the way for  his
runner. I ran at them. Kong was expecting another high hurdle. This  time  I
dove and clipped him at the ankles. He went down hard, his face hitting  the
ground. He was stunned, he stayed there, his arms spread out. I ran  up  and
kneeled  down. I grabbed him by the back of the neck, hard. I  squeezed  his
neck  and rammed my knee into his backbone and dug it in. "Hey, Kong, buddy,
are you all right?"

      The  others  came running up. "I think he's hurt," I said.  "Come  on,
somebody help me get him off the field."
      Stapen  got him on one side and I got Kong on the other and we  walked
him to the sideline. Near the sideline I pretended to stumble and ground  my
left shoe into his ankle.
     "Oh," said Kong, "please leave me alone . . ."
     "I'm just helpin' ya, buddy."
     When we got him to the sideline we dropped him. Kong sat and rubbed the
blood  from  his  mouth. Then he reached down and felt  his  ankle.  It  was
skinned  and  would soon begin to swell. I bent over him. "Hey, Kong,  let's
finish the game. We're behind 42-7 and need a chance to catch up."
     "Naw, I gotta make my next class."
     "I didn't know they taught dog-catching here."
     "It's <i>English Lit 1.</i> "
      "That figures. Well, look, I'll help you over to the gym and I'll  put
you under a hot shower, what you say?"
     "No, you stay away from me."
      Kong  got up. He was pretty busted. The great shoulders sagged,  there
was  dirt and blood on his face. He limped a few-steps. "Hey, Quinn,"he said
to one of his buddies, "gimme a hand . . ."
      Quinn took one of Kong's arms and they walked slowly across the  field
toward the gym.
     "Hey, Kong!" I yelled, "I hope you make your class! Tell Bill Saroyan I
said 'hello'!"
     The other fellows were standing around, including Baldy and Ballard who
had  come down from the stands. Here I had done my best ever god-damned  act
and not a pretty girl around for miles.
     "Anybody got a smoke?" I asked.
     "I got some Chesterfields," Baldy said.
     "You still smoking pussy cigarettes?" I asked.
     "I'll take one," said Joe Stapen.
     "All right," I said, "since that's all there is."
     We stood around, smoking,
     "We still have enough guys around to play a game," somebody said.
     "Fuck it," I said. "I hate sports."
     "Well," said Stapen, "you sure took care of Kong."
      "Yeah," said Baldy, "I watched the whole thing. There's only one thing
that confuses me."
     "What's that?" asked Stapen.
     "I wonder which guy is the sadist?"
     "Well," I said, "I gotta go. There's a Cagney movie showing tonight and
I'm taking my cunt."
     I began to walk across the field.
      "You mean you're taking your right hand to the movie?" one of the guys
yelled after me.
     "Both hands," I said over my shoulder.
      I  walked off the field, down past the Chemistry Building and then out
on the front lawn. There they were, boys and girls with their books, sitting
on  benches, under the trees, or on the lawn. Green books, blue books, brown
books.  They were talking to each other, smiling, laughing at times.  I  cut
over  to the side of the campus where the "V" car line ended. I boarded  the
"V,"  got  my transfer, went to the back of the car, took the last  seat  in
back, as always, and waited.

        58
      I  made  practice runs down to skid row to get ready for my future.  I
didn't like what I saw down there. Those men and women had no special daring
or  brilliance. They wanted what everybody else wanted. There were also some
obvious  mental  cases  down  there who were allowed  to  walk  the  streets
undisturbed. I had noticed that both in the very poor and very rich extremes
of society the mad were often allowed to mingle freely. I knew that I wasn't
entirely  sane. I still knew, as I had as a child, that there was  something
strange about myself. I felt as if I were destined to be a murderer, a  bank
robber,  a saint, a rapist, a monk, a hermit. I needed an isolated place  to
hide.  Skid row was disgusting. The life of the sane, average man was  dull,
worse than death. There seemed to be no possible alternative. Education also
seemed  to be a trap. The little education I had allowed myself had made  me
more suspicious. What were doctors, lawyers, scientists? They were just  men
who  allowed themselves to be deprived of their freedom to think and act  as
individuals. I went back to my shack and drank . . .


      Sitting  there  drinking, I considered suicide, but I felt  a  strange
fondness for my body, my life. Scarred as they were, they were mine. I would
look  into the dresser mirror and grin: if you're going to go, you might  as
well take eight, or ten or twenty of them with you . . .
      It was a Saturday night in December. I was in my room and I drank much
more  than usual, lighting cigarette after cigarette, thinking of girls  and
the city and jobs, and of the years ahead. Looking ahead I liked very little
of  what I saw. I wasn't a misanthrope and I wasn't a misogynist but I liked
being alone. It felt good to sit alone in a small space and smoke and drink.
I had always been good company for myself.


     Then I heard the radio in the next room. The guy had it on too loud. It
was a sickening love song.


     "Hey, buddy!" I hollered, "turn that thing down!"
     There was no response. I walked to the wall and pounded on it.
     "I SAID, 'TURN THAT FUCKING THING DOWN!'"
     The volume remained the same.
      I  walked outside to his door. I was in my shorts. I raised my leg and
jammed  my foot into the door. It burst open. There were two people  on  the
cot,  an  old fat guy and an old fat woman. They were fucking. There  was  a
small candle burning. The old guy was on top. He stopped and turned his head
and  looked.  She looked up from underneath him. The place was  very  nicely
fixed-up with curtains and a little rug.
     "Oh, I'm sorry . . ."
      I  closed  their door and went back to my place. I felt terrible.  The
poor  had a right to fuck their way through their bad dreams. Sex and drink,
and maybe love, was all they had.
      I  sat back down and poured a glass of wine. I left my door open.  The
moonlight  came  in  with the sounds of the city: juke  boxes,  automobiles,
curses,  dogs barking, radios . . . We were all in it together. We were  all
in  one big shit pot together. There was no escape. We were all going to  be
flushed away.
      A small cat walked by, stopped at my door and looked in. The eyes were
lit by the moon: pure red like fire. Such wonderful eyes.
      "Come on, kitty . . ." I held my hand out as if there were food in it.
"Kitty, kitty . . ."

      The  cat walked on by. I heard the radio in the next room shut off.  I
finished  my wine and went outside. I was in my shorts as before.  I  pulled
them  up and tucked in my parts. I stood before the other door. I had broken
the  lock. I could see the light from the candle inside. They had  the  door
wedged closed with something, probably a chair. I knocked quietly. There was
no answer. I knocked again.
      I  heard something. Then the door opened. The old fat guy stood there.
His  face  was  hung  with great folds of sorrow. He was  all  eyebrows  and
mustache and two sad eyes.
      "Listen," I said, "I'm very sorry for what I did. Won't you  and  your
girl come over to my place for a drink?"
     "No."
     "Or maybe I can bring you both something to drink?"
     "No," he said, "please leave us alone."
     He closed the door.


      I awakened with one of my worst hangovers. I usually slept until noon.
This  day I couldn't. I dressed and went to the bath- room in the main house
and  made  my toilet. I came back out, went up the alley and then  down  the
stairway, down the cliff and into the street below.
      Sunday,  the worst god-damned day of them all. I walked over  to  Main
Street,  past  the  bars.  The B-girls sat near the doorways,  their  skirts
pulled high, swinging their legs, wearing high heels.
     "Hey, honey, come on in!"
      Main Street, East 5th, Bunker Hill. Shitholes of America. There was no
place  to go. I walked into a Penny Arcade. I walked around looking  at  the
games  but  had  no desire to play any of them. Then I saw  a  Marine  at  a
pinball  machine.  Both his hands gripped the sides of the  machine,  as  he
tried  to guide the ball with body-English. I walked up and grabbed  him  by
the back of his collar and his belt.
     "Becker, I demand a god-damned rematch!"
     I let go of him and he turned.
     "No, nothing doing," he said.
     "Two out of three."
     "Balls," he said, "I'll buy you a drink."
      We  walked  out  of the Penny Arcade and down Main  Street.  A  B-girl
hollered out from one of the bars, "Hey, Marine, come on in!"
     Becker stopped. "I'm going in," he said.
     "Don't," I said, "they are human roaches."
     "I just got paid."
      "The girls drink tea and they water your drinks. The prices are double
and you never see the girl afterwards."
     "I'm going in."
      Becker  walked  in.  One of the best unpublished writers  in  America,
dressed to kill and to die. I followed him. He walked up to one of the girls
and spoke to her. She pulled her skirt up, swung her high heels and laughed.
They  walked over to a booth in a corner. The bartender came around the  bar
to take their order. The other girl at the bar looked at me.
     "Hey, honey, don't you wanna play?"
     "Yeah, but only when it's my game."
     "You scared or queer?"
      "Both,"  I said, sitting at the far end of the bar. There  was  a  guy
between  us, his head on the bar. His wallet was gone. When he awakened  and
complained, he'd either be thrown out by the bartender or handed over to the
police.
      After serving Becker and the B-girl the bartender came back behind the
bar and walked over to me.
     "Yeh?"
     "Nothing."
     "Yeh? What ya want in here?"
     "I'm waiting for my friend," I nodded at the corner booth.
     "You sit here, you gotta drink."
     "O.K. Water."
     The bartender went off, came hack, set down a glass of water.
     "Two bits."
     I paid him.
     The girl at the bar said to the bartender, "He's queer or scared."
     The bartender didn't say anything. Then Becker waved to him and he went
to take their order.
     The girl looked at me. "How come you ain't in uniform?"
     "I don't like to dress like everybody else."
     "Are there any other reasons?"
     "The other reasons are my own business."
     "Fuck you," she said.
     The bartender came back. "You need another drink."
     "O.K.," I said, slipping another quarter toward him.


     Outside, Becker and I walked down Main Street.
     "How'd it go?" I asked.
     "There was a table charge, plus the two drinks. It came to $32."
     "Christ, I could stay drunk for two weeks on that."
     "She grabbed my dick under the table, she rubbed it."
     "What did she say?"
     "Nothing. She just kept rubbing my dick."
     "I'd rather rub my own dick and keep the thirty-two bucks."
     "But she was so beautiful."
     "God damn, man, I'm walking along in step with a perfect
     idiot."
     "Someday I'm going to write all this down. I'll be on the library
     shelves: BECKER. The 'B's' are very weak, they need help."
     "You talk too much about writing," I said.


      We  found  another bar near the bus depot. It wasn't a  hustle  joint.
There  was just a barkeep and five or six travelers, all men. Becker  and  I
sat down.
     "It's on me," said Becker.
     "Eastside in the bottle."
     Becker ordered two. He looked at me.
     "Come on, be a man, join up. Be a Marine."
     "I don't get any thrill trying to be a man."
     "Seems to me you're always beating up on somebody."
     "That's just for entertainment."
     "Join up. It'll give you something to write about."
     "Becker, there's always something to write about."
     "What are you gonna do, then?"
     I pointed at my bottle, picked it up.
     "How are ya gonna make it?" Becker asked.
     "Seems like I've heard that question all my life."
      "Well,  I  don't know about you but I'm going to try everything!  War,
women, travel, marriage, children, the works. The first car I own I'm  going
to take it completely apart! Then I'm going to put it back together again! I
want  to  know  about  things,  what makes them  work!  I'd  like  to  be  a
correspondent  in  Washington, D.C. I'd like to  be  where  big  things  are
happening."
     "Washington's crap, Becker."
     "And women? Marriage? Children?"
     "Crap."
     "Yeah? Well, what do you want?"
     "To hide."
     "You poor fuck. You need another beer."
     "All right."
     The beer arrived.
      We sat quietly. I could sense that Becker was off on his own, thinking
about  being  a  Marine,  about being a writer,  about  getting  laid.  He'd
probably  make a good writer. He was bursting with enthusiasms. He  probably
loved  many  things: the hawk in flight, the god-damned  ocean,  full  moon,
Balzac,  bridges, stage plays, the Pulitzer Prize, the piano, the god-damned
Bible.
      There  was a small radio in the bar. There was a popular song playing.
Then  in  the  middle of the song there was an interruption.  The  announcer
said, "A bulletin has just come in. The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. I
repeat:  The Japanese have just bombed Pearl Harbor. All military  personnel
are requested to return immediately to their bases!"
      We  looked  at  each other, hardly able to understand what  we'd  just
heard.
     "Well," said Becker quietly, "that's it."
     "Finish your beer," I told him. Becker took a hit.
      "Jesus, suppose some stupid son-of-a-bitch points a machine gun at  me
and pulls the trigger?"
     "That could well happen."
     "Hank . . ."
     "What?"
     "Will you ride back to the base with me on the bus?"
     "I can't do that."
      The  bartender, a man about 45 with a watermelon gut  and  fuzzy  eyes
walked  over  to us. He looked at Becker. "Well, Marine, it looks  like  you
gotta go back to your base, hub?"
     That pissed me. "Hey, fat boy, let him finish his drink, O.K.?"
      "Sure, sure . . . Want a drink on the house. Marine? How about a  shot
of good whiskey?"
     "No," said Becker, "it's all right."
      "Go ahead," I told Becker, "take the drink. He figures you're going to
die to save his bar."
     "All right," said Becker, "I'll take the drink."
     The barkeep looked at Becker.
     "You got a nasty friend . . ."
     "Just give him his drink," I said.
      The  other  few  customers were babbling wildly  about  Pearl  Harbor.
Before,  they  wouldn't speak to each other. Now they  were  mobilized.  The
Tribe was in danger.
      Becker  got  his drink. It was a double shot of whiskey. He  drank  it
down.
     "I never told you this," he said, "but I'm an orphan."
     "God damn," I said.
     "Will you at least come to the bus depot with me?"
     "Sure."
     We got up and walked toward the door,
      The barkeep was rubbing his hands all over his apron. He had his apron
all bunched up and was excitedly rubbing his hands on it.
     "Good luck, Marine!" he hollered.
      Becker  walked out. I paused inside the door and looked  back  at  the
barkeep.
     "World War I, eh?"
     "Yeh, yeh . . ." he said happily.
      I  caught  up  with  Becker. We half-ran to the  bus  depot  together.
Servicemen in uniform were already beginning to arrive. The whole place  had
an air of excitement. A sailor ran past.
      "I'M  GOING TO KILL ME A JAP!" he screamed. Becker stood in the ticket
line.  One  of  the  servicemen had his girlfriend with him.  The  girl  was
talking, crying, holding onto him, kissing him. Poor Becker only had  me.  I
stood  to  one  side, waiting. It was a long wait. The same sailor  who  had
screamed earlier came up to me. "Hey, fellow, aren't you going to help us?
     What're you standing there for? Why don't you go down and sign
     ^^ up?
     There was whiskey on his breath. He had freckles and a very large nose.
     "You're going to miss your bus," I told him. He went off toward the bus
departure point.
     "<i>Fuck the god-damned fucking Japs!"</i> he said.


      Becker  finally had his ticket. I walked him to his bus. He  stood  in
another line.
     "Any advice?" he asked.
     "No."
      The  line  was  filing slowly into the bus. The girl was  weeping  and
talking  rapidly  and quietly to her soldier. Becker  was  at  the  door.  I
punched him on the shoulder. "You're
     the best I've known."
     "Thanks, Hank . . ."
     "Goodbye . . ."


     I walked out of there. Suddenly there was traffic on the street. People
were  driving badly, running stoplights, screaming at each other.  I  walked
back over to Main Street. America was at war. I looked into my wallet: I had
a dollar. I counted my change: 61.
      I  walked  along Main Street. There wouldn't be much for  the  B-girls
today. I walked along. Then I came to the Penny Arcade. There wasn't anybody
in  there.  Just the owner standing in his high-perched booth. It <i>was</i>
dark in that place and it stank of piss.
      I  walked  along  in the dark aisles among the broken  machines.  They
called  it  a Penny Arcade but most of the games cost a nickel  and  some  a
dime.  I  stopped at the boxing machine, my favorite. Two little  steel  men
stood  in  a  glass cage with buttons on their chins. There  were  two  hand
grips,  like pistol grips, with triggers, and when you squeezed the triggers
the  arms of your fighter would uppercut wildly. You could move your fighter
back and forth and from side to side. When you hit the button on the chin of
the  other fighter he would go down hard on his back, K.O.'d. When I  was  a
kid  and  Max  Schmeling K.O.'d Joe Louis, I had run  out  into  the  street
looking   for  my  buddies,  yelling  <i>"Hey,  Max  Schmeling  K.O.'d   Joe
Louis!"</i>  And  nobody answered me, nobody said anything,  they  had  just
walked away with their heads down.
     It took two to play the boxing game and I wasn't going to play with the
pervert who owned the place. Then I saw a little Mexican boy, eight or  nine
years  old.  He  came  walking down the aisle. A  nice-looking,  intelligent
Mexican boy.
     "Hey, kid?"
     "Yes, Mister?"
     "Wanna play this boxing game with me?"
     "Free?"
     "Sure. I'm paying. Pick your fighter."
      He  circled around, peering through the glass. He looked very serious.
Then he said, "O.K., I'll take the guy in the red trunks. He looks best."
     "All right."
      The  kid got on his side of the game and stared through the glass.  He
looked at his fighter, then he looked up at me.
     "Mister, don't you know that there's a war on?"
     "Yes."
     We stood there.
     "You gotta put the coin in," said the kid.
      "What are you doing in this place?" I asked him. "How come you're  not
in school?"
     "It's Sunday."
     I put the dime in. The kid started squeezing his triggers and I started
squeezing  mine. The kid had made a bad choice. The left arm of his  fighter
was broken and only reached up halfway. It could never hit the button on  my
fighters chin. All the kid had was a right hand. I decided to take my  time.
My  guy had blue trunks. I moved him in and out, making sudden flurries. The
Mexican  kid was great, he kept trying. He gave up on the left arm and  just
squeezed  the  trigger for the right arm. I rushed blue trunks  in  for  the
kill,  squeezing both triggers. The kid kept pumping the right  arm  of  red
trunks.  Suddenly blue trunks dropped. He went down hard, making a  clanking
sound.
     "I got ya. Mister," said the kid.
      "You won," I said. The kid was excited. He kept looking at blue trunks
flat on his ass.
     "You wanna fight again, Mister?"
     I paused, I don't know why.
     "You out of money, Mister?"
     "Oh, no."
     "O.K., then, we'll fight."
      I  put  in  another dime and blue trunks sprang to his feet.  The  kid
started squeezing his one trigger and the right arm of red trunks pumped and
pumped.  I  let blue trunks stand back for a while and contemplate.  Then  I
nodded at the kid. I moved blue trunks in, both arms flailing. I felt I  had
to  win. It seemed very important. I didn't know why it was important and  I
kept thinking, why do I think this is so important?
      And  another part of me answered, just because it is. Then blue trunks
dropped  again, hard, making the same iron clanking sound. I looked  at  him
laying  on his back down there on his little green velvet mat. Then I turned
around and walked out.