Within three days Jennings fired a man who worked in the front office and replaced three men on the assembly line with three young Mexican girls willing to work for half the pay. He fired the janitor and, along with doing the shipping, had me driving the company truck on local deliveries.
I got my first paycheck and moved out of Jan’s place and into an apartment of my own. When I came home one night, she had moved in with me. What the fuck, I told her, my land is your land. Shortly thereafter, we had our worst fight. She left and I got drunk for three days and three nights. When I sobered up I knew my job was gone. I never went back. I decided to clean up the apartment. I vacuumed the floors, scrubbed the window ledges, scoured the bathtub and sink, waxed the kitchen floor, killed all the spiders and roaches, emptied and washed the ashtrays, washed the dishes, scrubbed the kitchen sink, hung up clean towels and installed a new roll of toilet paper. I must be turning fag, I thought.
When Jan finally came home—a week later—she accused me of having had a woman here, because everything looked so clean. She acted very angry, but it was just a cover for her own guilt. I couldn’t understand why I didn’t get rid of her. She was compulsively unfaithful—she’d go off with anyone she met in a bar, and the lower and the dirtier he was the better she liked it. She was continually using our arguments to justify herself. I kept telling myself that all the women in the world weren’t whores, just mine.
—FACTOTUM
fire station
(For Jane, with love)
we came out of the bar
because we were out of money
but we had a couple of wine bottles
in the room.
it was about 4 in the afternoon
and we passed a fire station
and she started to go
crazy:
“a FIRE STATION! oh, I just love
FIRE engines, they’re so red and
all! let’s go in!”
I followed her on
in. “FIRE ENGINES!” she screamed
wobbling her big
ass.
she was already trying to climb into
one, pulling her skirt up to her
waist, trying to jacknife up into the
seat.
“here, here, lemme help ya!” a fireman ran
up.
another fireman walked up to
me: “our citizens are always welcome,”
he told
me.
the other guy was up in the seat with
her. “you got one of those big THINGS?”
she asked him. “oh, hahaha!, I mean one of
those big HELMETS!”
“I’ve got a big helmet too,” he told
her.
“oh, hahaha!”
“you play cards?” I asked my
fireman. I had 43 cents and nothing but
time.
“come on in back,” he
said, “of course, we don’t gamble.
it’s against the
rules.”
“I understand,” I told
him.
I had run my 43 cents up to a
dollar ninety
when I saw her going upstairs with
her fireman.
“he’s gonna show me their sleeping
quarters,” she told
me.
“I understand,” I told
her.
when her fireman slid down the pole
ten minutes later
I nodded him
over.
“that’ll be 5
dollars.”
“5 dollars for
that?”
“we wouldn’t want a scandal, would
we? we both might lose our
jobs, of course, I’m not
working.”
he gave me the
5.
“sit down, you might get it
back.”
“whatcha playing?”
“blackjack.”
“gambling’s against the
law.”
“anything interesting is. besides,
you see any money on the
table?”
he sat down.
that made 5 of
us.
“how was it Harry?” somebody asked
him.
“not bad, not
bad.”
the other guy went on
upstairs.
they were bad players really.
they didn’t bother to memorize the
deck, they didn’t know whether the
high numbers or low numbers were left, and basically they hit too high,
didn’t hold low
enough.
when the other guy came down
he gave me a
five.
“how was it, Marty?”
“not bad. she’s got … some fine
movements.”
“hit me!” I said, “nice clean girl. I
ride it myself.”
nobody said
anything.
“any big fires lately?” I
asked.
“naw. nothin’
much.”
“you guys need
exercise, hit me
again!”
a big red-headed kid who had been shining an
engine
threw down his rag and
went upstairs.
when he came down he threw me a
five.
when the 4th guy came down I gave him
3 fives for a
twenty.
I don’t know how many firemen
were in the building or where they
were. I figured a few had slipped by me
but I was a good
sport.
it was getting dark outside
when the alarm
rang.
they started running around.
guys came sliding down the
pole.
then she came sliding down the
pole. she was good with the
pole. a real woman, nothing but guts
and
ass.
“let’s go,” I told
her.
she stood there waving goodbye to the
firemen but they didn’t seem
much interested
any more.
“let’s go back to the
bar,” I told
her.
“ooh, you got
money?”
“I found some I didn’t know I
had …”
we sat at the end of the bar
with whiskey and beer
chaser.
“I sure got a good
sleep.”
“sure, baby, you need your
sleep.”
“look at that sailor looking at me!
he must think I’m … a …”
“naw, he don’t think that, relax, you’ve got
class, real class, sometimes you remind me of an
opera singer, you know, one of those prima d’s.
your class shows all over
you. drink
up.”
I ordered 2
more.
“you know, daddy, you’re the only man I
LOVE! I mean, really … LOVE! ya
know?”
“sure I know. sometimes I think I am a king
in spite of myself.”
“yeah. yeah, that’s what I mean, somethin’ like
that.”
I had to go to the urinal, when I came back
the sailor was sitting in my
seat, she had her leg up against his and
he was talking.
I walked over and got in a dart game with
Harry the Horse and the corner
newsboy.
The Hotel Sans was the best in the city of Los Angeles. I
t was an old hotel but it had class and a charm missing from the newer places. It was directly across from the park downtown.
It was renowned for businessmen’s conventions and expensive hookers of almost legendary talent—who at the end of a lucrative evening had even been known to give the bellboys a little. There also were stories of bellboys who had become millionaires—bloody bellboys with eleven inch dicks who had had the good fortune to meet and marry some rich, elderly guest. And the food, the LOBSTER, the huge black chefs in very tall white hats who knew everything, not only about food but about Life and about me and about everything.
I was assigned to the loading dock. That loading dock had style: for each truck that came in there were ten guys to unload it when it only took two at the most. I wore my best clothes. I never touched anything.
We unloaded (they unloaded) everything that came into the hotel and most of it was foodstuffs. My guess was that the rich ate more lobster than anything else. Crates and crates of them would come in, deliciously pink and large, waving their claws and feelers.
“You like those things, don’t you, Chinaski?”
“Yeah. Oh yeah,” I’d drool.
One day the lady in the employment office called me over. The employment office was at the rear of the loading dock. “I want you to manage this office on Sundays, Chinaski.” “What do I do?” “Just answer the phone and hire the Sunday dishwashers.” “All right!”
The first Sunday was nice. I just sat there. Soon an old guy walked in. “Yeah, buddy?” I asked. He had on an expensive suit, but it was wrinkled and a little dirty; and the cuffs were just starting to go. He was holding his hat in his hand. “Listen,” he asked, “do you need somebody who is a good conversationalist? Somebody who can meet and talk to people? I have a certain amount of charm, I tell gracious stories, I can make people laugh.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Make me laugh.”
“Oh, you don’t understand. The setting has to be right, the mood, the decor, you know …”
“Make me laugh.”
“Sir …”
“Can’t use you, you’re a stiff!”
The dishwashers were hired at noon. I stepped out of the office. Forty bums stood there. “All right now, we need five good men! Five good ones! No winos, perverts, communists, or child-molestors! And you’ve got to have a social security card! All right now, get them out and hold them up in the air!”
Out came the cards. They waved them.
“Hey, I got one!”
“Hey, buddy, over here! Give a guy a break!”
I slowly looked them over. “O.K., you with the shit stain on your collar,” I pointed. “Step forward.”
“That’s no shit stain, sir. That’s gravy.”
“Well, I don’t know, buddy, looks to me like you been eatin’ more crotch than roast beef!”
“Ah, hahaha,” went the bums, “Ah, hahaha!”
“O.K., now, I need four good dishwashers! I have four pennies here in my hand. I’m going to toss them up. The four men who bring me back a penny get to wash dishes today!”
I tossed the pennies high into the air above the crowd. Bodies jumped and fell, clothing ripped, there were curses, one man screamed, there were several fistfights. Then the lucky four came forward, one at a time, breathing heavily, each with a penny. I gave them their work cards and waved them toward the employee’s cafeteria where they would first be fed. The other bums retreated slowly down the loading ramp, jumped off, and walked down the alley into the wasteland of downtown Los Angeles on a Sunday.
Workmen For Industry was located right on the edge of skid row. The bums were better dressed, younger, but just as listless. They sat around on the window ledges, hunched forward, getting warm in the sun and drinking the free coffee that W.F.I. offered. There was no cream and sugar, but it was free. There was no wire partition separating us from the clerks. The telephones rang more often and the clerks were much more relaxed than at the Farm Labor Market.
I walked up to the counter and was given a card and a pen anchored by a chain. “Fill it out,” said the clerk, a nice-looking Mexican boy who tried to hide his warmth behind a professional manner.
I began to fill out the card. After address and phone number I wrote: “none.” Then after education and work abilities I wrote: “two years L.A. City College. Journalism and Fine Arts.”
Then I told the clerk, “I ruined this card. Could I have another?”
He gave me one. I wrote instead: “Graduate, L.A. High School. Shipping clerk, warehouseman, laborer. Some typing.”
I handed the card back.
“All right,” said the clerk, “sit down and we’ll see if anything comes in.”
I found a space on a window ledge and sat down. An old black man was sitting next to me. He had an interesting face; he didn’t have the usual resigned look that most of us sitting around the room had. He looked as if he was attempting not to laugh at himself and the rest of us.
He saw me glancing at him. He grinned. “Guy who runs this place is sharp. He got fired by the Farm Labor, got pissed, came down here and started this. Specializes in part-time workers. Some guy wants a boxcar unloaded quick and cheap, he calls here.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard.”
“Guy needs a boxcar unloaded quick and cheap, he calls here. Guy who runs this place takes fifty per cent. We don’t complain. We take what we can get.”
“It’s O.K. with me. Shit.”
“You look down in the mouth. You all right?”
“Lost a woman.”
“You’ll have others and lose them too.”
“Where do they go?”
“Try some of this.”
It was a bottle in a bag. I took a hit. Port wine.
“Thanks.”
“Ain’t no women on skid row.”
He passed the bottle to me again. “Don’t let him see us drinking. That’s the one thing makes him mad.”
While we sat drinking several men were called and left for jobs. It cheered us. At least there was some action.
My black friend and I waited, passing the bottle back and forth.
Then it was empty.
“Where’s the nearest liquor store?” I asked.
I got the directions and left. Somehow it was always hot on skid row in Los Angeles in the daytime. You’d see old bums walking around in heavy overcoats in the heat. But when the night came down and the Mission was full, those overcoats came in handy.
When I got back from the liquor store my friend was still there.
I sat down and opened the bottle, passed the bag.
“Keep it low,” he said.
It was comfortable in there drinking the wine.
A few gnats began to gather and circle in front of us.
“Wine gnats,” he said.
“Sons of bitches are hooked.”
“They know what’s good.”
“They drink to forget their women.”
“They just drink.”
I waved at them in the air and got one of the wine gnats. When I opened my hand all I could see in my palm was a speck of black and the strange sight of two little wings. Zero.
“Here he comes!”
It was the nice-looking young guy who ran the place. He rushed up to us. “All right! Get out of here! Get the hell out of here, you fuckin’ winos! Get the hell out of here before I call the cops!”
He hustled us both to the door, pushing and cursing. I felt guilty, but I felt no anger. Even as he pushed I knew that he didn’t really care what we did. He had a large ring on his right hand.
We didn’t move fast enough and I caught the ring just over my left eye; I felt the blood start to come and then felt it swell up. My friend and I were back out on the street.
We walked away. We found a doorway and sat on the step. I handed him the bottle. He hit it.
“Good stuff.”
He handed me the bottle. I hit it.
“Yeah, goo
d stuff.”
“Sun’s up.”
“Yeah, the sun’s up good.”
We sat quietly, passing the bottle back and forth.
Then the bottle was empty.
“Well,” he said, “I gotta be going.”
“See you.”
He walked off. I got up, went the other way, turned the corner, and walked up Main Street. I went along until I came to the Roxie.
Photos of the strippers were on display behind the glass out front. I walked up and bought a ticket. The girl in the cage looked better than the photos. Now I had 38 cents left. I walked into the dark theatre eight rows from the front. The first three rows were packed.
I had lucked out. The movie was over and the first stripper was already on. Darlene. The first was usually the worst, an old-timer come down, now reduced to kicking leg in the chorus line most of the time. We had Darlene for openers. Probably someone had been murdered or was on the rag or was having a screaming fit, and this was Darlene’s chance to dance solo again.
But Darlene was fine. Skinny, but with breasts. A body like a willow. At the end of that slim back, that slim body, was an enormous behind. It was like a miracle—enough to drive a man crazy.
Darlene was dressed in a long black velvet gown slit very high—her calves and thighs were dead white against the black. She danced and looked out at us through heavily mascaraed eyes. This was her chance. She wanted to come back—to be a featured dancer once again. I was with her. As she worked at the zippers more and more of her began to show, to slip out of that sophisticated black velvet, leg and white flesh. Soon she was down to her pink bra and G-string—the fake diamonds swinging and flashing as she danced.
Darlene danced over and grabbed the stage curtain. The curtain was torn and thick with dust. She grabbed it, dancing to the beat of the four man band and in the light of the pink spotlight.
She began to fuck that curtain. The band rocked in rhythm. Darlene really gave it to that curtain; the band rocked and she rocked. The pink light abruptly switched to purple. The band stepped it up, played all out. She appeared to climax. Her head fell back, her mouth opened.