girls."
"I can't, Mewks."
"Afraid of girls?"
"It's my brother, he's sick. I've got to watch over him."
"Sick?"
"Worse. Cancer. He has to piss through a tube into a bottle strapped to
his leg."
Then Ferris began again. "Your starting salary is forty-four- and-a-
half cents an hour. We are non-union here. Management believes that what is
fair for the company is fair for you. We are like a family, dedicated to
serve and to profit. You will each receive a ten-percent discount on all
merchandise you purchase from Mears-Starbuck . . ."
"OH, BOY!" Mewks said in a loud voice.
"Yes, Mr. Mewks, it's a good deal. You take care of us, we'll take care
of you."
I could stay with Mears-Starbuck for forty-seven years, I thought. I
could live with a crazy girlfriend, get my left ear sliced off and maybe
inherit Ferris' job when he retired.
Ferris talked about which holidays we could look forward to and then
the speech was over. We were issued our smocks and our lockers and then we
were directed to the underground storage facilities.
Ferris worked down there too. He manned the phones. Whenever he
answered the phone he would hold it to his sliced left ear with his left
hand and clamp his right hand under his left armpit.
"Yes? Yes? Yes. Coming right up!"
"Chinaski!"
"Yes, sir."
"Lingerie department . . ."
Then he would pick up the order pad, list the items needed and how many
of each. He never did this while on the phone, always afterwards.
"Locate these items, deliver them to the lingerie department, obtain a
signature and return."
His speech never varied.
My first delivery was to lingerie. I located the items, placed
them in my little green cart with its four rubber wheels and pushed it
toward the elevator. The elevator was at an upper floor and I pressed the
button and waited. After some time I could see the bottom of the elevator as
it came down. It was very slow. Then it was at basement level. The doors
opened and an albino with one eye stood at the controls. Jesus. He looked at
me.
"New guy, huh?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"What do you think of Ferris?"
"I think he's a great guy."
They probably lived together in the same room and took turns manning
the hotplate.
"I can't take you up."
"Why not?"
"I gotta take a shit."
He left the elevator and walked off.
There I stood in my smock. This was the way things usually worked. You
were a governor or a garbageman, you were a tight-rope walker or a bank
robber, you were a dentist or a fruit picker, you were this or you were
that. You wanted to do a good job. You manned your station and then you
stood and waited for some asshole. I stood there in my smock next to my
green cart while the elevator man took a shit.
It came to me then, clearly, why the rich, golden boys and girls were
always laughing. They knew. The albino returned.
"It was great. I feel thirty pounds lighter."
"Good. Can we go now?"
He closed the doors and we rose to the sales floor. He opened the
doors.
"Good luck," said the albino.
I pushed my green cart down through the aisles looking for the lingerie
department, a Miss Meadows.
Miss Meadows was waiting. She was slender and classy- looking. She
looked like a model. Her arms were folded. As I approached her I noticed her
eyes. They were an emerald green, there was depth, a knowledge there. I
should know somebody like that. Such eyes, such class. I stopped my cart in
front of her counter.
"Hello, Miss Meadows," I smiled.
"Where the hell have you been?" she asked.
"It just took this long."
"Do you realize I have customers waiting? Do you realize that I'm
attempting to run an efficient department here?"
The salesclerks got ten cents an hour more than we did, plus
commissions. I was to discover that they never spoke to us in a friendly
way. Male or female, the clerks were the same. They took any familiarity as
an affront.
"I've got a good mind to phone Mr. Ferris."
"I'll do better next time. Miss Meadows."
I placed the goods on her counter and then handed her the form to sign.
She scratched her signature furiously on the paper, then instead of handing
it back to me she threw it into my green cart.
"Christ, I don't know where they find people like you!"
I pushed my cart over to the elevator, hit the button and waited. The
doors opened and I rolled on in.
"How'd it go?" the albino asked me.
"I feel thirty pounds heavier," I told him. He grinned, the doors
closed and we descended.
Over dinner that night my mother said, "Henry, I'm so proud of you that
you have a job!"
I didn't answer.
My father said, "Well, aren't you glad to have a job?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah? Is that all you can say? Do you realize how many men are
unemployed in this nation now?"
"Plenty, I guess."
"Then you should be grateful."
"Look, can't we just eat our food?"
"You should be grateful for your food, too. Do you know how much this
meal cost?"
I shoved my plate away. "Shit! I can't eat this stuff!"
I got up and walked to my bedroom.
"I've got a good mind to come back there and teach you what is what!"
I stopped. "I'll be waiting, old man."
Then I walked away. I went in and waited. But I knew he wasn't coming.
I set the alarm to get ready for Mears-Starbuck. It was only 7:30 p.m. but I
undressed and went to bed. I switched off the light and was in the dark.
There was nothing else to do, nowhere to go. My parents would soon be in bed
with the lights out.
My father liked the slogan, "Early to bed and early to rise, makes a
man healthy, wealthy and wise."
But it hadn't done any of that for him. I decided that I might try to
reverse the process.
I couldn't sleep.
Maybe if I masturbated to Miss Meadows? Too cheap. I wallowed there in
the dark, waiting for something,
47
The first three or four days at Mears-Starbuck were identical. In fact,
similarity was a very dependable thing at Mears-Starbuck. The caste system
was an accepted fact. There wasn't a single salesclerk who spoke to a stock-
clerk outside of a perfunctory word or two. And it affected me. I thought
about it as I pushed my cart about. Was it possible that the salesclerks
were more intelligent than the stockclerks? They certainly dressed better.
It bothered me that they assumed that their station meant so much. Perhaps
if I had been a salesclerk I would have felt the same way. I didn't much
care for the other stockclerks. Or the salesclerks.
Now, I thought, pushing my cart along, I have this job. Is this to be
it? No wonder men robbed banks. There were too many demeaning jobs. Why the
hell wasn't I a superior court judge or a concert pianist? Because it took
training and training cost money. But I didn't want to be anything anyhow.
And I was certainly succeeding.
I pushed my cart to the elevator and hit the button. Women wanted men
who made money, women wanted men of mark. I low many classy women were
living with skid row bums? Well, I didn't want a woman anyhow. Not to live
with. How could men live with women? What did it mean? What I wanted was a
cave in Colorado with three-years' worth of foodstuffs and drink. I'd wipe
my ass with sand. Anything, anything to stop drowning in this dull, trivial
and cowardly existence.
The elevator came up. The albino was still at the controls.
"Hey, I hear you and Mewks made the bars last night!"
"He bought me a few beers. I'm broke."
"You guys get laid?"
"I didn't."
"Why don't you guys take me along next time? I'll show you
how to get some snatch."
"What do you know?"
"I've been around. Just last week I had a Chinese girl. And you
know, it's just like they say."
"What's that?"
We hit the basement and the doors opened.
"Their snatch doesn't run up and down, it runs from side to side."
Ferris was waiting for me.
"Where the hell you been?"
"Home gardening."
"What did you do, fertilize the fuchsias?"
"Yeah, I drop one turd in each pot."
"Listen, Chinaski . . ."
"Yes?"
"The punchlines around here belong to me. Got it?"
"Got it."
"Well, get this. I've got an order here for Men's Wear."
He handed me the order slip.
"Locate these items, deliver them, obtain a signature and return."
Men's Wear was run by Mr. Justin Phillips, Jr. He was well- bred, he
was polite, around twenty-two. He stood very straight, had dark hair, dark
eyes, breeding lips. There was an unfortunate absence of cheekbones but it
was hardly noticeable. He was pale and wore dark clothing with beautifully
starched shirts. The salesgirls loved him. He was sensitive, intelligent,
clever. He was also just a bit nasty as if some forebear had passed down
that right to him. He had only broken with tradition once to speak to me.
"It's a shame, isn't it, those rather ugly scars on your face?"
As I rolled my cart up to Men's Wear, Justin Phillips was standing very
straight, head tilted a bit, staring, as he did most of the time, looking
off and up as if he was seeing things we were not. He saw things out there.
Maybe I just didn't recognize breeding when I saw it. He certainly appeared
to be above his surroundings. It was a good trick if you could do it and get
paid at the same time. Maybe that's what management and the salesgirls
liked. Here was a man truly too good for what he was doing, but he was doing
it anyhow.
I rolled up. "Here's your order, Mr. Phillips."
He appeared not to notice me, which hurt in a sense, and was a good
thing in another. I stacked the goods on the counter as he stared off into
space, just above the elevator door.
Then I heard golden laughter and I looked. It was a gang of guys who
had graduated with me from Chelsey High. They were trying on sweaters,
hiking shorts, various items. I knew them by sight only, as we had never
spoken during our four years of high school. The leader was Jimmy New hall.
He had been the halfback on our football team, undefeated for three years.
His hair was a beautiful yellow, the sun always seemed to be highlighting
parts of it, the sun or the lights in the schoolroom. He had a thick,
powerful neck and above it sat the face of a perfect boy sculpted by some
master sculptor. Everything was exactly as it should be: nose, forehead,
chin, the works. And the body likewise, perfectly formed. The others with
Newhall were not exactly as perfect as he was, but they were close. They
stood around and tried on sweaters and laughed, waiting to go to U.S.C. or
Stanford.
Justin Phillips signed my receipt. I was on my way back to the elevator
when I heard a voice:
"HEY, Ski! Ski, YOU LOOk GREAT IN YOUR LITTLE OUTFIT!"
I stopped, turned, gave them a casual wave of the left hand.
"Look at him! Toughest guy in town since Tommy Dorsey!"
"Makes Gable look like a toilet plunger."
I left my wagon and walked back. I didn't know what I was going to do.
I stood there and looked at them. I didn't like them, never had. They might
look glorious to others but not to me. There was something about their
bodies that was like a woman's body. They were soft, they had never faced
any fire. They were beautiful nothings. They made me sick. I hated them.
They were part of the nightmare that always haunted me in one form or
another.
Jimmy Newhall smiled at me. "Hey, stockboy, how come you never tried
out for the team?"
"It wasn't what I wanted."
"No guts, eh?"
"You know where the parking lot on the roof is?"
"Sure."
"See you there . . ."
They strolled out toward the parking lot as I took my smock off and
threw it into the cart. Justin Phillips, Jr. smiled at me, "My dear boy, you
are going to get your ass whipped."
Jimmy Newhall was waiting, surrounded by his buddies.
"Hey, look, the stockboy!"
"You think he's wearing ladies' underwear?"
Newhall was standing in the sun. He had his shirt off and his
undershirt too. He had his gut sucked in and his chest pushed out. He looked
good. What the hell had I gotten into? I felt my underlip trembling. Up
there on the roof, I felt fear. I looked at Newhall, the golden sun
highlighting his golden hair. I had watched him many times on the football
field. I had seen him break off many 50 and 60 yard runs while I rooted for
the other team,
Now we stood looking at each other. I left my shirt on. We kept
standing. I kept standing.
Newhall finally said, "O.k., I'm going to take you now." He started to
move forward. Just then a little old lady dressed in black came by with many
packages. She had on a tiny green felt hat.
"Hello, boys!" she said.
"Hello, ma'am."
"Lovely day . . ."
The little old lady opened her car door and loaded in the packages.
Then she turned to Jimmy Newhall.
"Oh, what a fine body you have, my boy! I'll bet you could be
Tarzan of the Apes!"
"No, ma'am," I said. "Pardon me, but he's the ape and those with
him are his tribe."
"Oh," she said. She got into her car, started it and we waited as she
backed out and drove off.
"O.K., Chinaski," said Newhall, "all through school you were famous for
your sneer and your big god-damned mouth. And now I'm going to put
the cure on you!"
Newhall bounded forward. He was ready. I wasn't quite ready. All I saw
was a backdrop of blue sky and a flash of body and fists. He was quicker
than an ape, and bigger. I couldn't seem to throw a punch, I only felt his
fists and they were rock hard. Squinting through punched eyes I could see
his fists, swinging, landing, my god, he had power, it seemed endless and
there was no place to go. I began to think, maybe you are a sissy, maybe you
should be, maybe you should quit.
But as he continued to punch, my fear vanished. I felt only
astonishment at his strength and energy. Where did he get it? A swine like
him? He was loaded. I couldn't see anymore -- my eyes were blinded by
flashes of yellow and green light, purple light -- then a terrific shot of
RED . . . I felt myself going down. Is this the way it happens?
I fell to one knee. I heard an airplane passing overhead. I wished I
was on it. I felt something run over my mouth and chin . . . it was warm
blood running from my nose.
"Let him go, Jimmy, he's finished . . ."
I looked at Newhall. "Your mother sucks cock," I told him.
"I'LL KILL YOU!"
Newhall rushed me before I could quite get up. He had me by the throat
and we rolled over and over, under a Dodge. I heard his head hit something.
I didn't know what it hit but I heard the sound. It happened quite quickly
and the others were not as aware of it as I was.
I got up and then Newhall got up.
"I'm going to kill you," he said.
Newhall windmilled in. This time it wasn't nearly so bad. He punched
with the same fury, but something was missing. He was weaker. When he hit me
I didn't see flashes of color, I could see the sky, the parked cars, the
faces of his friends, and him. I had always been a slow starter. Newhall was
still trying but he was definitely weaker. And I had my small hands, I was
blessed with small hands, lousy weapons.
What a weary time those years were -- to have the desire and the need
to live but not the ability.
I dug a hard right to his belly and I heard him gasp so I grabbed him
behind the neck with my left and dug another right to his belly. Then I
pushed him off and cracked him with a one-two, right into that sculpted
face. I saw his eyes and it was great. I was bringing something to him that
he had never felt before. He was terrified. Terrified because he didn't know
how to handle defeat. I decided to finish him slowly.
Then someone slugged me on the back of the head. It was a good hard
shot. I turned and looked. It was his red-headed friend, Cal Evans. I
yelled, pointing at him. "Stay the fuck away from me! I'll take all of you
one at a time! As soon as I'm done with this guy, you're next!"
It didn't take much to finish Jimmy. I even tried some fancy footwork.
I jabbed a bit, played around and then I moved in and started punching. He
took it pretty good and for a while I thought I couldn't finish it but all
of a sudden he gave me this strange look which said, hey, look, maybe we
ought to be buddies and go have a couple of beers together. Then he dropped.
His friends moved in and picked him up, they held him up, talked to
him, "Hey, Jim, you O.K.?"
"What'd the son-of-a-bitch do to you, Jim? We'll clean his drawers,
Jim. Just give us the word."
"Take me home," Jim said.
I watched them go down the stairway, all of them trying to hold him up,
one guy carrying his shirt and undershirt . . .
I went downstairs to get my cart. Justin Phillips was waiting.
"I didn't think you'd be back," he smiled disdainfully.
"Don't fraternize with the unskilled help," I told him. I pushed off.
My face, my clothes -- 1 was pretty badly messed up. I walked to the
elevator and hit the button. The albino came in due time. The doors opened.
"The word's out," he said. "I hear you're the new heavyweight champion
of the world."
News travels fast in places where nothing much ever happens.
Ferns of the sliced ear was waiting.
"You just don't go around beating the shit out of our customers."
"It was only one."
"We have no way of knowing when you might start in on the others."
"This guy baited me."
"We don't give a damn about that. That's what happens. All we know is
that you were out of line."
"How about my check?"
"It'll be mailed."
"O.K., see you . . ."
"Wait, I'll need your locker key."
I got out my key chain which only had one other key on it, pulled off
the locker key and handed it to Ferris.
Then I walked to the employees' door, pulled it open. It was a heavy
steel door which worked awkwardly. As it opened, letting in the daylight, I
turned and gave Ferris a small wave. He didn't respond. He just looked
straight at me. Then the door closed on him. I liked him, somehow.
48
"So you couldn't hold a job for a week?"
We were eating meatballs and spaghetti. My problems were always
discussed at dinner time. Dinner time was almost always an unhappy time. I
didn't answer my father's question.
"What happened? Why did they can your ass?"
I didn't answer.
"Henry, answer your father when he speaks to you!" my mother said.
"He couldn't hack it, that's all!"
"Look at his face," said my mother, "it's all bruised and cut. Did your
boss beat you up, Henry?"
"No, Mother . . ."
"Why don't you eat, Henry? You never seem to be hungry."
"He can't eat," said my father, "he can't work, he can't do anything,
he's not worth a fuck!"
"You shouldn't talk that way at the dinner table, Daddy," my mother
told him.
"Well, it's true!" My father had an immense ball of spaghetti rolled on
his fork. He jammed it into his mouth and started chewing and while chewing
he speared a large meatball and plunged it into his mouth, then worked in a
piece of French bread.
I remembered what Ivan had said in The Brothers Karamazov, "Who
doesn't want to kill the father?"
As my father chewed at the mass of food, one long string of spaghetti
dangled from a corner of his mouth. He finally noticed it and sucked it in
noisily. Then he reached, put two large teaspoons of white sugar into his
coffee, lifted the cup and took a giant mouthful, which he immediately spit
out across his plate and onto the tablecloth.
"That shit's too hot!"
"You should be more careful, Daddy," said my mother.
I combed the job market, as they used to say, but it was a dreary and
useless routine. You had to know somebody to get a job even as a lowly bus
boy. Thus everybody was a dishwasher, the whole town was full of unemployed
dishwashers. I sat with them in Pershing Square in the afternoons. The
evangelists were there too. Some had drums, some had guitars, and the bushes
and restrooms crawled with homosexuals.
"Some of them have money," a young bum told me. "This guy took me to
his apartment for two weeks. I had all I could eat and drink and he bought
me 'some clothes but he sucked me dry, I couldn't stand up after a while.
One night when he was asleep I crawled out of there. It was horrible. He
kissed me once and I knocked him across the room. 'You ever do that again,'
I told him, 'and I'll kill you!'"
Clifton's Cafeteria was nice. If you didn't have much money, they let
you pay what you could. And if you didn't have any money, you didn't have to
pay. Some of the bums went in there and ate well. It was owned by some very
nice rich old man, a very unusual person. I could never make myself go in
there and load up. I'd go in for a coffee and an apple pie and give them a
nickel. Sometimes I'd get a couple of weenies. It was quiet and cool in
there and clean. There was a large waterfall and you could sit next to it
and imagine that everything was quite all right. Philippe's was nice too.
You could get a cup of coffee for three cents with all the refills you
wanted. You could sit in there all day drinking coffee and they never asked
you to leave no matter how bad you looked. They just asked the bums not to
bring in their wine and drink it there. Places like that gave you
hope when there wasn't much hope.
The men in Pershing Square argued all day about whether there was a God
or not. Most of them didn't argue very well but now and then you got a
Religionist and an Atheist who were well-versed and it was a good show.
When I had a few coins I'd go to the underground bar beneath the big
movie house. I was 18 but they served me. I looked like I could be almost
any age. Sometimes I looked 25, sometimes I felt like 30. The bar was run by
Chinese who never spoke to anyone. All I needed was the first beer and then
the homosexuals would start buying. I'd switch to whiskey sours. I'd bleed
them for whiskey sours and when they started closing in on me. I'd get
nasty, push off and leave. After a while they caught on and the place wasn't
any good anymore.
The library was the most depressing place I went. I had run out of
books to read. After a while I would just grab a thick book and look for a
young girl somewhere. There were always one or two about. I'd sit three or
four chairs away, pretending to read the book, trying to look intelligent,
hoping some girl would pick me up. I knew that I was ugly but I thought if I
looked intelligent enough I might have some chance. It never worked. The
girls just made notes on their pads and then they got up and left as I
watched their bodies moving rhythmically and magically under their clean
dresses. What would Maxim Gorky have done under such circumstances?
At home it was always the same. The question was never asked until
after the first few bites of dinner were partaken. Then my father would ask,
"Did you find a job today?"
"No."
"Did you try anywhere?"
"Many places. I've gone back to some of the same places for the second
or third time."
"I don't believe it."
But it was true. It was also true that some companies put ads in the
papers every day when there were no jobs available. It gave the employment
department in those companies something to do. It also wasted the time and
screwed up the hopes of many desperate people.
"You'll find a job tomorrow, Henry," my mother would always say . . .
49
I looked for a job all summer and couldn't find one. Jimmy Hatcher
caught on at an aircraft plant. Hitler was acting up in Europe and creating
jobs for the unemployed. I had been with Jimmy that day when we had turned
in our applications. We filled them out in similar fashion, the only
difference being where it said Place of Birth, I put down Germany and
he put down Reading, Pa.
"Jimmy got a job. He came from the same school and he's your age," said
my mother. "Why couldn't you get a job at the aircraft plant?"
"They can tell a man who doesn't have a taste for work," said my
father. "All he wants to do is to sit in the bedroom on his dead ass and
listen to his symphony music!"
"Well, the boy likes music, that's something."
"But he doesn't do anything with it! He doesn't make it USEFUL!"
"What should he do?"
"He should go to a radio station and tell them he likes that kind of
music and get a job broadcasting."
"Christ, it's not done like that, it's not that easy."
"What do you know? Have you tried it?"
"I tell you, it can't be done."
My father put a large piece of pork chop into his mouth. A greasy
portion hung out from between his lips as he chewed. It was as if he had
three lips. Then he sucked it in and looked at my mother. "You see, mama,
the boy doesn't want to work."
My mother looked at me. "Henry, why don't you eat your food?"
It was finally decided that I would enroll at L.A. City College. There
was no tuition fee and second-hand books could be purchased at the Go-op
Book Store. My father was simply ashamed that I was unemployed and by going
to school I would at least earn some respectability. Eli LaCrosse (Baldy)
had already been there a term. He counseled me.
"What's the easiest fucking thing to take?" I asked him.
"Journalism. Those journalism majors don't do anything."
"O.K., I'll be a journalist."
I looked through the school booklet.
"What's this Orientation Day they speak of here?"
"Oh, you just skip that, that's bullshit."
"Thanks for telling me, buddy. We'll go instead to that bar across from
campus and have a couple of beers."
"Damn right!"
"Yeah."
The day after Orientation Day was the day you signed up for classes.
People were running about frantically with papers and booklets. I had come
over on the streetcar. I took the "W" to Vermont and then took the "V" north
to Monroe. I didn't know where everybody was going, or what I should do. I
felt sick.
"Pardon me . . ." I asked a girl.
She turned her head and kept walking briskly. A guy came running by and
I grabbed him by the back of his belt and stopped him.
"Hey, what the hell are you doing?" he asked.
"Shut up. I want to know what's going on! I want to know what to do!"
"They explained everything to you in Orientation."
"Oh . . ."
I let him go and he ran off. I didn't know what to do. I had imagined
that you just went somewhere and told them you wanted to take Journalism,
Beginning Journalism, and they'd give you a card with a schedule of your
classes. It was nothing like that. These people knew what to do and they
wouldn't talk. I felt as if I was in grammar school again, being mutilated
by the crowd who knew more than I did. I sat down on a bench and watched
them running back and forth. Maybe I'd fake it. I'd just tell my parents I
was going to L.A. City College and I'd come every day and lay on the lawn.
Then I saw this guy running along. It was Baldy. I got him from behind by
the collar.
"Hey, hey. Hank! What's happening?"
"I ought to cream you right now, you little asshole!"
"What's wrong? What's wrong?"
"How do I get a fucking class? What do I do?"
"I thought you knew!"
"How? How would I know? Was I born with this knowledge inside of
me, fully indexed, ready to consult when needed?"
I walked him over to a bench, still holding him by his shirt collar.
"Now, lay it out, nice and clear, everything that needs to be done and how
to do it. Do a good job and I might not cream you at this moment!"
So Baldy explained it all. I had my own Orientation Day right there. I
still held him by the collar. "I'm going to let you go now. But some day I'm
going to even this thing out. You're going to pay for fucking me over. You
won't know when, but it's going to happen."
I let him go. He went running off with the rest of them. There was no
need for me to worry or hurry. I was going to get the worst classes, the
worst teachers and the worst hours. I strolled about leisurely signing up
for classes. I appeared to be the only unconcerned student on campus. I
began to feel superior.
Until my first 7 a.m. English class. It was 7:30 a.m. and I was
hungover as I stood there outside the door, listening. My parents had paid
for my books and I had sold them for drinking money. I had slid out of the
bedroom window the night before and had closed the neighborhood bar. I had a
throbbing beer hangover. I still felt drunk. I opened the door and walked
in. I stood there. Mr. Hamilton, the English instructor, was standing before
the class, singing, A record player was on, loud, and the class was singing
along with Mr. Hamilton. It was Gilbert and Sullivan.
Now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navy . . .
I copied all the letters in a big round hand . . .
Now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navy . . .
Stick close to your desks and never go to sea . . .
And you all may be rulers of the Queen's Navy . . .
I walked to the rear of the class and found an empty seat. Hamilton
walked over and shut off the record player. He was dressed in a black-and-
white pepper suit with a shirt-front of bright orange. He looked like Nelson
Eddy. Then he faced the class, glanced at his wrist watch and addressed me:
"You must be Mr. Chinaski?"
I nodded.
"You are thirty minutes late."
"Yes."
"Would you be thirty minutes late to a wedding or a funeral?"
"No."
"Why not, pray tell?"
"Well, if the funeral was mine I'd have to be on time. If the wedding
was mine it would be my funeral." I was always quick with the mouth. I would
never learn.
"My dear sir," said Mr. Hamilton, "we have been listening to Gilbert
and Sullivan in order to learn proper enunciation. Please stand up."
I stood up.
"Now, please sing, Stick close to your desks and never go to sea and
you'll always be the ruler of the Queens Navy."
I stood there.
"Well, go ahead, please!"
I went through it and sat down.
"Mr. Chinaski, I could barely hear you. Couldn't you sing with just a
bit more verve?"
I stood up again. I sucked in a giant sea of air and let go. "IF YA
WANNA BE DA RULLER OF DEY QUEEN'S NABY STICK CLOSE TA YUR DESKS AN NEVA GO
TA SEA!"
I had gotten it backwards.
"Mr. Chinaski," said Mr. Hamilton, "please sit down."
I sat down. It was Baldy's fault.
50
Everybody had gym period at the same time. Baldy's locker was about
four or five down from mine in the same row. I went to my locker early.
Baldy and I had a similar problem. We hated wool pants because the wool
itched our legs but our parents just loved for us to wear wool. I had solved
the problem, for Baldy and myself, by letting him in on a secret. All you
had to do was to wear your pajamas underneath the wool pants.
I opened my locker and undressed. I got my pants and pajamas off and
then I took the pajamas and hid them on top of the locker. I got into my gym
suit. The other guys were starting to walk in.
Baldy and I had some great pajama stories but Baldy's was the best. He
had been out with his girlfriend one night, they had gone to some dance. In
between dances his girlfriend had said, "What's that?"
"What's what?"
"There's something sticking out of your pant cuff."
"What?"
"My goodness! You're wearing your pajamas underneath your
pants!"
"Oh? Oh, that . . . I must have forgotten . . ."
"I'm leaving right now!"
She never dated him again.
All the guys were changing into their gym clothes. Then Baldy walked in
and opened his locker.
"How ya doing, pal?" I asked him.
"Oh, hello. Hank . . ."
"I've got a 7 a.m. English class. It really starts the day outright.
Only they ought to call it Music Appreciation /."
"Oh yeah. Hamilton. I've heard of him. Hee hee hee . . ."
I walked over to him.
Baldy had unbuckled his pants. I reached over and yanked his pants
down. Underneath were green striped pajamas. He tried to yank his pants back
up but I was too strong for him.
"HEY, FELLOWS, LOOK! JESUS CHRIST, HERE'S A GUY WHO WEARS HIS PAJAMAS
TO SCHOOL!"
Baldy was struggling. His face was florid. A couple of guys walked over
and looked. Then I did the worst. I yanked his pajamas down.
"AND LOOK HERE! THE POOR FUCKER IS NOT ONLY BALD BUT HE DOESN'T HARDLY
HAVE A COCK! WHAT IS THIS POOR EUCKER GOING TO DO WHEN HE CONFRONTS A
WOMAN?"
Some big guy standing nearby said, "Chinaski, you're really a piece of
shit!"
"Yeah," said a couple of other guys. "Yeah . . . yeah . . ." I heard
other voices.
Baldy pulled his pants up. He was actually crying. He looked at the
guys. "Well, Chinaski wears pajamas too! He was the guy who started
me doing it! Look in his locker, just look in his locker!"
Baldy ran down to my locker and ripped the door open. He pulled all my
clothing out. The pajamas weren't in there.
"He's hidden them! He's hidden them somewhere!"
I left my clothes on the floor and walked out on the field for roll
call. I stood in the second row. I did a couple of deep knee bends. I
noticed another big guy behind me. I'd heard his name around, Sholom
Stodolsky.
"Chinaski," he said, "you're a piece of shit."
"Don't mess with me, man, I've got an edgy nature."
"Well, I'm messing with you."
"Don't push me too far, fat boy."
"You know the place between the Biology Building and the tennis
courts?"
"I've seen it."
"I'll meet you there after gym."
"O.K.," I said.
I didn't show up. After gym I cut the rest of my classes and took the
streetcars down to Pershing Square. I sat on a bench and waited for some
action. It seemed a long time coming. Finally a Religionist and an Atheist
got into it. They weren't much good. I was an Agnostic. Agnostics didn't
have much to argue about. I left the park and walked down to 7th and
Broadway. That was the center of town. There didn't seem to be much doing
there, just people waiting for the signals to change so they could cross the
street. Then I noticed my legs were starting to itch. I had left my pajamas
on top of the locker. What a fucking lousy day it had been from beginning to
end. I hopped a "W" streetcar and sat in the back as it rolled along
carrying me back toward home.
51
I only met one student at City College that I liked, Robert Becker. He
wanted to be a writer. "I'm going to learn everything there is to learn
about writing. It will be like taking a car apart and putting it back
together again."
"Sounds like work," I said.
"I'm going to do it."
Becker was an inch or so shorter than I was but he was stocky, he was
powerfully built, with big shoulders and arms.
"I had a childhood disease," he told me. "I had to lay in bed one time
for a year squeezing two tennis balls, one in each hand. Just from doing
that, I got to be like this."
He had a job as a messenger boy at night and was putting himself
through college.
"How'd you get your job?"
"I knew a guy who knew a guy."
"I'll bet I can kick your ass."
"Maybe, maybe not. I'm only interested in writing."
We were sitting in an alcove overlooking the lawn. Two guys were
staring at me.
Then one of them spoke. "Hey," he asked me, "do you mind if I ask you
something?"
"Go ahead."
"Well, you used to be a sissy in grammar school, I remember you. And
now you're a tough guy. What happened?"
"I don't know."
"Are you a cynic?"
"Probably."
"Are you happy being a cynic?"
"Yes."
"Then you're not a cynic because cynics aren't happy!"
The two guys did a little vaudeville handshake act and ran off,
laughing.
"They made you look bad," said Becker.
"No, they were trying too hard."
"Are you a cynic?"
"I'm unhappy. If I was a cynic it would probably make me feel
better."
We hopped down from the alcove. Classes were over. Becker
wanted to put his books in his locker. We walked there and he
dumped them in. He handed me five or six sheets of paper.
"Here read this. It's a short story."
We walked down to my locker. I opened it and handed him a
paper bag.
"Take a hit..."
It was a bottle of port. Becker took a hit, then I took one.
"You always keep one of these in your locker?" he asked.
"I try to."
"Listen, tonight's my night off. Why don't you come meet some
of my friends?"
"People don't do me much good."
"These are different people."
"Yeah? Where at? Your place?"
"No. Here, I'll write down the address . . ." He began writing
on a piece of paper.
"Listen, Becker, what do these people do?"
"Drink," said Becker. I put the slip into my pocket . . .
That night after dinner I read Becker's short story. It was good and I
was jealous. It was about riding his bike at night and then delivering a
telegram to a beautiful woman. The writing was objective and clear, there
was a gentle decency about it. Becker claimed Thomas Wolfe as an influence
but he didn't wail and ham it up like Wolfe did. The emotion was there but
it wasn't spelled out in neon. Becker could write, he could write better
than I could.
My parents had gotten me a typewriter and I had tried some short
stories but they had come out very bitter and ragged. Not that that was so
bad but the stories seemed to beg, they didn't have their own vitality. My
stories were darker than Becker's, stranger, but they didn't work. Well, one
or two of them had worked -- for me -- but it was more or less as if they
had fallen into place instead of being guided there. Becker was clearly
better. Maybe I'd try painting,
I waited until my parents were asleep. My father always snored loudly.
When I heard him I opened the bedroom screen and slid out over the berry
bush. That put me into the neighbor's driveway and I walked slowly in the
dark. Then I walked up Longwood to 21st Street, took a right, then went up
the hill along Westview to where the "W" car ended its route. I dropped my
token in and walked to the rear of the car, sat down and lit a cigarette. If
Becker's friends were anywhere as good as Becker's short story it was going
to be one hell of a night.
Becker was already there by the time I found the Beacon Street address.
His friends were in the breakfast nook. I was introduced. There was Harry,
there was Lana, there was Gobbles, there was Stinky, there was Marshbird,
there was Ellis, there was Dogface and finally there was The Ripper. They
all sat around a large breakfast table. Harry had a legitimate job
somewhere, he and Becker were the only ones employed. Lana was Harry's wife,
Gobbles their baby was sitting in a highchair. Lana was the only woman
there. When we were introduced she had looked right at me and smiled. They
were all young, thin, and puffed at rolled cigarettes.
"Becker told us about you," said Harry. "He says you're a writer."
"I've got a typewriter."
"You gonna write about us?" asked Stinky.
"I'd rather drink."
"Fine. We're going to have a drinking contest. Got any money?" Stinky
asked.
"Two dollars . . ."
"O.K., the ante is two dollars. Everybody up!" Harry said. That made
eighteen dollars. The money looked good laying there. A bottle appeared and
then shot glasses.
"Becker told us you think you're a tough guy. Are you a tough guy?"
"Yeah."
"Well, we're gonna see . . ."
The kitchen light was very bright. It was straight whiskey. A dark
yellow whiskey. Harry poured the drinks. Such beauty. My mouth, my throat,
couldn't wait. The radio was on. Oh,Johnny, oh Johnny, how you can
love! somebody sang.
"Down the hatch!" said Harry.
There was no way I could lose. I could drink for days. I had never had
enough to drink.
Gobbles had a tiny shot glass of his own. As we raised ours and drank
them, he raised his and drank. Everybody thought it was funny. I didn't
think it was so funny for a baby to drink but I didn't say anything. Harry
poured another round.
"You read my short story, Hank?" Becker asked.
"Yeah."
"How'd you like it?"
"It was good. You're ready now. All you need is some luck."
"Down the hatch!" said Harry.
The second round was no problem, we all got it down, including Lana.
Harry looked at me. "You like to duke it, Hank?"
"No."
"Well, in case you do, we got Dogface here."
Dogface was twice my size. It was so wearisome being in the world.
Every time you looked around there was some guy ready to take you on without
even inhaling. I looked at Dogface.
"Hi, buddy!"
"Buddy, my ass," he said. "Just get your next drink down."
Harry poured them all around. He skipped Gobbles in the highchair,
though, which I appreciated. All right, we raised them, we all got that
round down. Then Lana dropped out.
"Somebody's got to clean up this mess and get Harry ready for work in
the morning," she said.
The next round was poured. Just as it was the door banged open and a
large good-looking kid of around 22 came running into the room. "Shit,
Harry" he said, "hide me! I just held up a fucking gas station!"
"My car's in the garage," Harry said. "Get down on the floor in the
back seat and stay there!"
We drank up. The next round was poured. A new bottle appeared. The
eighteen dollars was still in the center of the table. We were still all
hanging in there except Lana. It was going to take plenty of whiskey to do
us in.
"Hey," I asked Harry, "aren't we going to run out of drinks?"
"Show him, Lana , , ."
Lana pulled open some upper cupboard doors. I could see bottles and
bottles of whiskey lined up, all the same brand. It looked like the loot
from a truck hi jack and it probably was. And these were the gang members:
Harry, Lana, Stinky, Marshbird, Ellis, Dogface and The Ripper, maybe Becker,
and most likely the young guy now on the floor in the back seat of Harry's
car. I felt honored to be drinking with such an active part of the
population of Los Angeles. Becker not only knew how to write, Becker knew
his people. I would dedicate my first novel to Robert Becker. And it would
be a better novel than Of Time and the River.
Harry kept pouring the rounds and we kept drinking them down. The
kitchen was blue with cigarette smoke.
Marshbird dropped out first. He had a very large nose, he just shook
his head, no more, no more, and all you could see was this long nose waving
"no" in the blue smoke.
Ellis was the next to drop out. He had a lot of hair on his chest but
evidently not much on his balls.
Dogface was next. He just jumped up and ran to the crapper and puked.
Listening to him Harry got the same idea and leaped up and puked in the
sink.
That left me, Becker, Stinky and The Ripper. Becker quit next. He just
folded his arms on the table, put his head down in his arms and that was it.
"The night's so young," I said. "I usually drink until the sun comes
up."
"Yeah," said The Ripper, "you shit in a basket too!"
"Yeah, and it's shaped like your head."
The Ripper stood up. "You son-of-a-bitch, I'll bust your ass!"
He swung at me from across the table, missed and knocked over the
bottle. Lana got a rag and mopped it up. Harry opened a bottle.
"Sit down, Rip, or you forfeit your bet," Harry said. Harry poured a
new round. We drank them down. The Ripper stood up, walked to the rear door,
opened it and looked out into the night.
"Hey, Rip, what the hell you doing?" Stinky asked.
"I'm checking to see if there's a full moon."
"Well, is there?"
There was no answer. We heard him fall through the door, down the steps
and into the bushes. We left him there. That left me and Stinky.
"I've never seen anybody take Stinky yet," said Harry. Lana had just
put Gobbles to bed. She walked back into the kitchen. "Jesus, there are dead
bodies all over the place."
"Pour 'em, Harry," I said.
Harry filled Stinky's glass, then mine. I knew there was no way I could
get that drink down. I did the only thing I could do. I pretended it was
easy. I grabbed the shot glass and belted it down. Stinky just stared at me.
"I'll be right back. I gotta go to the crapper."
We sat and waited.
"Stinky's a nice guy," I said. "You shouldn't call him Stinky. How'd he
get that name?"
"I dunno," said Harry, "somebody just laid it on him."
"That guy in the back of your car. He ever going to come out?"
"Not till morning."
We sat and waited. "I think," said Harry, "we better take a look."
We opened the bathroom door. Stinky didn't appear to be in there. Then
we saw him. He had fallen into the bathtub. His feet stuck up over the edge.
His eyes were closed, he was down in there, and out. We walked back to the
table. "The money's yours," said Harry.
"How about letting me pay for some of those bottles of whiskey?"
"Forget it."
"You mean it?"
"Yes, of course."
I picked up the money and put it in my right front pocket. Then I
looked at Stinky's drink.
"No use wasting this," I said.
"You mean you're going to drink that?" asked Lana.
"Why not? One for the road . . ."
I gulped it down.
"O.K., see you guys, it's been great!"
"Goodnight, Hank . . ."
I walked out the back door, stepping over The Ripper's body. I found a
back alley and took a left. I walked along and I saw a green Chevy sedan. I
staggered a bit as I approached it. I grabbed the rear door handle to steady
myself. The god-damned door was unlocked and it swung open, knocking me
sideways. I fell hard, skinning my left elbow on the pavement. There was a
full moon. The whiskey had hit me all at once. I felt as if I couldn't get
up. I had to get up. I was supposed to be a tough guy. I rose, fell against
the half-open door, grabbed at it, held it. Then I had the inside handle and
was steadying myself. I got myself into the back seat and then I just sat
there. I sat there for some time. Then I started to puke. It really came. It
came and it came, it covered the rear floorboard. Then I sat for a while.
Then I managed to get out of the car. I didn't feel as dizzy. I took out my
handkerchief and wiped the vomit off my pant legs and off of my shoes as
best I could. I closed the car door and walked on down the alley. I had to
find the "W" streetcar. I would find it.
I did. I rode it in. I made it down Westview Street, walked down 21st
Street, turned south down Longwood Avenue to 2122. I walked up the
neighbor's driveway, found the berry bush, crawled over it, through the open
screen and into my bedroom. I undressed and went to bed. I must have
consumed over a quart of whiskey. My father was still snoring, just as he
had been when I had left, only at the moment it was louder and uglier. I
slept anyhow.
As usual I approached Mr. Hamilton's English class thirty minutes late.
It was 7:30 a.m. I stood outside the door and listened. They were at Gilbert
and Sullivan again. And it was still all about going to the sea and the
Queen's Navy. Hamilton couldn't get enough of that. In high school I'd had
an English teacher and it had been Poe, Poe, Edgar Allan Poe.
I opened the door. Hamilton went over and lifted the needle from the
record. Then he announced to the class, "When Mr. Chinaski arrives we always
know that it is 7:30 a.m. Mr. Chinaski is always on time. The only
problem being that it is the wrong time."
He paused, glancing at the faces in his class. He was very, very
dignified. Then he looked at me.
"Mr. Chinaski, whether you arrive at 7:30 a.m. or whether you arrive at
all will not matter. I am assigning you a 'D' for English 1. "
"A 'D,' Mr. Hamilton?" I asked, flashing my famous sneer.
"Why not an 'F'?"
"Because 'F,' at times, equates with 'Fuck.' And I don't think you're
worth a 'Fuck."'
The class cheered and roared and stomped and stamped. I turned around,
walked out, closed the door behind me. I walked down the hallway, still
hearing them going at it in there.
52
The war was going very well in Europe, for Hitler. Most of the students
weren't very vocal on the matter. But the instructors were, they were almost
all left-wing and anti-German. There seemed to be no right-wing faction
among the instructors except for Mr. Glasgow, in Economics, and he was very
discreet about it.
It was intellectually popular and proper to be for going to war with
Germany, to stop the spread of fascism. As for me, I had no desire to go to
war to protect the life I had or what future I might have. I had no Freedom.
I had nothing. With Hitler around, maybe I'd even get a piece of ass now and
then and more than a dollar a week allowance. As far as I could rationalize,
I had nothing to protect. Also, having been born in Germany, there was a
natural loyalty and I didn't like to see the whole German nation, the
people, depicted everywhere as monsters and idiots. In the movie theatres
they speeded up the newsreels to make Hitler and Mussolini look like
frenetic madmen. Also, with all the instructors being anti-German I found it
personally impossible to simply agree with them. Out of sheer alienation and
a natural contrariness I decided to align myself against their point of
view. I had never read Mein Kampf and had no desire to do so. Hitler
was just another dictator to me, only instead of lecturing me at the dinner
table he'd probably blow my brains out or my balls off if I went to war to
stop him.
Sometimes as the instructors talked on and on about the evils of nazism
(we were told always to spell "nazi" with a small "n" even at the beginning
of a sentence) and fascism I would leap to my feet and make something up:
"The survival of the human race depends upon selective accountability!"
Which meant, watch out who you go to bed with, but only I knew that. It
really pissed everybody off. I don't know where I got my stuff:
"One of the failures of Democracy is that the common vote guarantees a
common leader who then leads us to a common apathetic predictability!"
I avoided any direct reference to Jews and Blacks, who had never given
me any trouble. All my troubles had come from white gentiles. Thus, I wasn't
a nazi by temperament or choice; the teachers more or less forced it on me
by being so much alike and thinking so much alike and with their anti-German
prejudice. I had also read somewhere that if a man didn't truly believe or
understand what he was espousing, somehow he could do a more convincing job,
which gave me a considerable advantage over the teachers.
"Breed a plow horse to a race horse and you get an offspring that is
neither swift nor strong. A new Master Race will evolve from purposeful
breeding!"
"There are no good wars or bad wars. The only thing bad about a war is
to lose it. All wars have been fought for a so-called good Cause on both
sides. But only the victor's Cause becomes history's Noble Cause. It's not a
matter of who is right or who is wrong, it's a matter of who has the best
generals and the better army!"
I loved it. I could make up anything I liked. Of course, I was talking
myself further and further away from any chance with the girls. But I had
never been that close anyhow. I figured because of my wild speeches I was
alone on campus but it wasn't so. Some others had been listening. One day,
walking to my Current Affairs class, I heard somebody walking up behind me.
I never liked anybody walking behind me, not close. So I turned as I walked.
It was the student body president, Boyd Taylor. He was very popular with the
students, the only man in the history of the college to have been elected
president twice.
"Hey, Chinaski, I want to talk to you."
I'd never cared too much for Boyd, he was the typical good- looking
American youth with a guaranteed future, always properly dressed, casual,
smooth, every hair of his black mustache trimmed. What his appeal was to the
student body, I had no idea. He walked along beside me.
"Don't you think it looks bad for you, Boyd, to be seen walking with
me?"
"I'll worry about that."
"All right. What is it?"
"Chinaski, this is just between you and me, got it?"
"Sure."
"Listen, I don't believe in what guys like you stand for or what you're
trying to do."
"So?"
"But I want you to know that if you win here and in Europe I'm willing
to join your side."
I could only look at him and laugh.
He stood there as I walked on. Never trust a man with a perfectly-
trimmed mustache . . .
Other people had been listening as well. Coming out of Current Affairs
I ran into Baldy standing there with a guy five feet tall and three feet
wide. The guy's head was sunk down into his shoulders, he had a very round
head, small ears, cropped hair, pea eyes, tiny wet round mouth. A nut, I
thought, a killer.
"HEY, HANK!" Baldy hollered.
I walked over. "I thought we were finished, LaCrosse."
"Oh no! There are great things still to do!"
Shit! Baldy was one too!
Why did the Master Race movement draw nothing but mental and physical
cripples?
"I want you to meet Igor Stirnov."
I reached out and we shook hands. He squeezed mine with all his
strength. It really hurt.
"Let go," I said, "or I'll bust your fucking missing neck!"
Igor let go. "I don't trust men with limp handshakes. Why do you have a
limp handshake?"
"I'm weak today. They burned my toast for breakfast and at lunch I
spilled my chocolate milk."
Igor turned to Baldy. "What's with this guy?"
"Don't worry about him. He's got his own ways."
Igor looked at me again.
"My grandfather was a White Russian. During the Revolution the Reds
killed him. I must get even with those bastards!"
"I see."
Then another student came walking toward us. "Hey, Fenster!" Baldy
hollered.
Fenster walked up. We shook hands. I gave him a limp one. I didn't like
to shake hands. Fenster's first name was Bob. There was to be a meeting at a
house in Glendale, the Americans for America Party. Fenster was the campus
representative. He walked off. Baldy leaned over and whispered into my ear,
"They're Nazis!"
Igor had a car and a gallon of rum. We met in front of Baldy's house,
Igor passed the bottle. Good stuff, it really burned the membranes of the
throat, Igor drove his car like a tank, right through stop signals. People
blew their horns and slammed on their brakes and he waved a fake black
pistol at them.
"Hey, Igor," said Baldy, "show Hank your pistol."
Igor was driving. Baldy and I were in the back. Igor passed me his
pistol. I looked at it.
"It's great!" Baldy said. "He carved it out of wood and stained it with
black shoe polish. Looks real, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," I said. "He's even drilled a hole in the barrel."
I handed the gun back to Igor. "Very nice," I said. He handed back the
jug of rum. I took a hit and handed the bottle to Baldy. He looked at me and
said, "Heil Hitler!"
We were the last to arrive. It was a large handsome house. We were met
at the door by a fat smiling boy who looked like he had spent a lifetime
eating chestnuts by the fire. His parents didn't seem to be about. His name
was Larry Kearny. We followed him through the big house and down a long dark
stairway. All I could see was Kearny's shoulders and head. He was certainly
a well-fed fellow and looked to be far saner than Baldy, Igor or myself.
Maybe there would be something to learn here.
Then we were in the cellar. We found some chairs. Fenster nodded to us.
There were seven others there whom I didn't know. There was a desk on a
raised platform. Larry walked up and stood behind the desk. Behind him on
the wall was a large American flag. Larry stood very straight. "We will now
pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America!"
My god, I thought, I am in the wrong place! We stood and took the
pledge, but I stopped after "I pledge allegiance . . ." I didn't say to
what.
We sat down. Larry started talking from behind the desk. He explained
that since this was the first meeting, he would preside. After two or three
meetings, after we got to know one another, a president could be elected if
we wished. But meanwhile . . .
"We face here, in America, two threats to our liberty. We face the
communist scourge .and the black takeover. Most often they work hand in
hand. We true Americans will gather here in an attempt to counter this
scourge, this menace. It has gotten so that no decent white girl can walk
the streets anymore without being accosted by a black male!"
Igor leaped up. "We'll kill them!"
"The communists want to divide the wealth for which we have worked so
long, which our fathers labored for, and their fathers before them
worked for. The communists want to give our money to every black man, homo,
bum, murderer and child molester who walks our streets!"
"We'll kill them!"
"They must be stopped."
"We'll arm!"
"Yes, we'll arm! And we'll meet here and formulate a master plan to
save America!"
The fellows cheered. Two or three of them yelled, "Heil Hitler!" Then
the get-to-know-each-other time arrived.
Larry passed out cold beers and we stood around in little groups
talking, not much being said, except we reached a general agreement that we
needed target practice so that we would be expert with our guns when the
time came.
When we got back to Igor's house his parents didn't seem to be about,
either, Igor got out a frying pan, put in four cubes of butter, and began to
melt them. He took the rum, put it in a large pot and warmed it up.
"This is what men drink," he said. Then he looked at Baldy.
"Are you a man, Baldy?"
Baldy was already drunk. He stood very straight, hands down at his
sides. "YES, I'M A MAN!" He started to weep. The tears came rolling down.
"I'M A MAN!" He stood very straight and yelled, "HEIL HITLER!" the tears
rolling. Igor looked at me. "Are you a man?"
"I don't know. Is that rum ready?"
"I'm not sure I trust you. I'm not so sure that you are one of us. Are
you a counter-spy? Are you an enemy agent?"
"No."
"Are you one of us?"
"I don't know. Only one thing I'm sure of."
"What's that?"
"I don't like you. Is the rum ready?"
"You see?" said Baldy. "I told you he was mean!"
"We'll see who is the meanest before the night is ended," said Igor.
Igor poured the melted butter into the boiling rum, then shut off the
flame and stirred. I didn't like him but he certainly was different and I
liked that. Then he found three drinking cups, large, blue, with Russian
writing on them. He poured the buttered rum into the cups.
"O.K.,"he said, "drink up!"
"Shit, it's about time," I said and I let it slide down. It was a
little too hot and it stank.
I watched Igor drink his. I saw his little pea eyes over the rim of his
cup. He managed to get it down, driblets of golden buttered rum leaking out
of the corners of his stupid mouth. He was looking at Baldy. Baldy was
standing, staring down into his cup. I knew from the old days that Baldy
just didn't have a natural love of drinking.
Igor stared at Baldy. "Drink up!"
"Yes, Igor, yes . . ."
Baldy lifted the blue cup. He was having a difficult time. It was too
hot for him and he didn't like the taste. Half of it ran out of his mouth
and over his chin and onto his shirt. His empty cup fell to the kitchen
floor.
Igor squared himself in front of Baldy.
"You're not a man!"
"I AM A MAN, IGOR! I AM A MAN!"
"YOU LIE!"
Igor backhanded him across the face and as Baldy's head jumped to one
side, he straightened him up with a slap to the other side of his face.
Baldy stood at attention with his hands rigidly at his sides.
"I'm . . . a man . . ,"
Igor continued to stand in front of him.
"I'll make a man out of you!"
"O.K.," I said to Igor, "leave him alone."
Igor left the kitchen. I poured myself another rum. It was dreadful
stuff but it was all there was.
Igor walked back in. He was holding a gun, a real one, an old six-
shooter.
"We will now play Russian roulette," he announced.
"Your mother's ass," I said.
"I'll play, Igor," said Baldy, "I'll play! I'm a man!"
"All right," said Igor, "there is one bullet in the gun. I will spin
the chamber and hand the gun to you."
Igor spun the chamber and handed the gun to Baldy. Baldy took it and
pointed it at his head. "I'm a man . . . I'm a man . . . I'll do it!"
He began crying again. "I'll do it . . . I'm a man . . ."
Baldy let the muzzle of the gun slip away from his temple. He pointed
it away from his skull and pulled the trigger. There was a click.
Igor took the gun, spun the chamber and handed it to me. I handed it
back.
"You go first."
Igor spun the chamber, held the gun up to the light and looked through
the chamber. Then he put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. There
was a click.
"Big deal," I said. "You checked the chamber to see where the bullet
was."
Igor spun the chamber and handed the gun to me. "Your turn..."
I handed the gun back. "Stuff it," I told him. I walked over to pour
myself another rum. As I did there was a shot. I looked down. Near my foot,
in the kitchen floor, there was a bullet hole. I turned around.
"You ever point that thing at me again and I'll kill you, Igor."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He stood there smiling. He slowly began to raise the gun. I waited.
Then he lowered the gun. That was about it for the night. We went out to the
car and Igor drove us home. But we stopped first at Westlake Park and rented
a boat and went out on the lake to finish off the rum. With the last drink,
Igor loaded up the gun and shot holes in the bottom of the boat. We were
forty yards from shore and had to swim in . . .
It was late when I got home. I crawled over the old berry bush and
through the bedroom window. I undressed and went to bed while in the next
room my father snored.
53
I was coming home from classes down Westview hill. I never had any
books to carry. I passed my exams by listening to the class lectures and by
guessing at the answers. I never had to cram for exams. I could get my
"C's." And as I was coming down the hill I ran into a giant spider web. I
was always doing that. I stood there pulling the sticky web from myself and
looking for the spider. Then I saw him: a big fat black son-of-a-bitch. I
crushed him. I had learned to hate spiders. When I went to hell I would be
eaten by a spider.
All my life, in that neighborhood, I had been walking into spider webs,
I had been attacked by blackbirds, I had lived with my father. Everything
was eternally dreary, dismal, damned. Even the weather was insolent and
bitchy. It was either unbearably hot for weeks on end, or it rained, and
when it rained it rained for five or six days. The water came up over the
lawns and poured into the houses. Who'd ever planned the drainage system had
probably been well paid for his ignorance about such matters.
And my own affairs were as bad, as dismal, as the day I had been born.
The only difference was that now I could drink now and then, though never
often enough. Drink was the only thing that kept a man from feeling forever
stunned and useless. Everything else just kept picking and picking, hacking
away. And nothing was interesting, nothing. The people were restrictive and
careful, all alike. And I've got to live with these fuckers for the rest of
my life, I thought. God, they all had assholes and sexual organs and their
mouths and their armpits. They shit and they chattered and they were dull as
horse dung. The girls looked good from a distance, the sun shining through
their dresses, their hair. But get up close and listen to their minds
running out of their mouths, you felt like digging in under a hill and
hiding out with a tommy-gun. I would certainly never be able to be happy, to
get married, I could never have children. Hell, I couldn't even get a job as
a dishwasher.
Maybe I'd be a bank robber. Some god-damned thing. Something with
flare, fire. You only had one shot. Why be a window washer?
I lit a cigarette and walked further down the hill. Was I the only
person who was distracted by this future without a chance?
I saw another one of those big black spiders. He was about face-high,
in his web, right in my path. I took my cigarette and placed it against him.
The tremendous web shook and leaped as he jumped, the branches of the bush
trembled. He leaped out of the web and fell to the sidewalk. Cowardly
killers, the whole bunch of .them. I crushed him with my shoe. A worthwhile
day, I had killed two spiders, I had upset the balance of nature -- now we
would all be eaten up by the bugs and the Hies.
I walked further down the hill, I was near the bottom when a large bush
began to shake. The King Spider was after me. I strode forward to meet it.
My mother leaped out from behind the bush. "Henry, Henry, don't
go home, don't go home, your father will kill you!"
"How's he going to do that? I can whip his ass."
"No, he's furious, Henry! Don't go home, he'll kill you! I've
been waiting here for hours!"
My mother's eyes were wide with fear and quite beautiful, large and
brown.
"What's he doing home this early?"
"He had a headache, he got the afternoon off!"
"I thought you were working, that you'd found a new job?"
She'd gotten a job as a housekeeper.
"He came and got me! He's furious.' He'll kill you."
"Don't worry, Mom, if he messes with me I'll kick his goddamned ass, I
promise you."
"Henry, he found your short stories and he read them!"
"I never asked him to read them."
"He found them in a drawer! He read them, he read all of them!"
I had written ten or twelve short stories. Give a man a typewriter
and he becomes a writer. I had hidden the stories under the paper lining of
my shorts-and-stockings drawer.
"Well," I said, "the old man poked around and he got his fingers
burned."
"He said that he was going to kill you! He said that no son of his
could write stories like that and live under the same roof with him!"
I took her by the arm. "Let's go home. Morn, and see what he does
..."
"Henry, he's thrown all your clothes out on the front lawn, all your
dirty laundry, your typewriter, your suitcase and your stories!"
"My stories?"
"Yes, those too . . ."
"I'll kill him!"
I pulled away from her and walked across 21st Street and toward
Longwood Avenue. She went after me.
"Henry, Henry, don't go in there."
The poor woman was yanking at the back of my shirt.
"Henry, listen, get yourself a room somewhere! Henry, I have ten
dollars! Take this ten dollars and get yourself a room somewhere!"
I turned. She was holding out the ten.
"Forget it," I said. "I'll just go."
"Henry, take the money! Do it for me! Do it for your mother!"
"Well, all right . . ."
I took the ten, put it in my pocket.
"Thanks, that's a lot of money."
"It's all right, Henry. I love you, Henry, but you must go."
She ran ahead of me as I walked toward the house. Then I saw it:
everything was strewn across the lawn, all my dirty and clean clothes, the
suitcase flung there open, socks, shirts, pajamas, an old robe, everything
flung everywhere, on the lawn and into the street. And I saw my manuscripts
being blown in the wind, they were in the gutter, everywhere.
My mother ran up the driveway to the house and I screamed after her so
he could hear me, "TELL HIM TO COME OUT HERE AND I'LL KNOCK HIS GOD-DAMNED
HEAD OFF!"
I went after my manuscripts first. That was the lowest of the blows,
doing that to me. They were the one thing he had no right to touch. As I
picked up each page from the gutter, from the lawn and from the street, I
began to feel better. I found every page I could, placed them in the
suitcase under the weight of a shoe, then rescued the typewriter. It had
broken out of its case but it looked all right. I looked at my rags
scattered about. I left the dirty laundry, I left the pajamas, which were
only a handed-down pair of his discards. There wasn't much else to pack. I
closed the suitcase, picked it up with the typewriter and started to walk
away. I could see two faces peering after me from behind the drapes. But I
quickly forgot that, walked up Longwood, across 21st and up old Westview
hill. I didn't feel much different than I had always felt. I was neither
elated nor dejected; it all seemed to be just a continuation. I was going to
take the "W" streetcar, get a transfer, and go somewhere downtown.
54
I found a room on Temple Street in the Filipino district. It was $3.50
a week, upstairs on the second floor. I paid the landlady -- a middle-aged
blond -- a week's rent. The toilet and tub were down the hall but there was
a wash basin to piss in.
My first night there I discovered a bar downstairs just to the right of
the entrance. I liked that. All I had to do was climb the stairway and I was
home. The bar was full of little dark men but they didn't bother me. I'd
heard all the stories about Filipinos -- that they liked white girls,
blonds in particular, that they carried stilettoes, that since they were all
the same size, seven of them would chip in and buy one expensive suit, with
all the accessories, and they would take turns wearing the suit one night a
week. George Raft had said somewhere that Filipinos set the style trends.
They stood on street corners and swung golden chains around and around, thin
golden chains, seven or eight inches long, each man's chain-length
indicating the length of his penis.
The bartender was Filipino.
"You're new, hub?" he asked.
"I live upstairs. I'm a s