CHarl'z Bukovski. Buterbrod s der'mom (engl)

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     OCR: Shoorah.
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        Charles Bukowski. Ham On Rye (engl)

        1

      The first thing I remember is being under something. It was a table, I
saw  a  table  leg,  I  saw the legs of the people, and  a  portion  of  the
tablecloth hanging down. It was dark under there, I liked being under there.
It  must  have been in Germany. I must have been between one and  two  years
old. It was 1922. I felt good under the table. Nobody seemed to know that  I
was there. There was sunlight upon the rug and on the legs of the people.  I
liked  the sunlight. The legs of the people were not interesting,  not  like
the  tablecloth  which  hung down, not like the  table  leg,  not  like  the
sunlight.
      Then  there  is  nothing . . . then a Christmas  tree.  Candles.  Bird
ornaments: birds with small berry branches in their beaks. A star. Two large
people fighting, screaming. People eating, always people eating. I ate  too.
My spoon was bent so that if I wanted to eat I had to pick the spoon up with
my right hand. If I picked it up with my left hand, the spoon bent away from
my mouth. I wanted to pick the spoon up with my left hand.
      Two  people: one larger with curly hair, a big nose, a big mouth, much
eyebrow; the larger person always seeming to be angry, often screaming;  the
smaller person quiet, round of face, paler, with large eyes. I was afraid of
both  of them. Sometimes there was a third, a fat one who wore dresses  with
lace  at the throat. She wore a large brooch, and had many warts on her face
with  little  hairs  growing out of them. "Emily," they  called  her.  These
people  didn't seem happy together. Emily was the grandmother,  my  father's
mother.  My  father's name was "Henry." My mother's name was "Katherine."  I
never spoke to them by name. I was
      "Henry,  Jr." These people spoke German most of the time  and  in  the
beginning I did too.
      The  first  thing I remember my grandmother saying was, "I  will  bury
<i>all</i> of you!" She said this the first time just before we began eating
a meal, and she was to say it many times after that, just before we began to
eat.  Eating  seemed  very  important. We ate  mashed  potatoes  and  gravy,
especially  on  Sundays. We also ate roast beef, knockwurst and  sauerkraut,
green peas, rhubarb, carrots, spinach, string beans, chicken, meatballs  and
spaghetti,   sometimes  mixed  with  ravioli;  there  were  boiled   onions,
asparagus, and every Sunday there was strawberry shortcake with vanilla  ice
cream.  For  breakfasts  we had french toast and  sausages,  or  there  were
hotcakes or waffles with bacon and scrambled eggs on the side. And there was
always coffee. But what I remember best is all the mashed potatoes and gravy
and my grandmother, Emily, saying, "I will bury <i>all</i> of you!"
      She  visited us often after we came to America, taking the red trolley
in  from  Pasadena  to  Los Angeles. We only went to see  her  occasionally,
driving out in the Model-T Ford.
      I  liked  my  grandmother's  house. It was  a  small  house  under  an
overhanging  mass of pepper trees. Emily had all her canaries  in  different
cages.  I remember one visit best. That evening she went about covering  the
cages  with  white hoods so that the birds could sleep. The  people  sat  in
chairs and talked. There was a piano and I sat at the piano and hit the keys
and  listened to the sounds as the people talked. I liked the sound  of  the
keys best up at one end of the piano where there was hardly any sound at all
--  the  sound  the  keys made was like chips of ice  striking  against  one
another.
     "Will you stop that?" my father said loudly.
     "Let the boy play the piano," said my grandmother. My mother smiled.
      "That  boy," said my grandmother, "when I tried to pick him up out  of
the cradle to kiss him, he reached up and hit me in the nose!"
     They talked some more and I went on playing the piano.
      "Why don't you get that thing tuned?" asked my father. Then I was told
that  we  were  going to see my grandfather. My grandfather and  grandmother
were not living together. I was told that my grandfather was a bad man, that
his breath stank.

     "Why does his breath stink?"
     They didn't answer.
     "Why does his breath stink?"
     "He drinks."
      We  got into the Model-T and drove over to see my Grandfather Leonard.
As we drove up and stopped he was standing on the porch of his house. He was
old  but he stood very straight. He had been an army officer in Germany  and
had  come  to America when he heard that the streets were paved  with  gold.
They weren't, so he became the head of a construction firm.
      The  other  people  didn't get out of the car. Grandfather  wiggled  a
finger  at  me.  Somebody opened a door and I climbed out and walked  toward
him. His hair was pure white and long and his beard was pure white and long,
and  as  I  got closer I saw that his eyes were brilliant, like blue  lights
watching me. I stopped a little distance away from him.
     "Henry," he said, "you and I, we know each other. Come into the house."
      He  held out his hand. As I got closer I could smell the stink of  his
breath. It was very strong but he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen
and I wasn't afraid. I went into his house with him. He led me to a chair.
     "Sit down, please. I'm very happy to sec you."
     He went into another room. Then he came out with a little tin box.
     "It's for you. Open it."
     I had trouble with the lid, I couldn't open the box.
     "Here," he said, "let me have it."
     He loosened the lid and handed the tin box back to me. I lifted the lid
and here was this cross, a German cross with a ribbon.
     "Oh no," I said, "you keep it."
     "It's yours," he said, "it's just a gummy badge."
     "Thank you."
     "You better go now. They will be worried."
     "All right. Goodbye."
     "Goodbye, Henry. No, wait . . ."
      I  stopped. He reached into a small front pocket of his pants  with  a
couple of fingers, and tugged at a long gold chain with his other hand. Then
he handed me his gold pocket watch, with the chain.

     "Thank you. Grandfather . . ."
      They were waiting outside and I got into the Model-T and we drove off.
They  all  talked  about  many things as we drove along.  They  were  always
talking,  and they talked all the way back to my grandmother's  house.  They
spoke of many things but never, once, of my grandfather.

        2
      I  remember  the  Model-T.  Sitting high, the  running  boards  seemed
friendly,  and on cold days, in the mornings, and often at other  times,  my
father  had to fit the hand-crank into the front of the engine and crank  it
many times in order to start the car.
     "A man can get a broken arm doing this. It kicks back like a horse."
      We went for Sunday rides in the Model-T when grandmother didn't visit.
My  parents liked the orange groves, miles and miles of orange trees  always
either in blossom or full of oranges. My parents had a picnic basket  and  a
metal chest. In the metal chest were frozen cans of fruit on dry ice, and in
the  picnic basket were weenie and liverwurst and salami sandwiches,  potato
chips,  bananas and soda-pop. The soda-pop was shifted continually back  and
forth  between  the metal box and the picnic basket. It froze  quickly,  and
then had to be thawed.
      My  father smoked Camel cigarettes and he knew many tricks  and  games
which  he showed us with the packages of Camel cigarettes. How many pyramids
were  there? Count them. We would count them and then he would show us  more
of them.
      There  were  also tricks about the humps on the camels and  about  the
written words on the package. Camel cigarettes were magic cigarettes.
      There  was  a  particular Sunday I can recall. The picnic  basket  was
empty.  Yet  we  still  drove along through the orange groves,  further  and
further away from where we lived.
     "Daddy," my mother asked, "aren't we going to run out of gas?"
     "No, there's plenty of god-damned gas."
     "Where are we going?"
     "I'm going to get me some god-damned oranges!"
      My  mother  sat  very  still as we drove along. My  father  pulled  up
alongside  the  road, parked near a wire fence and we sat there,  listening.
Then my father kicked the door open and got out.
     "Bring the basket."
     We all climbed through the strands of the fence.
     "Follow me," said my father.
      Then we were between two rows of orange trees, shaded from the sun  by
the branches and the leaves. My father stopped and reaching up began yanking
oranges  from  the  lower  branches of the nearest tree.  He  seemed  angry,
yanking the oranges from the tree, and the branches seemed angry, leaping up
and  down. He threw the oranges into the picnic basket which my mother held.
Sometimes  he missed and I chased the oranges and put them into the  basket.
My  father  <i>went</i> from tree to tree, yanking at  the  lower  branches,
throwing the oranges into the picnic basket.
     "Daddy, we have enough," said my mother.
     "Like hell."
     He kept yanking.
     Then a man stepped forward, a very tall man. He held a shotgun.
     "All right, buddy, what do you think you're doing?"
     "I'm picking oranges. There are plenty of oranges."
      "These  are  my oranges. Now, listen to me, tell your  woman  to  dump
them."
     "There are plenty of god-damned oranges. You're not going to miss a few
god-damned oranges."
      "I'm  not  going to miss <i>any</i> oranges. Tell your woman  to  dump
them."
     The man pointed his shotgun at my father.
      "Dump  them,"  my  father told my mother. The oranges  rolled  to  the
ground.
     "Now," said the man, "get out of my orchard."
     "You don't need all these oranges."
     "I know what I need. Now get out of here."

     "Guys like you ought to be hung!"
     "I'm the law here. Now move!"
      The  man raised his shotgun again. My father turned and began  walking
out of the orange grove. We followed him and the man trailed us. Then we got
into the car but it was one of those times when it wouldn't start. My father
got  out of the car to crank it. He cranked it twice and it wouldn't  start.
My father was beginning to sweat. The man stood at the edge of the road.
     "Get that god-damned cracker box started!" he said. My father got ready
to  twist the crank again. "We're not on your property! We can stay here  as
long as we damn well please!"
     "Like hell! Get that thing <i>out</i> of here, and fast!"
      My  father  cranked the engine again. It sputtered, then  stopped.  My
mother sat with the empty picnic box on her lap. I was afraid to look at the
man.  My  father whirled the crank again and the engine started.  He  leaped
into the car and began working the levers on the steering wheel.
      "Don't come back," said the man, "or next time it might not go so easy
for you."
      My  father drove the Model-T off. The man was still standing near  the
road. My father was driving very fast. Then he slowed the car and made a  U-
turn. He drove back to where the man had stood. The man was gone. We speeded
back on the way out of the orange groves.
     "I'm coming back some day and get that bastard," said my father.
      "Daddy,  we'll have a nice dinner tonight. What would  you  like?"  my
mother asked.
     "Pork chops," he answered.
     I had never seen him drive the car that fast.

        3
     My father had two brothers. The younger was named Ben and the older was
named  John. Both were alcoholics and ne'er-do-wells. My parents often spoke
of them.
     "Neither of them amount to anything," said my father.
     "You just come from a bad family, Daddy," said my mother.
     "And your brother doesn't amount to a damn either!"
     My mother's brother was in Germany. My father often spoke badly of him.
      I  had  another  uncle, Jack, who was married to my  father's  sister,
Elinore.  I  had never seen my Uncle Jack or my Aunt Elinore  because  there
were bad feelings between them and my father.
      "See  this  scar  on  my hand?" asked my father. "Well,  that's  where
Elinore  stuck me with a sharp pencil when I was very young. That  scar  has
never gone away."
      My  father didn't like people. He didn't like me. "Children should  be
seen and not heard," he told me.


     It was an early Sunday afternoon without Grandma Emily.
     "We should go see Ben," said my mother. "He's dying."
     "He borrowed all that money from Emily. He'd pissed it away on gambling
and women and booze."
     "I know, Daddy."
     "Emily won't have any money left when she dies."
     "We should still go see Ben. They say he has only two weeks left."

     "All right, all right! We'll go!"
      So  we went and got into the Model-T and started driving. It took some
time, and my mother had to stop for flowers. It was a long drive toward  the
mountains.  We  reached the foothills and took the little  winding  mountain
road upwards. Uncle Ben was in a sanitarium up there, dying of TB.
      "It  must  cost  Emily a lot of money to keep Ben up  here,"  said  my
father.
     "Maybe Leonard is helping."
     "Leonard doesn't have anything. He drank it up and he gave it away.
     "I like grandpa Leonard," I said.
      "Children  should  be seen and not heard," .said my  father.  Then  he
continued,  "Ah, that Leonard, the only time he was good to us children  was
when  he  was drunk. He'd joke with us and give us money. But the  next  day
when he was sober he was the meanest man in the world."
      The  Model-T was climbing the mountain road nicely. The air was  clear
and sunny.
     "Here it is," said my father. He guided the car into the parking lot of
the  sanitarium  and we got out. I followed my mother and  father  into  the
building. As we entered his room, my Uncle Ben was sitting upright  in  bed,
staring out the window. He turned and looked at us as we entered. He  was  a
very  handsome  man,  thin, with black hair, and  he  had  dark  eyes  which
glittered, were brilliant with glittering light.
     "Hello, Ben," said my mother.
     "Hello, Katy." Then he looked at me. "Is this Henry?"
     Yes.
     "Sit down."
     My father and I sat down.
     My mother stood there. "These flowers, Ben. I don't see a vase."
     "They're nice flowers, thanks, Katy. No, there isn't a vase."
      "I'll  go get a vase," said my mother. She left the room, holding  the
flowers.
     "Where are all your girlfriends now, Ben?" asked my father.
     "They come around."
     "I'll bet."

     "They come around."
     "We're here because Katherine wanted to see you."
     "I know."
     "I wanted to see you too, Uncle Ben. I think you're a real pretty man."
      "Pretty like my ass," said my father. My mother entered the room  with
the flowers in a vase.
     "Here, I'll put them on this table by the window."
     "They're nice flowers, Katy."
     My mother sat down.
      "We can't stay too long," said my father. Uncle Ben reached under  the
mattress  and his hand came out holding a pack of cigarettes.  He  took  one
out, struck a match and lit it. He took a long drag and exhaled.
      "You know you're not allowed cigarettes," said my father. "I know  how
you  get them. Those prostitutes bring them to you. Well, I'm going to  tell
the  doctors  about  it  and I'm going to get them  to  stop  letting  those
prostitutes in here!"
     "You're not going to do shit," said my uncle.
      "I  got a good mind to rip that cigarette out of your mouth!" said  my
father.
     "You never had a good mind," said my uncle.
     "Ben,"my mother said, "you shouldn't smoke, it will kill you."
     "I've had a good life," said my uncle.
      "You  never  had  a  good  life," said  my  father.  "Lying,  boozing,
borrowing, whoring, drinking. You never worked a day in your life!  And  now
you're dying at the age of 24!"
     "It's been all right," said my uncle. He took another heavy drag on the
Camel, then exhaled.
     "Let's get out of here," said my father. "This man is insane!"
     My father stood up. Then my mother stood up. Then I stood up.
      "Goodbye, Katy," said my uncle, "and goodbye, Henry." He looked at  me
to indicate which Henry.
      We  followed my father through the sanitarium halls and out  into  the
parking  lot to the Model- T. We got in, it started, and we began  down  the
winding road out of the mountains.
     "We should have stayed longer," said my mother.
     "Don't you know that TB is catching?" asked my father.

     "I think he was a very pretty man," I said.
     "It's the disease," said my father. "It makes them look like that.
     And besides the TB, he's caught many other things too."
     "What kind of things?" I asked.
     "I can't tell you," my father answered. He steered the Model-T down the
winding mountain road as I wondered about that.

        4
      It  was  another Sunday that we got into the Model-T in search  of  my
Uncle John.
      "He has no ambition," said my father. "I don't see how he can hold his
god-damned head up and look people in the eye."
      "I wish he wouldn't chew tobacco," said my mother. "He spits the stuff
everywhere."
     "If this country was full of men like him the Chinks would take
     over and <i>we'd</i> he running the laundries . . ."
     "John never had a chance," said my mother. "He ran away from
     home early. At least you got a high school education."
     "College," said my father.
     "Where?" asked my mother.
     "The University of Indiana."
     "Jack said you only went to high school."
     "<i>Jack</i> only went to high school. That's why he gardens for the
     rich."
     "Am I ever going to see my Uncle Jack?" I asked.
     "First let's see if we can find your Uncle John," said my father.
     "Do the Chinks really want to take over this country?" I asked.
     "Those yellow devils have been waiting for centuries to do it.
      What's  stopped  them is that they have been kept  busy  fighting  the
Japs."
     "Who are the best fighters, the Chinks or the Japs?"
     'The Japs. The trouble is that there are too many Chinks.
     When you kill a Chink he splits in half and becomes two Chinks."
     "How come their skin is yellow?"

     "Because instead of drinking water they drink their own pee- pee."
     "Daddy, <i>don't</i> tell the boy that!"
     "Then tell him to stop asking questions."
      <i>We</i> drove along through another warm Los Angeles day. My  mother
had  on one of her pretty dresses and fancy hats. When my mother was dressed
up she always sat straight and held her neck very stiff.
     "I wish we had enough money so we could help John and his family," said
my mother.
      "It's  not my fault if they don't have a pot to piss in," answered  my
father.
      "Daddy,  John was in the war just like you were. Don't  you  think  he
deserves something?"
     "He never rose in the ranks. I became a master sergeant."
     "Henry, all your brothers can't be like you."
      "They don't have any god-damned <i>drive!</i> They think they can live
off the land!"


      We  drove  along a bit further. Uncle John and his family lived  in  a
small  court.  We  went up the cracked sidewalk to a sagging  porch  and  my
father pushed the bell. The bell didn't ring. He knocked, loudly.
     "Open up! It's the cops!" my father yelled.
     "Daddy, stop it!" said my mother.
      After what seemed a long time, the door opened a crack. Then it opened
further.  And we could see my Aunt Anna. She was very thin, her cheeks  were
hollow and her eyes had pouches, dark pouches. Her voice was thin, too.
     "Oh, Henry . . . Katherine . . . come in, please . . ."
      We  followed her in. I here was very little furniture. I  here  was  a
breakfast  nook  with a table and four chairs and there were  two  beds.  My
mother  and  father  sat in the chairs. Two girls, Katherine  and  Betsy  (I
learned  their names later) were at the sink taking turns trying  to  scrape
peanut butter out of a nearly empty peanut butter jar.
      "We  were  just having lunch," said my Aunt Anna. The girls came  over
with  tiny smears of peanut butter which they spread on dry pieces of bread.
They kept looking into the jar and scraping with the knife.
     "Where's John?" asked my father.
      My  aunt sat down wearily. She looked very weak, very pale. Her  dress
was dirty, her hair uncombed, tired, sad.
     "We've been waiting for him. We haven't seen him for quite some time."
     "Where did he go?"
     "I don't know. He just left on his motorcycle."
     "All he does," said my father, "is think about his motorcycle."
     "Is this Henry, Jr.?"
     "Yes."
     "He just stares. He's so quiet."
     "That's the way we want him."
     "Still water runs deep."
      "Not  with  this one. The only thing that runs deep with him  are  the
holes in his ears."
      The two girls took their slices of bread and walked outside and sat on
the  stoop to eat them. They hadn't spoken to us. I thought they were  quite
nice. They were thin like their mother but they were still quite pretty.
     "How are you, Anna?" asked my mother.
     "I'm all right."
     "Anna, you don't look well. I think you need food."
     "Why doesn't your boy sit down? Sit down, Henry."
     "He likes to stand," said my father. "It makes him strong. He's getting
ready to fight the Chinks."
     "Don't you like the Chinese?" my aunt asked me.
     "No," I answered.
     "Well, Anna," my father asked, "how are things going?"
      "Awful,  really. . . The landlord keeps asking for the rent.  He  gets
very nasty. He frightens me. I don't know what to do."
     "I hear the cops are after John," said my father.
     "He didn't do very much."
     "What did he do?"
     "He made some counterfeit dimes."
     "<i>Dimes?</i> Jesus Christ, what kind of ambition is <i>that?"</i>
     "John really doesn't want to be bad."
     "Seems to me he doesn't want to be <i>anything</i>."
     "He would if he could."
     "Yeah. And if a frog had wings he wouldn't wear his ass out a-hoppin'!"
     There was silence then and they sat there. I turned and looked outside.
The girls were gone from the porch, they had gone off somewhere.
      "Come, sit down, Henry," said my Aunt Anna. I stood there. "Thank you,
it's all right."
     "Anna," my mother asked, "are you sure that John will come hack?"
     "He'll come back when he gets tired of the hens," said my father.
     "John loves his children . . ." said Anna.
     "I hear the cops are after him for something else."
     "What?"
     "Rape."
     "Rape?"
      "Yes,  Anna, I heard about it. He was riding his motorcycle  one  day.
This  young  girl was hitch-hiking. She got onto the back of his  motorcycle
and as they rode along all of a sudden John saw an empty garage. He drove in
there, closed the door and raped the girl"
     "How did you find out?"
     "Find out? The cops came and told me, they asked me where he was."
     "Did you tell them?"
      "What  for?  To  have  him go to jail and evade his  responsibilities?
That's just what he'd want."
     "I never thought of it that way."
     "Not that I'm for rape . . ."
     "Sometimes a man can't help what he does."
     "What?"
      "I  mean,  after having the children, and with this type of life,  the
worry  and all . . . I don't look so good anymore. He saw a young girl,  she
looked  good  to him . . . she got on his bike, you know, she put  her  arms
around him . . ."
     "What?" asked my father. "How would <i>you</i> like to be raped?"
     "I guess I wouldn't like it."
     "Well, I'm sure the young girl didn't like it either."

     A fly appeared and whirled around and around the table. We watched it.
     "There's nothing to eat here," said my father. "The fly has come to the
wrong place."
      The  fly became more and more bold. It circled closer and made buzzing
sounds. The closer it circled the louder the buzzing became.
     "You're not going to tell the cops that John might come home?"
     my aunt asked my father.
      "I am not going to let him off the hook so easily," said my father. My
mother's  hand leaped quickly. It closed and she brought her hand back  down
to the table.
     "I got him," she said.
     "Clot what?" asked my father. 'The fly," she smiled.
     "I don't believe you . . ."
     "You see the fly anywhere? The fly is gone."
     "It flew off."
     "No, I have it in my hand."
     "Nobody is that quick."
     "I have it in my hand."
     "Bullshit."
     "You don't believe me?"
     "No."
     "Open your mouth."
     "All right."
      My  father opened his mouth and my mother cupped her hand over it.  My
father leaped up, grabbing at his throat.
     "JESUS CHRIST!"
     I he fly came out of his mouth and began circling the table again.
     "That's enough," said my father, "we're going home!"
      He  got up and walked out the door and down the walk and got into  the
Model-T and just sat there very stiffly, looking dangerous.
      "We  brought you a few cans of food," my mother said to my aunt.  "I'm
sorry it can't be money but Henry is afraid John will use it for gin, or for
gasoline for his motorcycle. It isn't much: soup, hash, peas . . ."

     "Oh, Katherine, thank you! I hank you, both . . ."
      My  mother got up and I followed her. There were two boxes  of  canned
food in the car. I saw my father sitting there rigidly. He was still angry.
      My mother handed me the smaller box of cans and she took the large box
and  I  followed  her  back into the court. We set the  boxes  down  in  the
breakfast  nook. Aunt Anna came over and picked up a can. It was  a  can  of
peas, the label on it covered with little round green peas.
     "This is lovely," said my aunt.
     "Anna, we have to go. Henry's dignity is upset."
     My aunt threw her arms around my mother. "Everything has been so awful.
But  this  is like a dream. Wait until the girls come home. Wait  until  the
girls see all these cans of food!"
     My mother hugged my aunt back. Then they separated.
     "John is not a bad man," my aunt said.
     "I know," my mother answered. "Goodbye, Anna."
     "Goodbye, Katherine. Goodbye, Henry."
      My mother turned and walked out the door. I followed her. We walked to
the car and got in. My father started the car.
      As  we  were driving off I saw my aunt at the door waving.  My  mother
waved back. My father didn't wave back. I didn't either.

        5
      I had begun to dislike my father. He was always angry about something.
Wherever we went he got into arguments with people. But he didn't appear  to
frighten  most people; they often just stared at him, calmly, and he  became
more  furious.  If we ate out, which was seldom, he always  found  something
wrong  with the food and sometimes refused to pay. "There's flyshit in  this
whipped cream! What the hell kind of a place is this?"
     "I'm sorry, sir, you needn't pay. Just leave."
      "I'll  leave,  all right! But I'll be back! I'll burn this  god-damned
place down!"
      Once we were in a drug store and my mother and I were standing to  one
side  while  my  father yelled at a clerk. Another clerk  asked  my  mother,
<i>"Who  is</i>  that horrible man? Everytime he comes in  here  there's  an
argument."
      "That's my husband," my mother told the clerk. Yet, I remember another
time.  He  was  working as a milkman and made early morning deliveries.  One
morning  he awakened me. "Come on, I want to show you something."  I  walked
outside with him. I was wearing my pajamas and slippers. It was still  dark,
the moon was still up. We walked to the milk wagon which was horsedrawn. The
horse  stood very still. "Watch," said my father. He took a sugar cube,  put
it  in  his hand and held it out to the horse. The horse ate it out  of  his
palm. "Now you try it . . ."
     He put a sugar cube in my hand. It was a very large horse. "Get closer!
Hold out your hand!" I was afraid the horse would bite my hand off. The head
came  down;  I saw the nostrils; the lips pulled back, I saw the tongue  and
the  teeth, and then the sugar cube was gone. "Here. Try it again . .  ."  I
tried  it again. The horse took the sugar cube and waggled his head.  "Now,"
said my father, "I'll take you back inside before the horse shits on you."
     I was not allowed to play with other children. "They are bad children,"
said  my  father,  "their parents are poor." "Yes,"  agreed  my  mother.  My
parents wanted to be rich so they imagined themselves rich.
      The  first  children of my age that I knew were in kindergarten.  They
seemed very strange, they laughed and talked and seemed happy. I didn't like
them.  I  always felt as if I was going to be sick, to vomit,  and  the  air
seemed  strangely still and white. We painted with watercolors.  We  planted
radish seeds in a garden and some weeks later we ate them with salt. I liked
the  lady  who taught kindergarten, I liked her better than my parents.  One
problem  I  had  was going to the bathroom. I always needed  to  go  to  the
bathroom, but I was ashamed to let the others know that I had to  go,  so  I
held  it. It was really terrible to hold it. And the air was white,  I  felt
like  vomiting, I felt like shitting and pissing, but I didn't say anything.
And  when  some of the others came back from the bathroom I'd think,  you're
dirty, you did something in there...
     The little girls were nice in their short dresses, with their long hair
and  their beautiful eyes, hut I thought, they do things in there too,  even
though they pretend they don't. Kindergarten was mostly white air . . .
      Grammar school was different, first grade to sixth grade, some of  the
kids were twelve years old, and we all came from poor neighborhoods. I began
to  go to the bathroom, but only to piss. Coming out once I saw a small  boy
drinking  at a water fountain. A larger boy walked up behind him and  jammed
his  face down into the water jet. When the small boy raised his head,  some
of his teeth were broken and blood came out of his mouth, there was blood in
the  fountain.  "You tell anyone about this," the older boy told  him,  "and
I'll  really get you." The boy took out a handkerchief and held  it  to  his
mouth.  I walked back to class where the teacher was telling us about George
Washington  and  Valley Forge. She wore an elaborate white  wig.  She  often
slapped  the palms of our hands with a ruler when she thought we were  being
disobedient. I don't think she ever went to the bathroom. I hated her.


      Each afternoon after school there would be a fight between two of  the
older  boys.  It was always out by the back fence where there  was  never  a
teacher  about. And the fights were never even; it was always a  larger  boy
against a smaller boy and the larger boy would beat the smaller boy with his
fists,  backing him into the fence. The smaller boy would attempt  to  fight
hack  but  it was useless. Soon his face was bloody, the blood running  down
into  his  shirt.  The  smaller boys took their beatings  wordlessly,  never
begging, never asking mercy. Finally, the larger boy would hack off  and  it
would  be  over and all the other boys would walk home with the winner.  I'd
walk  home quickly, alone, after holding my shit all through school and  all
through the fight. Usually by the time I got home I would have lost the urge
to relieve myself. I used to worry about that.

        6
      I  didn't  have any friends at school, didn't want any. I felt  better
being  alone. I sat on a bench and watched the others play and  they  looked
foolish  to me. During lunch one day I was approached by a new boy. He  wore
knickers, was cross-eyed and pigeon-toed. I didn't like him, he didn't  look
good. He sat on the bench next to me.
     "Hello, my name's David."
     I didn't answer.
     He opened his lunch bag. "I've got peanut butter sandwiches,"
     he said. "What do you have?"
     "Peanut butter sandwiches."
      "I've  got  a  banana, too. And some potato chips.  Want  some  potato
chips?"
      I  took some. He had plenty, they were crisp and salty, the sun  shone
right through them. They were good.
     "Can I have some more?"
     "All right."
     I took some more. He even had jelly on his peanut butter sandwiches. It
dripped out and ran over his fingers. David didn't seem to notice,
     "Where do you live?" he asked.
     "Virginia Road."
      "I live on Pickford. We can walk home together after school. Take some
more potato chips. Who's your teacher?"
     "Mrs. Columbine."
     "I have Mrs. Reed. I'll see you after class, we'll walk home together."

      Why did he wear those knickers? What did he want? I really didn't like
him. I took some more of his potato chips.


      That  afternoon,  after school, he found me and  began  walking  along
beside me. "You never told me your name," he said.
     "Henry," I answered.
      As  we  walked  along I noticed a whole gang of boys,  first  graders,
following  us. At first they were half a block behind us, then  they  closed
the gap to several yards behind us.
      "What  do  they  want?"  I asked David. He didn't  answer,  just  kept
walking.
      "Hey, knicker-shitter!" one of them yelled. "Your mother make you shit
in your knickers?"
     "Pigeon-toe, ho-ho, pigeon-toe!"
     "Cross-eye! Get ready to die!"
     Then they circled us.
     "Who's your friend? Does he kiss your rear end?"
      One  of them had David by the collar. He threw him onto a lawn.  David
stood  up.  A hoy got down behind him on his hands and knees. The other  boy
shoved  him and David fell over backwards. Another boy rolled him  over  and
rubbed his face in the grass. Then they stepped back. David got up again. He
didn't  make  a sound but the tears were rolling down his face. The  largest
boy  walked up to him. "We don't want you in our school, sissy. Get  out  of
our school!" He punched David in the stomach. David bent over and as he did,
the  boy brought his knee up into David's face. David fell. He had a  bloody
nose.
      Then  the boys circled me. "Your turn now!" They kept circling and  as
they  did I kept turning. There were always some of them behind me.  Here  I
was  loaded  with shit and I had to fight. I was terrified and calm  at  the
same  time. I didn't understand their motive. They kept circling and I  kept
turning.  It  went on and on. They screamed things at me but I  didn't  hear
what they said. Finally they backed off and went away down the street. David
was waiting for me. We walked down the sidewalk toward his place on Pickford
Street.
     Then we were in front of his house.
     "I've got to go in now. Goodbye."

     "Goodbye, David."
      He went in and then I heard his mother's voice. <i>"David!</i> Look at
your  knickers and shirt! They're torn and full of grass stains! You do this
almost every day! Tell me, why do you do it?"
     David didn't answer.
     "I asked you a question! Why do you do this to your clothes?"
     "I can't help it, Mom . . ."
     "You <i>can't help</i> it? You stupid boy!"
      I heard her heating him. David began to cry and she beat him harder. I
stood  on the front lawn and listened. After a while the beating stopped.  I
could hear David sobbing. Then he stopped.
     His mother said, "Now, I want you to practice your violin lesson."
      I  sat down on the lawn and waited. Then I heard the violin. It was  a
very sad violin. I didn't like the way David played. I sat and listened  for
some  time but the music didn't get any better. The shit had hardened inside
of  me. I no longer felt like shifting. The afternoon light hurt my eyes.  I
felt like vomiting. I got up and walked home.

        7
      There were continual fights. The teachers didn't seem to know anything
about them. And there was always trouble when it rained. Any boy who brought
an  umbrella  to  school or wore a raincoat was singled  out.  Most  of  our
parents were too poor to buy us such things. And when they did, we hid  them
in  the bushes. Anybody seen carrying an umbrella or wearing a raincoat  was
considered  a sissy. They were beaten after school. David's mother  had  him
carry an umbrella whenever it was the least bit cloudy.
      There were two recess periods. The first graders gathered at their own
baseball  diamond and the teams were chosen. David and I stood together.  It
was always the same. I was chosen next to last and David was chosen last, so
we  always played on different teams. David was worse than I was.  With  his
crossed  eyes, he couldn't even see the hall. I needed lots of  practice.  I
had  never  played with the kids in the neighborhood. I didn't know  how  to
catch  a  hall  or how to hit one. But I wanted to, I liked  it.  David  was
afraid of the ball, I wasn't. I swung hard, I swung harder than anybody  but
I  could never hit the ball. I always struck out. Once I fouled a hall  off.
That  felt good. Another time I drew a walk. When I got to first, the  first
baseman said, "That's the only way you'll ever get here." I stood and looked
at  him.  He was chewing gum and he had long black hairs coming out  of  his
nostrils. His hair was thick with vaseline. He wore a perpetual sneer.
      "What  arc you looking at?" he asked me. I didn't know what to say.  I
wasn't used to conversation.
      "The guys say you're crazy," he told me, "but you don't scare me. I'll
be waiting for you after school some day."

      I  kept looking at him. He had a terrible face. Then the pitcher wound
up  and I broke for second. I ran like crazy and slid into second. The  ball
arrived late. I he tag was late.
      "You're  <i>out!"</i> screamed the boy whose turn it was to umpire.  I
got up, not believing it.
      "I said, YOU'RE OUT!"' the umpire screamed. Then I knew that I was not
accepted. David and I were not accepted. I he others wanted me "out" because
I  was  <i>supposed</i> to be "out." They knew David and I were friends.  It
was because of David that I wasn't wanted. As I walked off the diamond I saw
David playing third base in his knickers. His blue and yellow stockings  had
fallen down around his feet. Why had he chosen me? I was a marked man.  That
afternoon  after school I quickly left class and walked home alone,  without
David.  I didn't want to watch him beaten again by our classmates or by  his
mother. I didn't want to listen to his sad violin. But the next day at lunch
time, when he sat down next to me I ate his potato chips.
      My  day  came.  I was tall and I felt very powerful at  the  plate.  I
couldn't  believe that I was as bad as they wished me to be. I swung  wildly
but  with force. I knew I was strong, and maybe like they said, "crazy." But
I had this feeling inside of me that something real was there. Just hardened
shit,  maybe, hut that was more than they had. I was up at bat.  "Hey,  it's
the  STRIKEOUT KING! MR. WINDMILL!" The ball arrived. I swung and I felt the
bat connect like I had wanted it to do for so long. The hall went up, up and
HIGH,  into  left held, 'way OVER the left holder's head. His name  was  Don
Brubaker  and he stood and watched it fly over his head. It looked  like  it
was  never going to come down. Then Brubaker started running after the ball.
He  wanted to throw me out. He would never do it. The ball landed and rolled
onto  a  diamond where some 5th graders were playing. I ran slowly to first,
hit  the bag, looked at the guy on first, ran slowly to second, touched  it,
ran to third where David stood, ignored him, tagged third and walked to home
plate.  Never  such  a day. Never such a home run by a first  grader!  As  I
stepped  on home plate I heard one of the players, Irving Bone, say  to  the
team  captain, Stanley Greenberg, "Let's put him on the regular team."  (The
regular team played teams from other schools.)
     "No," said Stanley Greenberg.
      Stanley was right. I never hit another home run. I struck out most  of
the  time.  But  they always remembered that home run and while  they  still
hated  me,  it  was  a better kind of hatred, like they weren't  quite  sure
<i>why</i>.

      Football season was worse. We played touch football. I couldn't  catch
the  football  or  throw it but I got into one game. When  the  runner  came
through I grabbed him by the shirt collar and threw him on the ground.  When
he  started  to  get up, I kicked him. I didn't like him. It was  the  first
baseman  with  vaseline  in his hair and the hair in his  nostrils.  Stanley
Greenberg  came over. He was larger than any of us. He could have killed  me
if he'd wanted to. He was o