“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 Co-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 band…
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 Queen’s 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 out right. Only they ought to call it Music Appreciation I.”
“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 LOOKY HERE! THE POOR FUCKER IS NOT ONLY BALD BUT HE DOESN’T HARDLY HAVE A COCK! WHAT IS THIS POOR FUCKER 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 wa
s 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.”