“Mr. Belger,” he said of the man who needed the sleep, “has worked hard to put this paper on its feet. He’s a good man. We were going bankrupt until he came along.”
He looked at me. “They usually give this job to a college boy.”
He’s a frog, I thought, that’s what he is.
“I mean,” he said, “this job usually goes to a student. He can study his books while he waits for a call. Are you a student?”
“No.”
“This job usually goes to a student.”
I walked back to my work room and sat down. The room was filled with rows and rows of metal drawers and in the drawers were zinc engravings that had been used for ads. Many of these engravings were used again and again. There was also lots of type—customer names and logos. The fat man would scream “Chinaski!” and I’d go see which ad or what type he wanted. Often I was sent to the competing newspaper to borrow some of their type. They borrowed ours. It was a nice walk and I found a place in a back alley where I could get a glass of beer for a nickel. There weren’t many calls from the fat man and the nickel beer place became my hangout. The fat man began to miss me. At first he simply gave me unkind looks. Then one day he asked:
“Where you been?”
“Out getting a beer.”
“This is a job for a student.”
“I’m not a student.”
“I gotta let you go. I need somebody who is right here all the time available.”
The fat man took me over to Belger who looked as tired as ever. “This is a job for a student, Mr. Belger. I’m afraid this man doesn’t fit in. We need a student.”
“All right,” said Belger. The fat man padded off.
“What do we owe you?” asked Belger.
“Five days.”
“O.K., take this down to payroll.”
“Listen, Belger, that old fuck is disgusting.”
Belger sighed. “Jesus Christ, don’t I know it?”
I went down to payroll.
7
We were still in Louisiana. The long train ride through Texas lay ahead. They gave us cans of food but no openers. I stored my cans on the floor and stretched out on the wooden seat. The other men were gathered in the front of the coach, sitting together, talking and laughing. I closed my eyes.
After about ten minutes I felt dust rising up through the cracks in the plank seat. It was very old dust, coffin dust, it stank of death, of something that had been dead for a long time. It filtered into my nostrils, settled into my eyebrows, tried to enter my mouth. Then I heard heavy breathing sounds. Through the cracks I could see a man crouched behind the seat, blowing the dust into my face. I sat up. The man scrambled out from behind the seat and ran to the front of the car. I wiped my face and stared at him. It was hard to believe.
“If he comes up here I want you fellows to help me,” I heard him say. “You gotta promise to help me…”
The gang of them looked back at me. I stretched out on the seat again. I could hear them talking:
“What’s wrong with him?” “Who does he think he is?” “He don’t speak to nobody.” “He just stays back there by himself.”
“When we get him out there on those tracks we’ll take care of him. The bastard.”
“You think you can take him, Paul? He looks crazy to me.”
“If I can’t take him, somebody can. He’ll eat shit before we’re done.”
Some time later I walked to the front of the car for a drink of water. As I walked by they stopped talking. They watched me in silence as I drank water from the cup. Then as I turned and walked back to my seat they started talking again.
The train made many stops, night and day. At every stop where there was a bit of green and a small town nearby, one or two of the men would jump off.
“Hey, what the hell happened to Collins and Martinez?”
The foreman would take his clipboard and cross them off the list. He walked back to me. “Who are you?”
“Chinaski.”
“You staying with us?”
“I need the job.”
“O.K.” He walked away.
At El Paso the foreman came through and told us we were switching trains. We were given tickets good for one night at a nearby hotel and a meal ticket to use at a local cafe; also directions on how, when and where to board the next train through in the a.m.
I waited outside the cafe as the men ate and as they came out picking their teeth and talking, I walked in.
“We’ll get his ass good, that son of a bitch!”
“Man, I hate that ugly bastard.”
I went in and ordered a hamburger steak with onions and beans. There wasn’t any butter for the bread but the coffee was good. When I came out they were gone. A bum was walking up the sidewalk toward me. I gave him my hotel ticket.
I slept in the park that night. It seemed safer. I was tired and that hard park bench didn’t bother me at all. I slept.
Some time later I was awakened by what sounded like a roar. I never knew that alligators roared. Or more exactly it was many things: a roar, an agitated inhale, and a hiss. I also heard the snapping of jaws. A drunken sailor was in the center of the pond and he had one of the alligators by the tail. The creature tried to twist and reach the sailor but found it difficult. The jaws were horrifying but very slow and uncoordinated. Another sailor and a young girl stood watching and laughing. Then the sailor kissed the girl and they walked off together leaving the other fighting the alligator…
I was next awakened by the sun. My shirt was hot. It was almost burning. The sailor was gone. So was the alligator. On a bench to the east sat a girl and two young men. They had evidently slept in the park that night too. One of the young men stood up.
“Mickey,” said the young girl, “you’ve got a hard-on!”
They laughed.
“How much money we got?”
They looked through their pockets. They had a nickel.
“Well, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. Let’s start walking.”
I watched them walk off, out of the park, into the city.
8
When the train stopped in Los Angeles we had a two or three day stopover. They issued hotel and meal tickets again. I gave my hotel tickets to the first bum I met. As I was walking along looking for the cafe where I would use my meal tickets I found myself behind two of the men who had shared the ride from New Orleans. I walked faster until I was alongside of them.
“How are you doing fellows?” I asked.
“Oh, everything’s all right, everything’s fine.”
“Are you sure? Nothing bothering you?”
“No, everything’s all right.”
I went ahead and found the cafe. They served beer there so I exchanged my tickets for beer. The whole track gang was there. When I’d used up my tickets I had just enough change to take a streetcar back to the home of my parents.
9
My mother screamed when she opened the door. “Son! Is that you, son?”
“I need some sleep.”
“Your bedroom is always waiting.”
I went to the bedroom, undressed and climbed into bed. I was awakened about 6 p.m. by my mother. “Your father is home.”
I got up and began to dress. Dinner was on the table when I walked in.
My father was a big man, taller than I was with brown eyes; mine were green. His nose was too large and you couldn’t help noticing his ears. His ears wanted to leap away from his head.
“Listen,” he said, “if you stay here I am going to charge you room and board plus laundry. When you get a job, what you owe us will be subtracted from your salary until you are paid up.”
We ate in silence.
10
My mother had found a job. She was to start the next day. This left the house to me. After breakfast and after my parents had left for their jobs I took off my clothes and went back to bed. I masturbated and then made a time study in an old school notebook
of the airplanes passing overhead. I decorated the time study with some pleasantly obscene drawings. I knew that my father would charge me atrocious prices for room, board and laundry and that he would also be careful to list me as a dependent on his income tax return, but the desire to find a job did not seem to be with me.
As I relaxed in bed I had this strange feeling in my head. It was as if my skull was made of cotton, or was a small balloon filled with air. I could feel space in my skull. I couldn’t comprehend it. Soon I stopped wondering about it. I was comfortable, it wasn’t agonizing. I listened to symphony music, smoking my father’s cigarettes.
I got up and walked into the front room. In the house across the street was a young wife. She had on a short tight brown dress. She sat on the steps of her house which was directly across the street. I could look well up her dress. I watched from behind the drapes of the front window, looking up her dress. I became excited. Finally I masturbated again. I bathed and dressed and sat about smoking more cigarettes. About 5 p.m. I left the house and went for a long walk, walking for almost an hour.
When I returned, both of my parents were home. Dinner was about ready. I went to my bedroom and waited to be called. I was called. I went in.
“Well,” said my father, “did you find a job?”
“No.”
“Listen, any man who wants work can find work.”
“Maybe so.”
“I can hardly believe you’re my son. You don’t have any ambition, you don’t have any get-up-and-go. How the hell are you going to make it in this world?”
He put a number of peas into his mouth and spoke again: “What’s this cigarette smoke in here? Pooh! I had to open all the windows! The air was blue!”
11
The next day I went back to bed for a while after they were gone. Then I got up and went to the front room and looked out between the drapes. The young housewife was again sitting on her steps across the street. She had on a different, sexier dress. I looked at her a long time. Then I masturbated slowly and at leisure.
I bathed and dressed. I found some empty bottles in the kitchen and cashed them in at the grocery. I found a bar on the Avenue and went in and ordered a draft beer. There were a great many drunks in there playing the juke box, talking loudly and laughing. Now and then a new beer arrived in front of me. Somebody was buying. I drank. I began talking to people.
Then I looked outside. It was evening, almost dark. The beers kept arriving. The fat woman who owned the bar and her boyfriend were friendly.
I went outside once to fight somebody. It wasn’t a good fight. We were both too drunk and there were large potholes in the asphalt surface of the parking lot that made our footing difficult. We quit…
I awakened much later in an upholstered red booth at the back of the bar. I got up and looked around. Everybody was gone. The clock said 3:15. I tried the door, it was locked. I went behind the bar and got myself a bottle of beer, opened it, came back and sat down. Then I went and got myself a cigar and a bag of chips. I finished my beer, got up and found a bottle of vodka, one of scotch and sat down again. I mixed them with water; I smoked cigars, and ate beef jerky, chips, and hard-boiled eggs.
I drank until 5 a.m. I cleaned the bar then, put everything away, went to the door, let myself out. As I did I saw a police car approach. They drove along slowly behind me as I walked.
After a block they pulled up alongside. An officer stuck his head out. “Hey, buddy!”
Their lights were in my face.
“What are you doing?”
“Going home.”
“You live around here?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“2122 Longwood Avenue.”
“What were you doing coming out of that bar?”
“I’m the janitor.”
“Who owns that bar?”
“A lady named Jewel.”
“Get in.”
I did.
“Show us where you live.”
They drove me home.
“Now, get out and ring the bell.”
I walked up the drive. I went up on the porch, rang the bell. There was no answer.
I rang again, several times. Finally the door opened. My mother and father stood there in their pajamas and robes.
“You’re drunk!” my father screamed.
“Yes.”
“Where do you get the money to drink? You don’t have any money!”
“I’ll get a job.”
“You’re drunk! You’re drunk! My Son is a Drunk! My Son is a God Damned No-Good Drunk!”
The hair on my father’s head was standing up in crazy tufts. His eyebrows were wild, his face puffed and flushed with sleep.
“You act as if I had murdered somebody.”
“It’s just as bad!”
“…ooh, shit…”
Suddenly I vomited on their Persian Tree of Life rug. My mother screamed. My father lunged toward me.
“Do you know what we do to a dog when he shits on the rug?”
“Yes.”
He grabbed the back of my neck. He pressed down, forcing me to bend at the waist. He was trying to force me to my knees.
“I’ll show you.”
“Don’t…”
My face was almost into it.
“I’ll show you what we do to dogs!”
I came up from the floor with the punch. It was a perfect shot. He staggered back all the way across the room and sat down on the couch. I followed him over.
“Get up.”
He sat there. I heard my mother. “You Hit Your Father! You Hit Your Father! You Hit Your Father!”
She screamed and ripped open one side of my face with her fingernails.
“Get up,” I told my father.
“You Hit Your Father!”
She scratched my face again. I turned to look at her. She got the other side of my face. Blood was running down my neck, was soaking my shirt, pants, shoes, the rug. She lowered her hands and stared at me.
“Have you finished?”
She didn’t answer. I walked back to the bedroom thinking, I better find myself a job.
12
I stayed in my room until after they left the next morning. Then I took the newspaper and turned to the Help Wanted section. My face hurt; I was still sick. I circled some ads, shaved as best I could, took a few aspirin, dressed, and walked over to the Boulevard. I put my thumb out. The cars went by. Then a car stopped. I got in.
“Hank!”
It was an old friend, Timmy Hunter. We’d gone to Los Angeles City College together.
“What are you doing, Hank?”
“Looking for a job.”
“I’m going to Southern Cal now. What happened to your face?”
“The fingernails of a woman.”
“Yeh?”
“Yeh. Timmy, I need a drink.”
Timmy parked at the next bar. We went in and he ordered two bottles of beer.
“What kind of job you looking for?”
“Stockboy, shipping clerk, janitor.”
“Listen, I got some money at home. I know a good bar in Inglewood. We can go there.”
He was living with his mother. We went in and the old lady looked up from her newspaper: “Hank, don’t you go getting Timmy drunk.”
“How are you doing, Mrs. Hunter?”
“The last time you and Timmy went out you both ended up in jail.”
Timmy put his books in the bedroom and came out. “Let’s go,” he said.
It was Hawaiian decor, crowded. A man was on the phone: “You got to have somebody come get the truck. I’m too drunk to drive. Yes, I know I’ve lost the goddamned job, just come and get the truck!”
Timmy bought, we both drank. His conversation was O.K. A young blonde was glancing over and showing me leg. Timmy talked on and on. He talked about City College: how we kept wine bottles in our locker; about Popoff and his wooden guns; about Popoff and his real guns; about how we shot the bottom out
of a boat in Westlake Park and sank; about the time the students went on strike in the college gym…
The drinks kept coming. The young blonde girl left with someone else. The juke box played. Timmy talked on. It was getting dark. We were 86’d, walked down the street looking for another bar. It was 10 p.m. We could hardly stand up. The street was full of cars.
“Look Timmy, let’s rest.”
I saw it. A mortuary, like a colonial mansion, with floodlights, and a wide white staircase leading up to the porch.
Timmy and I went about halfway up the staircase. Then I carefully stretched him out on a step. I straightened his legs and put his arms neatly down by his sides. Then I stretched out in a similar position on the step below Timmy.
13
I woke up in a room. I was alone. It was just getting light. It was cold. I was in my shirtsleeves. I tried to think. I got up from the hard bunk, went to the window. It was barred. There was the Pacific Ocean. (Somehow I was in Malibu.) The jailor came along about an hour later, banging metal dishes and trays. He passed my breakfast through to me. I sat down and ate, listening to the ocean.
Forty-five minutes later I was taken outside. There was a gang of men standing handcuffed together on one long chain. I walked to the end and held out my hands. The guard said, “Not you.” I got my own set of cuffs. Two officers put me in a squad car and we drove off.
We reached Culver City and parked in back of the courthouse. One of the policemen got out with me. We walked to the back way and sat down in the front row of the courtroom. The cop took the cuffs off. I didn’t see Timmy anywhere. There was the usual long wait for the judge. My case was second.