, and then  she  continued
speaking:
      "I  believe  that  the  English language is the  most  expressive  and
contagious form of communication. To begin with, we should be thankful  that
we have this unique gift of a great language. And if we abuse it we are only
abusing ourselves. So let us listen, heed, acknowledge our heritage, and yet
explore and take risks with language . . ."


        "THUMP, THUMP, THUMP . . ."


     "We must forget England and their use of our common tongue. Even though
English usage is fine, our own American language contains many deep wells of
unexplored  resources. These resources, as yet, remain untapped.  Given  the
proper  moment  and  the proper writers, there will one day  be  a  literary
explosion . . ."


        "THUMP, THUMP, THUMP . . ."


      Yes, Richard Waite was one of the few we never talked to. Actually, we
were  afraid of him. He wasn't somebody you could beat the shit out of, that
would  never  make anybody feel better. You just wanted to get as  far  away
from  him  as possible, you didn't want to look at him, you didn't  want  to
look at those big lips, that big unfolding mouth like the mouth of a bruised
frog. You shunned him because you couldn't defeat Richard Waite.
      We  waited and waited while Miss Gredis talked on about English versus
American  culture. We waited, while Richard Waite went on and on.  Richard's
fist  banged  against  the underside of his desk top and  the  little  girls
glanced  at  each other and the guys were thinking, why is this  asshole  in
this  class  with us? He's going to spoil everything. One asshole  and  Miss
Gredis will pull her skirt down forever.


        "THUMP, THUMP, THUMP . . ."


      And  then  it stopped. Richard sat there. He was finished. We  sneaked
glances at him. He looked the same. Was his sperm laying in his lap  or  was
it in his hand? The bell rang. English class was over.


      After that, there was more of the same. Richard Waite thumped it often
while  we  listened to Miss Gredis sitting on that front desk with her  legs
crossed  high. We boys accepted the situation. After a while  we  even  were
amused.  The  girls  accepted it but they didn't like it,  especially  Lilly
Fischman who was almost forgotten.
      Besides Richard Waite, there was another problem for me in that class:
Harry  Walden. Harry Walden was pretty, the girls thought, and he  had  long
golden  curls  and wore strange, delicate clothing. He looked like  an  18th
century  fop,  lots of strange colors, dark green, dark blue, I  don't  know
where  the hell his parents found his clothes. And he always sat very  still
and  listened  attentively. Like he understood everything. The  girls  said,
"He's  a  genius."  He  didn't look like anything to  me.  What  I  couldn't
understand was that the tough guys didn't mess with him. It bothered me. How
could he get off so easy? I found him one day in the hall. I stopped him.
      "You  don't look like shit to me," I said. "How come everybody  thinks
you're hot shit?"
      Walden glanced over to his right and when I turned my head to look  in
that direction, he slid around me as if I were something from the sewer  and
then a moment later he was in his seat in the class.
     Almost every day it was Miss Gredis showing it all and Richard thumping
away  and  this guy Walden sitting there saying nothing and acting  like  he
believed he was a genius. I got sick of it.
      I  asked  some of the other guys, "Listen, do you really  think  Harry
Walden  is  a genius? He just sits around in his pretty clothes and  doesn't
say anything. What does that prove? We could all do that."
      They didn't answer me. I couldn't understand their feelings about this
fucking  guy. And it got worse. Word got out that Harry Walden was going  to
see  Miss Gredis every night, that he was her favorite pupil, and that  they
were  making love. It made me sick. I could just imagine him getting out  of
his delicate green and blue outfit, folding it across a chair, then climbing
out  of  his  orange  satin shorts and sliding under the sheets  where  Miss
Gredis  cuddled  his curly golden head on her shoulder and  fondled  it  and
other things as well.
      It  was  whispered  about  by the girls  who  always  seemed  to  know
everything. And even though the girls didn't particularly like Miss  Gredis,
they  thought  the  situation was all right, that it was reasonable  because
Harry Walden was such a delicate genius and needed all the sympathy he could
get. I caught Harry Walden in the hall one more time.
     "I'll kick your ass, you son-of-a-bitch, you don't fool me!"
      Harry Walden looked at me. Then he looked over my shoulder and pointed
and said, "What's that over there?"
      I looked around. When I looked back he was gone. He was sitting in the
class safely surrounded by all the girls who thought he was a genius and who
loved him.


      There  was more and more whispering about Harry Walden going  over  to
Miss  Gredis' house at night and some days Harry wouldn't even be in  class.
Those were the best days for me because I only had to deal with the thumping
and not the golden curls and the adoration for that kind of stuff by all the
little  girls  with their skirts and sweaters and starched gingham  dresses.
When  Harry  wasn't  there the little girls would whisper,  "He's  just  too
<i>sensitive</i>... "
     And Red Kirkpatrick would say, "She's fucking him to death."


      One afternoon I walked into class and Harry Walden's seat was empty. I
figured he was just fucking-off as usual. Then the word drifted from desk to
desk.  I  was always the last to know anything. It finally got to me:  Harry
Walden had committed suicide. The night before. Miss Gredis didn't know yet.
I  looked  over at his seat. He'd never sit there again. All those  colorful
clothes  shot to hell. Miss Gredis finished roll call. She came and  sat  on
the  front desk, crossed her legs high. She had on a lighter shade  of  silk
hose than ever before. Her skirt was hiked way back to her thighs.
      "Our  American  culture," she said, "is destined  for  greatness.  The
English  language,  now so limited and structured, will  be  reinvented  and
improved upon. Our writers will use what I like to think of, in my mind,  as
<i>Americanese . .</i> ."
      Miss Gredis' stockings were almost skin-colored. It was as if she were
not wearing stockings at all, it was as if she were naked there in front  of
us,  but since she wasn't and only appeared to be, that made it better  than
ever.
      "More  and  more we will discover our own truths and our  own  way  of
speaking,  and  this  new voice will be uncluttered by  old  histories,  old
mores, old dead and useless dreams . . ."
     <i>"Thump, thump, thump . . ."
     </i>
     25
     Curly Wagner picked out Morris Moscowitz. It was after school and eight
or  ten  of us guys had heard about it and we walked out behind the  gym  to
watch. Wagner laid down the rules, "We fight until somebody hollers quit."
      "0.  K.  with me," said Morris. Morris was a tall thin guy, he  was  a
little bit dumb and he never said much or bothered anybody.
     Wagner looked over at me. "And after I finish with this guy, I'm taking
you on!"
     "<i>Me,</i> coach?"
     "Yeah, you, Chinaski."
     I sneered at him.
      "I'm  going to get some god-damned respect from you guys if I have  to
whip all of you one by one!"
      Wagner  was cocky. He was always working out on the parallel  bars  or
tumbling  on the mat or taking laps around the track. He swaggered  when  he
walked but he still had his pot belly. He liked to stand and stare at a  guy
for  a long time like he was shit. I didn't know what was bothering him.  We
worried  him. I believe he thought we were fucking all the girls like  crazy
and he didn't like to think about that.
      They squared off. Wagner had some good moves. He bobbed, he weaved, he
shuffled  his feet, he moved in and out, and he made little hissing  sounds.
He  was  impressive.  He  caught Moscowitz with three  straight  left  jabs.
Moscowitz  just  stood  there with his hands at his sides.  He  didn't  know
anything  about boxing. Then Wagner cracked Moscowitz with a  right  to  the
jaw.  "Shit!"  said  Morris  and he threw a roundhouse  right  which  Wagner
ducked.  Wagner countered with a right and left to Moscowitz'  face.  Morris
had  a  bloody  nose.  "Shit!" he said and then  he  started  swinging.  And
landing.  You  could  hear the shots, they cracked  against  Wagner's  head.
Wagner  tried to counter but his punches just didn't have the force and  the
fury of Moscowitz'.
     "Holy shit! Get him, Morrie!"
     Moscowitz was a puncher. He dug a left to that pot belly. Wagner gasped
and  dropped. He fell to both knees. His face was cut and bleeding. His chin
was on his chest and he looked sick.
     "I quit," Wagner said.
      We left him there behind the building and we followed Morris Moscowitz
out of there. He was our new hero.
     "Shit, Morrie, you ought to turn pro!"
     "Naw, I'm only thirteen years old."
      We  walked  over behind the machine shop and stood around  the  steps.
Somebody lit up some cigarettes and we passed them around.
     "What has that man got against us?" asked Morrie.
      "Hell,  Morrie, don't you know? He's jealous. He thinks we're  fucking
all the chicks!"
     "Why, I've never even kissed a girl."
     "No shit, Morrie?"
     "No shit."
     "You ought to try dry-fucking, Morrie, it's great!"
      Then  we saw Wagner walking past. He was working on his face with  his
handkerchief.
     "Hey, coach," yelled one of the guys, "how about a rematch?"
     He stood and looked at us. "You boys put out those cigarettes!"
     "Ah, no, coach, we like to smoke!"
     "Come on over here, coach, and make us put out our cigarettes!"
     "Yeah, come on, coach!"
      Wagner stood looking at us. "I'm not done with you yet! I'll get every
one of you, one way or the other!"
     "How ya gonna do that, coach? Your talents seem limited."
     "Yeah, coach, how ya gonna do it?"
     He walked off the field to his car. I felt a little sorry for him. When
a guy was that nasty he should be able to back it up.

      "I  guess he doesn't think there'll be a virgin on the grounds by  the
time we graduate," said one of the guys.
     "I think," said another guy, "that somebody jacked-off into his ear and
he has come for brains."
     We left after that. It had been a fairly good day.

        26
      My  mother went to her low-paying job each morning and my father,  who
didn't  have  a  job, left each morning too. Although most of the  neighbors
were  unemployed he didn't want them to think he was jobless. So he got into
his  car each morning at the same time and drove off as if he were going  to
work.  Then in the evening he would return at exactly the same time. It  was
good  for me because I had the place to myself. They locked the house but  I
knew  how  to  get  in.  I would unhook the screen  door  with  a  piece  of
cardboard. They locked the porch door with a key from the inside. I  slid  a
newspaper  under the door and poked the key out. Then I pulled the newspaper
from under the door and the key came with it. I would unlock the door and go
in.  When I left I would hook the screen door, lock the back porch door from
the  inside, leaving the key in. Then I would leave through the front  door,
putting the latch on lock.
     I liked being alone. One day I was playing one of my games. There was a
clock on the mantle with a second hand and I held contests to see how long I
could  hold my breath. Each time I did it I exceeded my own record.  I  went
through  much  agony but I was proud each time I added some  seconds  to  my
record.  This day I added a full five seconds and I was standing getting  my
breath back when I walked to the front window. It was a large window covered
by  red drapes. There was a crack between the drapes and I looked out. Jesus
Christ!  Our  window  was  directly across  from  the  front  porch  of  the
Andersons'  house. Mrs. Anderson was sitting on the steps, and I could  look
right  up  her  dress. She was about 23 and had marvelously shaped  legs.  I
could see almost all the way up her dress. Then I remember my father's  army
binoculars.  They were on the top shelf of his closet. I ran and  got  them,
ran  back, crouched down and adjusted them to Mrs. Anderson's legs. It  took
me  right up there! And it was different from looking at Miss Gredis'  legs:
you didn't have to pretend you weren't looking. You could concentrate. And I
did. I was right there. I was red hot. Jesus Christ, what legs, what flanks!
And each time she moved, it was unbearable and unbelievable.
      I  got  down on my knees and I held the binoculars with one  hand  and
pulled my cock out with the other. I spit in my palm and began. For a moment
I  thought I saw a flash of panties. I was about to come. I stopped. I  kept
looking  with the binocs and then I started rubbing again. When I was  about
to come I stopped again. Then I waited and began rubbing again. This time  I
knew I wouldn't be able to stop. She was right there. I was looking right up
her!  It was like fucking. I came. I spurted all over the hardwood floor  in
front  of  the  window. It was white and thick. I got up  and  went  to  the
bathroom  and got some toilet paper, came back and wiped it up.  I  took  it
back to the toilet and flushed it away.
      Mrs.  Anderson came and sat on those steps almost every day  and  each
time she did I got the binocs and whacked-off.
     If Mr. Anderson ever finds out about this, I thought, he'll kill me . .
.


      My  parents went to the movies every Wednesday night. The theatre  had
drawings  for money and they wanted to win some money. It was on a Wednesday
night that I discovered something. The Pirozzis lived in the house south  of
ours.  Our driveway ran along the north side of their house and there was  a
window  which looked into their front room. The window was veiled by a  thin
curtain.  There  was  a  wall which became an arch over  the  front  of  our
driveway  and there were bushes all about. When I got between that wall  and
the  window, in among all those bushes, nobody could see me from the street,
especially at night.
      I crawled in there. It was great, better than I expected. Mrs. Pirozzi
was sitting on the couch reading a newspaper. Her legs were crossed, and  in
an  easy  chair  across the room, Mr. Pirozzi was reading a newspaper.  Mrs.
Pirozzi  was not as young as Miss Gredis or Mrs. Anderson, but she had  good
legs  and she had on high heels and almost every time she turned a  page  of
her  newspaper, she'd cross her legs and her skirt would climb higher and  I
would see more.
      If  my  parents come home from the movie and catch me here, I thought,
then my life is over. But it's worth it. It's worth the risk.
      I  stayed  very  quiet behind the window and stared at Mrs.  Pirozzi's
legs. They had a large collie, Jeff, who was asleep in front of the door.  I
had  looked  at  Miss Gredis' legs that day in English  class,  then  I  had
whacked-off  to  Mrs. Anderson's legs, and now - there was <i>more.</i>  Why
didn't  Mr.  Pirozzi look at Mrs. Pirozzi's legs? He just kept  reading  his
newspaper. It was obvious that Mrs. Pirozzi was trying to tease him  because
her  skirt  kept  climbing higher and higher. Then she  turned  a  page  and
crossed  her  legs very fast and her <i>skirt flipped</i> back exposing  her
pure  white  thighs. She was just like <i>buttermilk! Unbelievable!</i>  She
was best <i>of all!
      </i>Then  from the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Pirozzi's legs  <i>move.
</i>He  stood  up  very quickly and moved toward the front door.  I  started
running, crashing through the bushes. I heard him open his front door. I was
down  the  driveway and into our backyard and behind the garage. I  stood  a
moment, listening. Then I climbed the back fence, over the vines and on over
into  the next backyard. I ran through that yard and up the driveway  and  I
began  dog-trotting south down the street like a guy practicing  for  track.
There was nobody behind me but I kept trotting. If he knows it was me, if he
tells my father, I'm dead. But maybe he just let the dog out to take a shit?
I  trotted down to West Adams Boulevard and sat on a streetcar bench. I  sat
there  five  minutes or so, then I walked back home. When I  got  there,  my
parents  weren't back yet. I went inside, undressed, turned out  the  lights
and waited for morning . . .


      Another  Wednesday night Baldy and I were taking our usual  short  cut
between two apartment houses. We were on our way to his father's wine cellar
when  Baldy  stopped at a window. The shade was almost down but  not  quite.
Baldy stopped, bent, and peeked inside. He waved me over.

     "What is it?" I whispered.
     "Look!"
      There  was a man and a woman in bed, naked. There was just a  bedsheet
partly  over them. The man was trying to kiss the woman and she was  pushing
him away.
     "God damn it, let me have it, Marie!"
     "No!"
     "But I'm <i>hot, please."</i>
     "Take your god-damned hands off me!"
     "But, Marie, I love you!"
     "You and your fucking love . . ."
     "Marie, <i>please.</i> "
     "Will you shut up?"
     The man turned toward the wall. The woman picked up a magazine, bunched
a pillow behind her head, and began reading it.
     Baldy and I walked away from the window,
     "Jesus," said Baldy, "that made me sick!"
      "I thought we were going to see something," I said. When we got to the
wine cellar Baldy's old man had put a big padlock on the cellar door.


     We tried that window again and again but we never actually
     saw anything happen. It was always the same.
     "Marie, it's been a long time. We're <i>living</i> together, you know.
     We're <i>married!"</i>
     "Big fucking <i>deal!</i>"
     "Just this <i>once,</i> Marie, and I won't bother you again, I won't
     bother you for a long time, I promise!"
     "Shut up! You make me sick!"
     Baldy and I walked away.
     "Shit," I said.
     "Shit," he said.
     "I don't think he's got a cock," I said.
     "He might as well not have," said Baldy. We stopped going back there.

        27
     Wagner wasn't done with us. I was standing in the yard during gym class
when he walked up to me.
     "What are you doing, Chinaski?"
     "Nothing."
     "Nothing?"
     I didn't answer.
     "How come you're not in any of the games?"
     "Shit. That's kid stuff."
     "I'm putting you on garbage detail until further notice."
     "What for? What's the charge?"
     "Loitering. 50 demerits."
      The kids had to work off their demerits on garbage detail. If you  had
more  than  ten demerits and didn't work them off, you couldn't graduate.  I
didn't care whether I graduated or not. That was their problem. I could just
stay  around getting older and older and bigger and bigger. I'd get all  the
girls.
     "50 demerits?" I asked. "Is that all you're going to give me? How about
a hundred?"
     "O.K., one hundred. You got 'em."
      Wagner swaggered off. Peter Mangalore had 500 demerits. Now I  was  in
second place, and gaining . . .
      The  first garbage detail was during the last thirty minutes of lunch.
The  next  day  I  was carrying a garbage can with Peter Mangalore.  It  was
simple. We each had a stick with a sharp nail on the end of it. We picked up
papers with the stick and stuck them into the can. The girls watched  us  as
we  walked by. They knew we were <i>bad.</i> Peter looked bored and I looked
like I didn't give a damn. The girls knew we were <i>bad.
     </i>"You know Lilly Fischman?" Pete asked as we walked along.
     "Oh, yes, yes."
     "Well, she's not a virgin."
     "How do you know?"
     "She told me."
     "Who got her?"
     "Her father."
     "Hmmm . . . Well you can't blame him."
     "Lilly's heard I've got a big cock."
     "Yeah, it's all over school."
     "Well, Lilly wants it. She claims she can handle it."
     "You'll rip her to pieces."
     "Yeah, I will. Anyhow, she wants it."
      We  put the garbage can down and stared at some girls who were sitting
on a bench. Pete walked toward the bench. I stood there. He walked up to one
of  the girls and whispered something in her ear. She started giggling. Pete
walked back to the garbage can. We picked it up and walked away.
      "So,"  said Pete, "this afternoon at 4 p.m. I'm going to rip Lilly  to
pieces."
     "Yeah?"
      "You  know  that  broken-down car at the back of the school  that  Pop
Farnsworth took the engine out of?"
     "Yeah."
     "Well, before they haul that son-of-a-bitch away, that's going to be my
bedroom. I'm going to take her in the back seat."
     "Some guys really live."
     "I'm getting a hard just thinking about it," said Pete.
     "I am too and I'm not even the guy who's going to do it."
     "There's one problem though," said Pete.
     "You can't come?"
      "No, it's not that. I need a look-out. I need somebody to tell me  the
coast is clear."
     "Yeah? Well, look, I can do that."
     "Would you?" asked Pete.
      "Sure.  But  we  should have one more guy so  we  can  watch  in  both
directions."
     "All right. Who you got in mind?"
     "Baldy."
     "Baldy? Shit, he's not much."
     "No, but he's trustworthy."
     "All right. So I'll see you guys at four."
     "We'll be there."


     At four p.m. we met Pete and Lilly at the car.
      "Hi!"  said  Lilly. She looked hot. Pete was smoking a  cigarette.  He
looked bored.
     "Hello, Lilly," I said.
     "Hi, Lilly baby," said Baldy.
      There  were  some guys playing a game of touch football in  the  other
field but that only made it better, a kind of camouflage. Lilly was wiggling
around, breathing heavily, her breasts were moving up and down.
      "Well,"  said Pete, throwing his cigarette away, "let's make  friends,
Lilly."
     He opened the back door, bowed, and Lilly climbed in. Pete got in after
her and took his shoes off, then his pants and his shorts. Lilly looked down
and saw Pete's meat hanging.
     "Oh my," she said, "I don't know . . ."
     "Come on, baby," said Pete, "nobody lives forever."
     "Well, all right, I guess . . ."
      Pete looked out the window. "Hey, are you guys watching to see if  the
coast is clear?"
     "Yeah, Pete," I said, "we're watching."
     "We're looking," said Baldy.
      Pete  pulled Lilly's skirt all the way up. There was white flesh above
her  knee socks and you could see her panties. Glorious. Pete grabbed  Lilly
and kissed her. Then he pulled away.
     "You whore!" he said.
     "Talk to me nice, Pete!"
      "You bitch-whore!" he said and slapped her across the face, hard.  She
began sobbing. "Don't, Pete, don't . . ."

     "Shut up, cunt!"
      Pete  began pulling at Lilly's panties. He was having a terrible time.
Her  panties  were tight around her big ass. Pete gave a violent  tug,  they
ripped  and  he  pulled the panties down around her legs and  off  over  her
shoes. He threw them on the floorboard. Then he began playing with her cunt.
He  played  with her cunt and played with her cunt and kissed her again  and
again.  Then he leaned back against the car seat. He only had half  a  hard.
Lilly looked down at him.
     "What are you, a queer?"
      "No, it's not that, Lilly. It's just that I don't think these guys are
watching to see if the coast is clear. They're watching <i>us.</i>  I  don't
want to get caught in here."
     "The coast is clear, Pete," I said. "We're watching!"
     "We're watching!" said Baldy.
      "I don't believe them," said Pete. "All they're watching is your cunt,
Lilly."
     "You're <i>chicken!</i> All that meat and it's only at half-mast!"
     "I'm scared of getting caught, Lilly."
     "I know what to do," she said.
      Lilly  bent over and ran her tongue along Pete's cock. She lapped  her
tongue around the monstrous head. Then she had it in her mouth.
     "Lilly . . . Christ," said Pete, "I love you . . ."
     "Lilly, Lilly, Lilly . . . oh, oh, oooh ooooh . . ."
     "<i>Henry!"</i> Baldy screamed. <i>"LOOK!"
     </i>I looked. It was Wagner running toward us from across the field and
also  coming  behind him were the guys who had been playing touch  football,
plus  some of the people who had been watching the football game,  boys  and
girls both.
     "<i>Pete!"</i> I yelled, "It's Wagner coming with 50 people!"
     "<i>Shit!"</i> moaned Pete.
     "Oh, shit," said Lilly.
      Baldy and I took off. We ran out the gate and halfway up the block. We
looked back through the fence. Pete and Lilly never had a chance. Wagner ran
up  and  ripped open the car door hoping for a good look. Then the  car  was
surrounded and we couldn't see any more . . .
      After  that,  we never saw Pete or Lilly again. We had  no  idea  what
happened  to them. Baldy and I each got 1,000 demerits which put me  in  the
lead  over Mangalore with 1,100. There was no way I could work them  off.  I
was in Mt. Justin for life. Of course, they informed our parents.


      "Let's go," said my father, and I walked into the bathroom. He got the
strop down.
      "Take down your pants and shorts," he said. I didn't do it. He reached
in front of me, yanked my belt open, unbuttoned me and yanked my pants down.
He  pulled  down  my  shorts. The strop landed. It was the  same,  the  same
explosive sound, the same pain.
      "You're going to kill your mother!" he screamed. He hit me again.  But
the  tears  weren't  coming. -My eyes were strangely dry.  I  thought  about
killing  him. That there must be a way to kill him. In a couple of  years  I
could beat him to death. But I wanted him now. He wasn't much of anything. I
must  have been adopted. He hit me again. The pain was still there  but  the
fear  of it was gone. The strop landed again. The room no longer blurred.  I
could see everything clearly. My father seemed to sense the difference in me
and he began to lash me harder, again and again, but the more he beat me the
less  I felt. It was almost as if he was the one who was helpless. Something
had occurred, something had changed. My father stopped, puffing, and I heard
him hanging up the strop. He walked to the door. I turned.
     "Hey," I said.
     My father turned and looked at me.
     "Give me a couple more," I told him, "if it makes you feel any better."
      "Don't you <i>dare</i> talk to me that way!" he said. I looked at him.
I  saw folds of flesh under his chin and around his neck. I saw sad wrinkles
and  crevices. His face was tired pink putty. He was in his undershirt,  and
his  belly sagged, wrinkling his undershirt. The eyes were no longer fierce.
His  eyes  looked away and couldn't meet mine. Something had  happened.  The
bath  towels  knew it, the shower curtain knew it, the mirror knew  it,  the
bathtub and the toilet knew it. My father turned and walked out the door. He
knew it. It was my last beating. From him.

        28
      Jr.  high went by quickly enough. About the 8th grade, going into  the
9th,  I broke out with acne. Many of the guys had it but not like mine. Mine
was  really terrible. I was the worst case in town. I had pimples and  boils
all  over my face, back, neck, and some on my chest. It happened just  as  I
was  beginning to be accepted as a tough guy and a leader. I was still tough
but  it  wasn't the same. I had to withdraw. I watched people from afar,  it
was like a stage play. Only they were on stage and I was an audience of one.
I'd  always had trouble with the girls but with acne it was impossible.  The
girls  were  further  away than ever. Some of them were truly  beautiful  --
their  dresses, their hair, their eyes, the way they stood around.  Just  to
walk  down the street during an afternoon with one, you know, talking  about
everything and anything, I think that would have made me feel very good.
      Also, there was still something about me that continually got me  into
trouble.  Most  teachers  didn't  trust or  like  me,  especially  the  lady
teachers.  I never said anything out of the way but they claimed it  was  my
"attitude." It was something about the way I sat slouched in my seat and  my
"voice tone." I was usually accused of
     "sneering" although I wasn't conscious of it. I was often made to stand
outside  in  the hall during class or I was sent to the principal's  office.
The principal always did the same thing. He had a phone booth in his office.
He made me stand in the phone booth with the door closed. I spent many hours
in  that  phone booth. The only reading material in there was the  <i>Ladies
Home  Journal.</i>  It  was deliberate torture. I read  <i>the  Ladies  Home
Journal</i> anyhow. I got to read each new issue. I hoped that maybe I could
learn something about women.


     I must have had 5,000 demerits by graduation time but it didn't seem to
matter.  They wanted to get rid of me. I was standing outside  in  the  line
that  was  filing into the auditorium one by one. We each had on  our  cheap
little  cap and gown that had been passed down again and again to  the  next
graduating group. We could hear each person's name as they walked across the
stage.  They were making one big god-damned deal out of graduating from  Jr.
high. The band played our school song:

     <i>Oh, Mt. Justin,
     Oh, Mt. Justin
     We will be true,
     Our hearts are singing wildly
     All our skies are blue . . . </i>

      We stood in line, each of us waiting to march across the stage. In the
audience were our parents and friends.
     "I'm about to puke," said one of the guys.
      "We only go from crap to more crap," said another, The girls seemed to
be more serious about it. That's why I didn't really trust them. They seemed
to  be part of the wrong things. They and the school seemed to have the same
song.
      "This  stuff brings me down," said one of the guys. "I wish  I  had  a
smoke."
     "Here you are . . ."
     Another of the guys handed him a cigarette. We passed it around between
four or five of us. I took a hit and exhaled through my nostrils. Then I saw
Curly Wagner walking in.
     "Ditch it!" I said. "Here comes vomit-head!"
      Wagner  walked  right up to me. He was dressed in his grey  gym  suit,
including sweatshirt, just as he had been the first time I saw him  and  all
the other times afterward. He stood in front of me.
      "Listen,"  he  said, "you think you're getting away  from  me  because
you're getting out of here, but you're not! I'm going to follow you the rest
of your life. I'm going to follow you to the ends of the earth and I'm going
to get you!"

      I  just  glanced  at him without comment and he walked  off.  Wagner's
little  graduation speech only made me that much bigger with the guys.  They
thought I must have done some big goddamned thing to rile him. But it wasn't
true. Wagner was just simple-crazy.
      We  got  nearer and nearer to the doorway of the auditorium. Not  only
could we hear each name being announced, and the applause, but we could  see
the audience. Then it was my turn.
      "Henry Chinaski," the principal said over the microphone. And I walked
forward.  There was no applause. Then one kindly soul in the  audience  gave
two or three claps.
      There were rows of seats set up on the stage for the graduating class.
We sat there and waited. The principal gave his speech about opportunity and
success in America. Then it was all over. The band struck up the Mt.  Justin
school  song.  The students and their parents and friends rose  and  mingled
together. I walked around, looking. My parents weren't there. I made sure. I
walked around and gave it a good look-see.
      It  was  just  as well. A tough guy didn't need that. I  took  off  my
ancient cap and gown and handed it to the guy at the end of the aisle -- the
janitor. He folded the pieces up for the next time.
     I walked outside. The first one out. But where could I go? I had eleven
cents in my pocket. I walked back to where I lived.

        29
      That  summer, July 1934, they gunned down John Dillinger  outside  the
movie  house in Chicago. He never had a chance. The Lady in Red had fingered
him.  More  than  a  year earlier the banks had collapsed.  Prohibition  was
repealed  and my father drank Eastside beer again. But the worst  thing  was
Dillinger  getting  it.  A  lot  of people admired  Dillinger  and  it  made
everybody  feel  terrible. Roosevelt was President. He gave  Fireside  Chats
over the radio and everybody listened. He could really talk. And he began to
enact programs to put people to work. But things were still very bad. And my
boils got worse, they were unbelievably large.
      That  September I was scheduled to go to Woodhaven High but my  father
insisted I go to Chelsey High.
      "Look,"  I  told him, "Chelsey is out of this district. It's  too  far
away."
     "You'll do as I tell you. You'll register at Chelsey High."
      I knew why he wanted me to go to Chelsey. The rich kids went there. My
father was crazy. He still thought about being rich. When Baldy found out  I
was  going to Chelsey he decided to go there too. I couldn't get rid of  him
or my boils.
      The  first day we rode our bikes to Chelsey and parked them. It was  a
terrible feeling. Most of those kids, at least all the older ones, had their
own  automobiles, many of them new convertibles, and they weren't  black  or
dark  blue like most cars, they were bright yellow, green, orange  and  red.
The guys sat in them outside of the school and the girls gathered around and
went  for rides. Everybody was nicely dressed, the guys and the girls,  they
had  pullover sweaters, wrist watches and the latest in shoes,  They  seemed
very adult and poised and superior. And there I was in my homemade shirt, my
one  ragged  pair of pants, my rundown shoes, and I was covered with  boils.
The  guys  with  the cars didn't worry about acne. They were very  handsome,
they  were tall and clean with bright teeth and they didn't wash their  hair
with  hand soap. They seemed to know something I didn't know. I was  at  the
bottom again.
      Since  all the guys had cars Baldy and I were ashamed of our bicycles.
We left them home and walked to school and back, two-and-one-half miles each
way.  We  carried  brown bag lunches. But most of the other students  didn't
even  eat in the school cafeteria. They drove to malt shops with the  girls,
played the juke boxes and laughed. They were on their way to U.S.C.


      I was ashamed of my boils. At Chelsey you had a choice between gym and
R.O.T.C.  I took R.O.T.C. because then I didn't have to wear a gym suit  and
nobody  could see the boils on my body. But I hated the uniform.  The  shirt
was made of wool and it irritated my boils. The uniform was worn from Monday
to Thursday. On Friday we were allowed to wear regular clothes.
     We studied the Manual of Arms. It was about warfare and shit like that.
We  had  to pass exams. We marched around the field. We practiced the Manual
of  Arms.  Handling the rifle during various drills was bad for  me.  I  had
boils  on  my  shoulders.  Sometimes when I slammed  the  rifle  against  my
shoulder a boil would break and leak through my shirt. The blood would  come
through  but  because the shirt was thick and made of wool the  spot  wasn't
obvious and didn't look like blood.
      I  told  my mother what was happening. She lined the shoulders  of  my
shirts with white patches of cloth, but it only helped a little.
     Once an officer came through on inspection. He grabbed the rifle out of
my  hands and held it up, peering through the barrel, for dust in the  bore.
He  slammed  the rifle back at me, then looked at a blood spot on  my  right
shoulder.
     "Chinaski!" he snapped, "your rifle is leaking oil!"
     "Yes, sir."
      I got through the term but the boils got worse and worse. They were as
large as walnuts and covered my face. I was very ashamed. Sometimes at  home
I  would stand before the bathroom mirror and break one of the boils. Yellow
pus would spurt and splatter on the mirror. And little white hard pits. In a
horrible way it was fascinating that all that stuff was in there. But I knew
how hard it was for other people to look at me.
      The school must have advised my father. At the end of that term I  was
withdrawn  from  school.  I  went to bed and  my  parents  covered  me  with
ointments. There was a brown salve that stank. My father preferred that  one
for  me.  It burned. He insisted that I keep it on longer, much longer  than
the  instructions  advised. One night he insisted that I  leave  it  on  for
hours.  I began screaming. I ran to the tub, filled it with water and washed
the salve off, with difficulty. I was burned, on my face, my back and chest.
That night I sat on the edge of the bed. I couldn't lay down. My father came
into the room.
     "I thought I told you to leave that stuff on!"
     "Look what happened," I told him. My mother came into the room.
      "The  son-of-a-bitch doesn't <i>want</i> to get well," my father  told
her. "Why did I have to have a son like this?"


     My mother lost her job. My father kept leaving in his car every morning
as  if  he  were  going to work. "I'm an engineer," he told people.  He  had
always wanted to be an engineer.
     It was arranged for me to go to the L.A. County General Hospital. I was
given  a long white card. I took the white card and got on the #7 streetcar.
The  fare  was seven cents for four tokens for a quarter). I dropped  in  my
token  and  walked  to  the  back  of the streetcar.  I  had  an  8:30  a.m.
appointment.
      A  few blocks later a young boy and a woman got on the streetcar.  The
woman  was  fat and the boy was about four years old. They sat in  the  seat
behind  me.  I  looked  out the window. We rolled along.  I  liked  that  #7
streetcar.  It went really fast and rocked back and forth as the  sun  shone
outside.
      "Mommy,"  I  heard the young boy say, "What's <i>wrong</i>  with  that
man's face?"

     The woman didn't answer. The hoy asked her the same question again. She
didn't answer.
      Then  the boy screamed it out, <i>"Mommy! What's wrong with that man's
face?"</i>
     "Shut up! I don't know what's wrong with his face!"


      I  went to Admissions at the hospital and they instructed me to report
to the fourth floor. There the nurse at the desk took my name and told me to
be seated. We sat in two long rows of green metal chairs facing one another.
Mexicans,  whites and blacks. There were no Orientals. There was nothing  to
read.  Some of the patients had day-old newspapers. The people were  of  all
ages,  thin and fat, short and tall, old and young. Nobody talked. Everybody
seemed  very  tired. Orderlies walked back and forth, sometimes  you  saw  a
nurse,  but  never a doctor. An hour went by, two hours. Nobody's  name  was
called. I got up to look for a water fountain. I looked in the little  rooms
where  people were to be examined. There wasn't anybody in any of the rooms,
neither doctors or patients.
     I went to the desk. The nurse was staring down into a big fat book with
names written in it. The phone rang. She answered it.
     "Dr. Menen isn't here yet." She hung up.
     "Pardon me," I said.
     "Yes?" the nurse asked.
     "The doctors aren't here yet. Can I come back later?"
     "No."
     "But there's nobody here."
     "The doctors are on call."
     "But I have an 8:30 appointment."
     "Everybody here has an 8:30 appointment."
     There were 45 or 50 people waiting.
      "Since  I'm  on the waiting list, suppose I come back in a  couple  of
hours, maybe there will be some doctors here then."
      "If  you leave now, you will automatically lose your appointment.  You
will have to return tomorrow if you still wish treatment."
     I walked back and sat in a chair. The others didn't protest.
      There  was  very little movement. Sometimes two or three nurses  would
walk  by laughing. Once they pushed a man past in a wheelchair. Both of  his
legs were heavily bandaged and his ear on the side of his head toward me had
been sliced off. There was a black hole divided into little sections, and it
looked  like a spider had gone in there and made a spider web. Hours passed.
Noon  came  and  went.  Another hour. Two hours. We  sat  and  waited.  Then
somebody said, "There's a doctor!"
      The  doctor  walked into one of the examination rooms and  closed  the
door. We all watched. Nothing. A nurse went in. We heard her laughing.  Then
she  walked  out. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The doctor walked  out  with  a
clipboard in his hand.
     "Martinez?" the doctor asked. "Jose Martinez?"