ed into the rear  seat.
The engine started and we were off again. There I sat, Henry Chinaski, Class
of  Summer  '39,  driving into the bright future. No, being driven.  At  the
first  red  light the car stalled. As the signal turned green my father  was
still  trying to start the engine. Somebody behind us hooked. My father  got
the  car  started and we were in motion again. My mother had stopped crying.
We drove along like that, each of us silent.

        46
     Times were still hard. Nobody was any more surprised than I when Mears-
Starbuck  phoned and asked me to report to work the next Monday. I had  gone
all around town putting in dozens of applications. There was nothing else to
do.  I  didn't want a job but I didn't want to live with my parents  either.
Mears-Starbuck must have had thousands of applications on hand.  I  couldn't
believe they had chosen me. It was a department store with branches in  many
cities.
      The  next Monday, there I was walking to work with my lunch in a brown
paper  bag. The department store was only a few blocks away from  my  former
high school.
      I  still didn't understand why I had been selected. After filling  out
the  application, the interview had lasted only a few minutes. I  must  have
given all the right answers.
      First  paycheck I get, I thought, I'm going to get myself a room  near
the downtown L.A. Public Library.
      As  I  walked along I didn't feel so alone and I wasn't. I  noticed  a
starving  mongrel dog following me. The poor creature was terribly  thin;  I
could see his ribs poking through his skin. Most of his fur had fallen  off.
What  remained  clung in dry, twisted patches. The dog  was  beaten,  cowed,
deserted, frightened, a victim of Homo sapiens.
     I stopped and knelt, put out my hand. He backed off.
     "Come here, fellow, I'm your friend . . . Come on, come on . . ."

     He came closer. He had such sad eyes.
     "What have they done to you, boy?"
      He  came still closer, creeping along the sidewalk, trembling, wagging
his tail quite rapidly. Then he leaped at me. He was large, what was left of
him. His forelegs pushed me backwards and I was flat on the sidewalk and  he
was  licking my face, mouth, ears, forehead, everywhere. I pushed  him  off,
got up and wiped my face.
     "Easy now! You need something <i>to eat!</i> FOOD!"
     I reached into my bag and took out a sandwich. I unwrapped it and broke
off a portion.
     "Some for you and some for me, old boy!"
      I put his part of the sandwich on the sidewalk. He came up, sniffed at
it,  then walked off, slinking, staring back at me over his shoulder  as  he
walked down the street away from me.
      "Hey, wait, buddy! That was <i>peanut butter!</i> Come here, have some
<i>bologna!</i> Hey, boy, come here! Come back!"
      The  dog  approached again, cautiously. I found the bologna  sandwich,
ripped  off a chunk, wiped the cheap watery mustard off, then placed  it  on
the sidewalk.
     I he dog walked up to the bit of sandwich, put his nose to it, sniffed,
then  turned  and walked off. This time he didn't look back. He  accelerated
down the street.
      No  wonder  I had been depressed all my life. I wasn't getting  proper
nourishment.
      I  walked on toward the department store. It was the same street I had
walked along to go to high school.
      I  arrived. I found the employees' entrance, pushed the door open  and
walked  in.  I  went from bright sunlight into semi- darkness.  As  my  eyes
adjusted I could make out a man standing several feet away in front  of  me.
Half of his left ear had been sliced off at some point in the past. He was a
tall,  very  thin  man  with needlepoint grey pupils centered  in  otherwise
colorless eyes. A very tall thin man, yet right above his belt, sticking out
over  his  belt -- suddenly -- was a sad and hideous and strange pot  belly.
All his fat had settled there while the remainder of him had wasted away.
      "I'm  Superintendent  Ferris," he said. "I  presume  that  you're  Mr.
Chinaski?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "You're five minutes late."
     "I was delayed by . . . Well, I stopped to try to feed a starving
     dog," I grinned.
     "That's one of the lousiest excuses I've ever heard and I've been
     here thirty-five years. Couldn't you come up with a better one
     than that?"
     "I'm just starting, Mr. Ferris."
     "And you're almost finished. Now," he pointed, "the time- clock is over
there and the card rack is over there. Find your card
     and punch in."
     I found my card. Henry Chinaski, employee #68754. Then I
     walked up to the timeclock but I didn't know what to do.
     Ferris walked over and stood behind me, staring at the time- clock.
     "You're now six minutes late. When you are ten minutes late we
     dock you an hour."
     "I guess it's better to be an hour late."
     "Don't be funny. If I want a comedian I listen to Jack Benny. If
     you're an hour late you're docked your whole god-damned job."
     "I'm sorry, but I don't know how to use a timeclock. I mean,
     how do I punch in?"
     Ferris grabbed the card out of my hand. He pointed at it.
     "See this slot?"
     "Yeah."
     "What?"
     "I mean, 'yes.'"
     "O.K., that slot is for the first day of the week. Today."
     "Ah."
     "You slip the timecard into here like this . . ."
     He slipped it in, then pulled it out.
     "Then when your timecard is in there you hit this lever."
     Ferris hit the lever but the timecard wasn't in there.
     "I understand. Let's begin."
     "No, wait."
     He held the timecard in front of me.
     "Now, when you punch out for lunch, you hit this slot."
     "Yes, I understand."
     "Then when you punch back in, you hit the next slot. Lunch is
     thirty minutes."

     "Thirty minutes, I've got it."
      "Now, when you punch out, you hit the last slot. That's four punches a
day. Then you go home, or to your room or wherever, sleep, come back and hit
it  four  more  times  each working day until you get fired,  quit,  die  or
retire."
     "I've got it."
     "And I want you to know that you've delayed my indoctrination speech to
our  new  employees, of which you, at the moment, are one. I  am  in  charge
here.  My  word  is law and your wishes mean nothing. If I dislike  anything
about you -- the way you tie your shoes, comb your hair or fart, you're back
on the streets, get it?"
     "Yes, sir!"
      A  young girl came flouncing in, running on her high heels, long brown
hair flowing behind her. She was dressed in a tight red dress. Her lips were
large  and expressive with excessive lipstick. She theatrically pulled  her.
card  out of the rack, punched in, and breathing with minor excitement,  she
put her card back in the rack.
     She glanced over at Ferris.
     "Hi, Eddie!"
     "Hi, Diana!"
      Diana was obviously a salesgirl. Ferris walked over to her. They stood
talking.  I  couldn't hear the conversation but I could hear them  laughing.
Then  they broke off. Diana walked over and waited for the elevator to  take
her to her work. Ferris walked back toward me holding my timecard.
     "I'll punch in now, Mr. Ferris," I told him.
     "I'll do it for you. I want to start you out right."
      Ferris inserted my timecard into the clock and stood there. He waited.
I heard the clock tick, then he hit it. He put my card in the rack.
     "How late was I, Mr. Ferris?"
     "Ten minutes. Now follow me."
     I followed along behind him. I saw the group waiting.
      Four  men  and  three women. They were all old. They  seemed  to  have
salivary  problems. Little clumps of spittle had formed at  the  corners  of
their mouths; the spittle had dried and turned white and then been coated by
new wet spittle. Some of them were too thin, others too fat. Some were near-
sighted; others trembled. One old fellow in a brightly colored shirt  had  a
hump on his back. They all smiled and coughed, puffing at cigarettes. Then I
got it. The message.
      Mears-Starbuck was looking for <i>stayers.</i> The company didn't care
for  employee turnover (although these new recruits obviously weren't  going
anywhere  but  to the grave -- until then they'd remain grateful  and  loyal
employees). And I had been chosen to work alongside of them. The lady in the
employment office had evaluated me as belonging with this pathetic group  of
losers.
     What would the guys in high school think if they saw me? Me, one of the
toughest guys in the graduating class.
     I walked over and stood with my group. Ferris sat on a table facing us.
A  shaft  of  light fell upon him from an overhead transom. He  inhaled  his
cigarette and smiled at us.
     "Welcome to Mears-Starbuck . . ."
      Then  he seemed to fall into a reverie. Perhaps he was thinking  about
when he had first joined the department store thirty-five years ago. He blew
a  few  smoke rings and watched them rise into the air. His half-sliced  ear
looked impressive in the light from above.
      The guy next to me, a little pretzel of a man, knifed his sharp little
elbow  into  my  side. He was one of those individuals whose glasses  always
seem ready to fall off. He was uglier than I was.
     "Hi!" he whispered. "I'm Mewks. Odell Mewks."
     "Hello, Mewks."
      "Listen, kid, after work let's you and me make the bars. Maybe we  can
pick up some girls."
     "I can't, Mewks."
     "Afraid of girls?"
     "It's my brother, he's sick. I've got to watch over him."
     "Sick?"
     "Worse. Cancer. He has to piss through a tube into a bottle strapped to
his leg."
      Then  Ferris began again. "Your starting salary is forty-four-  and-a-
half cents an hour. We are non-union here. Management believes that what  is
fair  for  the  company is fair for you. We are like a family, dedicated  to
serve  and  to profit. You will each receive a ten-percent discount  on  all
merchandise you purchase from Mears-Starbuck . . ."
     "OH, BOY!" Mewks said in a loud voice.
     "Yes, Mr. Mewks, it's a good deal. You take care of us, we'll take care
of you."
      I  could stay with Mears-Starbuck for forty-seven years, I thought.  I
could  live  with a crazy girlfriend, get my left ear sliced off  and  maybe
inherit Ferris' job when he retired.
      Ferris  talked about which holidays we could look forward to and  then
the  speech was over. We were issued our smocks and our lockers and then  we
were directed to the underground storage facilities.
      Ferris  worked  down  there too. He manned  the  phones.  Whenever  he
answered  the  phone he would hold it to his sliced left ear with  his  left
hand and clamp his right hand under his left armpit.
     "Yes? Yes? Yes. Coming right up!"
     "Chinaski!"
     "Yes, sir."
     "Lingerie department . . ."
     Then he would pick up the order pad, list the items needed and how many
of each. He never did this while on the phone, always afterwards.
      "Locate these items, deliver them to the lingerie department, obtain a
signature and return."
     His speech never varied.


      My  first delivery <i>was</i> to lingerie. I located the items, placed
them  in  my  little green cart with its four rubber wheels  and  pushed  it
toward  the  elevator. The elevator was at an upper floor and I pressed  the
button and waited. After some time I could see the bottom of the elevator as
it  came  down. It was very slow. Then it was at basement level.  The  doors
opened and an albino with one eye stood at the controls. Jesus. He looked at
me.
     "New guy, huh?" he asked.
     "Yeah."
     "What do you think of Ferris?"
     "I think he's a great guy."
      They  probably lived together in the same room and took turns  manning
the hotplate.
     "I can't take you up."
     "Why not?"
     "I gotta take a shit."
     He left the elevator and walked off.
      There I stood in my smock. This was the way things usually worked. You
were  a  governor or a garbageman, you were a tight-rope walker  or  a  bank
robber,  you  were a dentist or a fruit picker, you were this  or  you  were
that.  You  wanted to do a good job. You manned your station  and  then  you
stood  and  waited for some asshole. I stood there in my smock  next  to  my
green cart while the elevator man took a shit.
      It  came to me then, clearly, why the rich, golden boys and girls were
always laughing. They knew. The albino returned.
     "It was great. I feel thirty pounds lighter."
     "Good. Can we go now?"
      He  closed  the doors and we rose to the sales floor.  He  opened  the
doors.
     "Good luck," said the albino.
     I pushed my green cart down through the aisles looking for the lingerie
department, a Miss Meadows.
      Miss  Meadows  was waiting. She was slender and classy-  looking.  She
looked like a model. Her arms were folded. As I approached her I noticed her
eyes.  They  were  an emerald green, there was depth, a knowledge  there.  I
should know somebody like that. Such eyes, such class. I stopped my cart  in
front of her counter.
     "Hello, Miss Meadows," I smiled.
     "Where the hell have you been?" she asked.
     "It just took this long."
      "Do  you  realize  I have customers waiting? Do you realize  that  I'm
attempting to run an efficient department here?"
      The  salesclerks  got  ten  cents an  hour  more  than  we  did,  plus
commissions.  I was to discover that they never spoke to us  in  a  friendly
way. Male or female, the clerks were the same. They took any familiarity  as
an affront.
     "I've got a good mind to phone Mr. Ferris."

     "I'll do better next time. Miss Meadows."
     I placed the goods on her counter and then handed her the form to sign.
She  scratched her signature furiously on the paper, then instead of handing
it back to me she threw it into my green cart.
     "Christ, I don't know where they<i> find</i> people like you!"
      I  pushed my cart over to the elevator, hit the button and waited. The
doors opened and I rolled on in.
     "How'd it go?" the albino asked me.
      "I  feel  thirty  pounds heavier," I told him. He grinned,  the  doors
closed and we descended.


     Over dinner that night my mother said, "Henry, I'm so proud of you that
you have a job!"
     I didn't answer.
     My father said, "Well, aren't you glad to have a job?"
     "Yeah."
      "Yeah? Is <i>that</i> all you can say? Do you realize how many men are
unemployed in this nation now?"
     "Plenty, I guess."
     "Then you should be grateful."
     "Look, can't we just eat our food?"
      "You should be grateful for your food, too. Do you know how much  this
meal cost?"
     I shoved my plate away. "Shit! I can't eat this stuff!"
     I got up and walked to my bedroom.
     "I've got a good mind to come back there and teach you what is what!"
     I stopped. "I'll be waiting, old man."
      Then I walked away. I went in and waited. But I knew he wasn't coming.
I set the alarm to get ready for Mears-Starbuck. It was only 7:30 p.m. but I
undressed  and went to bed. I switched off the light and was  in  the  dark.
There was nothing else to do, nowhere to go. My parents would soon be in bed
with the lights out.
      My  father liked the slogan, "Early to bed and early to rise, makes  a
man healthy, wealthy and wise."
      But it hadn't done any of that for him. I decided that I might try  to
reverse the process.
     I couldn't sleep.
      Maybe if I masturbated to Miss Meadows? Too cheap. I wallowed there in
the dark, waiting for something,

        47
     The first three or four days at Mears-Starbuck were identical. In fact,
similarity  was a very dependable thing at Mears-Starbuck. The caste  system
was an accepted fact. There wasn't a single salesclerk who spoke to a stock-
clerk  outside of a perfunctory word or two. And it affected me.  I  thought
about  it  as  I pushed my cart about. Was it possible that the  salesclerks
were  more intelligent than the stockclerks? They certainly dressed  better.
It  bothered me that they assumed that their station meant so much.  Perhaps
if  I  had  been a salesclerk I would have felt the same way. I didn't  much
care for the other stockclerks. Or the salesclerks.
      Now, I thought, pushing my cart along, I have this job. Is this to  be
it?  No wonder men robbed banks. There were too many demeaning jobs. Why the
hell  wasn't I a superior court judge or a concert pianist? Because it  took
training  and training cost money. But I didn't want to be anything  anyhow.
And I was certainly succeeding.
      I  pushed my cart to the elevator and hit the button. Women wanted men
who  made  money,  women wanted men of mark. I low many  classy  women  were
living  with skid row bums? Well, I didn't want a woman anyhow. Not to  live
with.  How could men live with women? What did it mean? What I wanted was  a
cave  in Colorado with three-years' worth of foodstuffs and drink. I'd  wipe
my  ass with sand. Anything, anything to stop drowning in this dull, trivial
and cowardly existence.
     The elevator came up. The albino was still at the controls.
     "Hey, I hear you and Mewks made the bars last night!"
     "He bought me a few beers. I'm broke."
     "You guys get laid?"
     "I didn't."
     "Why don't you guys take me along next time? I'll show you
     how to get some snatch."
     "What do you know?"
     "I've been around. Just last week I had a Chinese girl. And you
     know, it's just like they say."
     "What's that?"
     We hit the basement and the doors opened.
     "Their snatch doesn't run up and down, it runs from side to side."


     Ferris was waiting for me.
     "Where the hell you been?"
     "Home gardening."
     "What did you do, fertilize the fuchsias?"
     "Yeah, I drop one turd in each pot."
     "Listen, Chinaski . . ."
     "Yes?"
     "The punchlines around here belong to me. Got it?"
     "Got it."
     "Well, get this. I've got an order here for Men's Wear."
     He handed me the order slip.
     "Locate these items, deliver them, obtain a signature and return."
      Men's  Wear was run by Mr. Justin Phillips, Jr. He was well- bred,  he
was  polite, around twenty-two. He stood very straight, had dark hair,  dark
eyes,  breeding lips. There was an unfortunate absence of cheekbones but  it
was  hardly  noticeable. He was pale and wore dark clothing with beautifully
starched  shirts.  The salesgirls loved him. He was sensitive,  intelligent,
clever.  He  was also just a bit nasty as if some forebear had  passed  down
that right to him. He had only broken with tradition once to speak to me.
     "It's a shame, isn't it, those rather ugly scars on your face?"
     As I rolled my cart up to Men's Wear, Justin Phillips was standing very
straight,  head tilted a bit, staring, as he did most of the  time,  looking
off  and up as if he was seeing things we were not. He saw things out there.
Maybe  I just didn't recognize breeding when I saw it. He certainly appeared
to be above his surroundings. It was a good trick if you could do it and get
paid  at  the  same  time. Maybe that's what management and  the  salesgirls
liked. Here was a man truly too good for what he was doing, but he was doing
it anyhow.
     I rolled up. "Here's your order, Mr. Phillips."
      He  appeared not to notice me, which hurt in a sense, and was  a  good
thing  in another. I stacked the goods on the counter as he stared off  into
space, just above the elevator door.
      Then  I heard golden laughter and I looked. It was a gang of guys  who
had  graduated  with  me from Chelsey High. They were  trying  on  sweaters,
hiking  shorts, various items. I knew them by sight only, as  we  had  never
spoken during our four years of high school. The leader was Jimmy New  hall.
He  had  been the halfback on our football team, undefeated for three years.
His  hair  was  a beautiful yellow, the sun always seemed to be highlighting
parts  of  it,  the sun or the lights in the schoolroom.  He  had  a  thick,
powerful  neck and above it sat the face of a perfect boy sculpted  by  some
master  sculptor.  Everything was exactly as it should be:  nose,  forehead,
chin,  the  works. And the body likewise, perfectly formed. The others  with
Newhall  were  not exactly as perfect as he was, but they were  close.  They
stood  around and tried on sweaters and laughed, waiting to go to U.S.C.  or
Stanford.
     Justin Phillips signed my receipt. I was on my way back to the elevator
when I heard a voice:
     "HEY, Ski! Ski, YOU LOOk GREAT IN YOUR LITTLE OUTFIT!"
     I stopped, turned, gave them a casual wave of the left hand.
     "Look at him! Toughest guy in town since Tommy Dorsey!"
     "Makes Gable look like a toilet plunger."
      I left my wagon and walked back. I didn't know what I was going to do.
I  stood there and looked at them. I didn't like them, never had. They might
look  glorious  to  others but not to me. There was  something  about  their
bodies  that  was like a woman's body. They were soft, they had never  faced
any  fire.  They were beautiful nothings. They made me sick. I  hated  them.
They  were  part  of the nightmare that always haunted me  in  one  form  or
another.
      Jimmy  Newhall smiled at me. "Hey, stockboy, how come you never  tried
out for the team?"
     "It wasn't what I wanted."
     "No guts, eh?"
     "You know where the parking lot on the roof is?"
     "Sure."
     "See you there . . ."
      They  strolled out toward the parking lot as I took my smock  off  and
threw it into the cart. Justin Phillips, Jr. smiled at me, "My dear boy, you
are going to get your ass whipped."


     Jimmy Newhall was waiting, surrounded by his buddies.
     "Hey, look, the stockboy!"
     "You think he's wearing ladies' underwear?"
      Newhall  was  standing  in  the sun. He had  his  shirt  off  and  his
undershirt too. He had his gut sucked in and his chest pushed out. He looked
good.  What  the  hell had I gotten into? I felt my underlip  trembling.  Up
there  on  the  roof,  I  felt fear. I looked at  Newhall,  the  golden  sun
highlighting  his golden hair. I had watched him many times on the  football
field. I had seen him break off many 50 and 60 yard runs while I rooted  for
the other team,
      Now  we  stood  looking at each other. I left my  shirt  on.  We  kept
standing. I kept standing.
      Newhall finally said, "O.k., I'm going to take you now." He started to
move forward. Just then a little old lady dressed in black came by with many
packages. She had on a tiny green felt hat.
     "Hello, boys!" she said.
     "Hello, ma'am."
     "Lovely day . . ."
      The  little  old lady opened her car door and loaded in the  packages.
Then she turned to Jimmy Newhall.
      "Oh,  what a<i> fine</i> body you have, my boy! I'll bet you could  be
Tarzan of the Apes!"
     "No, ma'am," I said. "Pardon me, but he's the <i>ape</i> and those with
him are his tribe."

      "Oh," she said. She got into her car, started it and we waited as  she
backed out and drove off.
     "O.K., Chinaski," said Newhall, "all through school you were famous for
your  sneer and your big god-damned mouth. And <i>now </i>I'm going  to  put
the cure on you!"
      Newhall bounded forward. He was ready. I wasn't quite ready. All I saw
was  a  backdrop of blue sky and a flash of body and fists. He  was  quicker
than  an ape, and bigger. I couldn't seem to throw a punch, I only felt  his
fists  and  they were rock hard. Squinting through punched eyes I could  see
his  fists,  swinging, landing, my god, he had power, it seemed endless  and
there was no place to go. I began to think, maybe you are a sissy, maybe you
should be, maybe you should quit.
      But  as  he  continued  to  punch,  my  fear  vanished.  I  felt  only
astonishment at his strength and energy. Where did he get it? A  swine  like
him?  He  was  loaded.  I couldn't see anymore -- my eyes  were  blinded  by
flashes of yellow and green light, purple light --  then a terrific shot  of
RED . . . I felt myself going down. Is this the way it happens?
      I  fell to one knee. I heard an airplane passing overhead. I wished  I
was  on  it. I felt something run over my mouth and chin . . . it  was  warm
blood running from my nose.
     "Let him go, Jimmy, he's finished . . ."
     I looked at Newhall. "Your mother sucks cock," I told him.
     "I'LL KILL YOU!"
      Newhall rushed me before I could quite get up. He had me by the throat
and  we rolled over and over, under a Dodge. I heard his head hit something.
I  didn't know what it hit but I heard the sound. It happened quite  quickly
and the others were not as aware of it as I was.
     I got up and then Newhall got up.
     "I'm going to kill you," he said.
      Newhall  windmilled in. This time it wasn't nearly so bad. He  punched
with the same fury, but something was missing. He was weaker. When he hit me
I  didn't  see flashes of color, I could see the sky, the parked  cars,  the
faces of his friends, and him. I had always been a slow starter. Newhall was
still  trying but he was definitely weaker. And I had my small hands, I  was
blessed with small hands, lousy weapons.
      What a weary time those years were -- to have the desire and the  need
to live but not the ability.
      I  dug a hard right to his belly and I heard him gasp so I grabbed him
behind  the  neck with my left and dug another right to his  belly.  Then  I
pushed  him  off  and cracked him with a one-two, right into  that  sculpted
face. I saw his eyes and it was great. I was bringing something to him  that
he had never felt before. He was terrified. Terrified because he didn't know
how to handle defeat. I decided to finish him slowly.
      Then  someone slugged me on the back of the head. It was a  good  hard
shot.  I  turned  and  looked. It was his red-headed friend,  Cal  Evans.  I
yelled, pointing at him. "Stay the fuck away from me! I'll take all  of  you
one at a time! As soon as I'm done with this guy, you're next!"
      It didn't take much to finish Jimmy. I even tried some fancy footwork.
I  jabbed a bit, played around and then I moved in and started punching.  He
took  it pretty good and for a while I thought I couldn't finish it but  all
of  a  sudden he gave me this strange look which said, hey, look,  maybe  we
ought to be buddies and go have a couple of beers together. Then he dropped.
      His  friends moved in and picked him up, they held him up,  talked  to
him, "Hey, Jim, you O.K.?"
      "What'd  the  son-of-a-bitch do to you, Jim? We'll clean his  drawers,
Jim. Just give us the word."
     "Take me home," Jim said.
     I watched them go down the stairway, all of them trying to hold him up,
one guy carrying his shirt and undershirt . . .


     I went downstairs to get my cart. Justin Phillips was waiting.
     "I didn't think you'd be back," he smiled disdainfully.
      "Don't fraternize with the unskilled help," I told him. I pushed  off.
My  face,  my  clothes  -- 1 was pretty badly messed up.  I  walked  to  the
elevator and hit the button. The albino came in due time. The doors opened.
      "The word's out," he said. "I hear you're the new heavyweight champion
of the world."
     News travels fast in places where nothing much ever happens.

     Ferns of the sliced ear was waiting.
     "You just don't go around beating the shit out of our customers."
     "It was only one."
     "We have no way of knowing when you might start in on the others."
     "This guy baited me."
      "We don't give a damn about that. That's what happens. All we know  is
that you were out of line."
     "How about my check?"
     "It'll be mailed."
     "O.K., see you . . ."
     "Wait, I'll need your locker key."
      I  got out my key chain which only had one other key on it, pulled off
the locker key and handed it to Ferris.
      Then  I walked to the employees' door, pulled it open. It was a  heavy
steel door which worked awkwardly. As it opened, letting in the daylight,  I
turned  and  gave  Ferris a small wave. He didn't respond.  He  just  looked
straight at me. Then the door closed on him. I liked him, somehow.

        48
     "So you couldn't hold a job for a week?"
      We  were  eating  meatballs and spaghetti.  My  problems  were  always
discussed at dinner time. Dinner time was almost always an unhappy  time.  I
didn't answer my father's question.
     "What happened? Why did they can your ass?"
     I didn't answer.
     "Henry, answer your father when he speaks to you!" my mother said.
     "He couldn't hack it, that's all!"
     "Look at his face," said my mother, "it's all bruised and cut. Did your
boss beat you up, Henry?"
     "No, Mother . . ."
     "Why don't you eat, Henry? You never seem to be hungry."
      "He  can't eat," said my father, "he can't work, he can't do anything,
he's not worth a fuck!"
      "You  shouldn't talk that way at the dinner table, Daddy,"  my  mother
told him.
     "Well, it's true!" My father had an immense ball of spaghetti rolled on
his  fork. He jammed it into his mouth and started chewing and while chewing
he speared a large meatball and plunged it into his mouth, then worked in  a
piece of French bread.
      I remembered what Ivan had said in <i>The Brothers Karamazov</i>, "Who
doesn't want to kill the father?"
      As  my father chewed at the mass of food, one long string of spaghetti
dangled from a corner of his mouth. He finally noticed it and sucked  it  in
noisily.  Then he reached, put two large teaspoons of white sugar  into  his
coffee, lifted the cup and took a giant mouthful, which he immediately  spit
out across his plate and onto the tablecloth.
     "That shit's too <i>hot!</i>"
     "You should be more careful, Daddy," said my mother.


      I  combed the job market, as they used to say, but it was a dreary and
useless  routine. You had to know somebody to get a job even as a lowly  bus
boy.  Thus everybody was a dishwasher, the whole town was full of unemployed
dishwashers.  I  sat  with them in Pershing Square in  the  afternoons.  The
evangelists were there too. Some had drums, some had guitars, and the bushes
and restrooms crawled with homosexuals.
      "Some of them have money," a young bum told me. "This guy took  me  to
his  apartment for two weeks. I had all I could eat and drink and he  bought
me  'some  clothes but he sucked me dry, I couldn't stand up after a  while.
One  night  when he was asleep I crawled out of there. It was  horrible.  He
kissed  me once and I knocked him across the room. 'You ever do that again,'
I told him, 'and I'll kill you!'"
      Clifton's Cafeteria was nice. If you didn't have much money, they  let
you pay what you could. And if you didn't have any money, you didn't have to
pay.  Some of the bums went in there and ate well. It was owned by some very
nice  rich old man, a very unusual person. I could never make myself  go  in
there  and load up. I'd go in for a coffee and an apple pie and give them  a
nickel.  Sometimes  I'd get a couple of weenies. It was quiet  and  cool  in
there  and clean. There was a large waterfall and you could sit next  to  it
and  imagine that everything was quite all right. Philippe's was  nice  too.
You  could  get  a  cup of coffee for three cents with all the  refills  you
wanted. You could sit in there all day drinking coffee and they never  asked
you  to leave no matter how bad you looked. They just asked the bums not  to
bring  in  their <i>wine</i> and drink it there. Places like that  gave  you
hope when there wasn't much hope.
     The men in Pershing Square argued all day about whether there was a God
or  not.  Most  of them didn't argue very well but now and then  you  got  a
Religionist and an Atheist who were well-versed and it was a good show.
      When  I had a few coins I'd go to the underground bar beneath the  big
movie  house. I was 18 but they served me. I looked like I could  be  almost
any age. Sometimes I looked 25, sometimes I felt like 30. The bar was run by
Chinese who never spoke to anyone. All I needed was the first beer and  then
the  homosexuals would start buying. I'd switch to whiskey sours. I'd  bleed
them  for  whiskey sours and when they started closing in  on  me.  I'd  get
nasty, push off and leave. After a while they caught on and the place wasn't
any good anymore.
      The  library was the most depressing place I went. I had  run  out  of
books  to read. After a while I would just grab a thick book and look for  a
young  girl somewhere. There were always one or two about. I'd sit three  or
four  chairs  away, pretending to read the book, trying to look intelligent,
hoping some girl would pick me up. I knew that I was ugly but I thought if I
looked  intelligent enough I might have some chance. It  never  worked.  The
girls  just  made notes on their pads and then they got up  and  left  as  I
watched  their  bodies moving rhythmically and magically under  their  clean
dresses. What would Maxim Gorky have done under such circumstances?
      At  home  it  was always the same. The question was never asked  until
after the first few bites of dinner were partaken. Then my father would ask,
"Did you find a job today?"
     "No."
     "Did you try anywhere?"
      "Many places. I've gone back to some of the same places for the second
or third time."
     "I don't believe it."
      But  it was true. It was also true that some companies put ads in  the
papers  every day when there were no jobs available. It gave the  employment
department in those companies something to do. It also wasted the  time  and
screwed up the hopes of many desperate people.
     "You'll find a job tomorrow, Henry," my mother would always say . . .

        49
      I  looked  for  a job all summer and couldn't find one. Jimmy  Hatcher
caught  on at an aircraft plant. Hitler was acting up in Europe and creating
jobs  for the unemployed. I had been with Jimmy that day when we had  turned
in  our  applications.  We  filled them out in  similar  fashion,  the  only
difference being where it said <i>Place of Birth,</i> I put down Germany and
he put down Reading, Pa.
     "Jimmy got a job. He came from the same school and he's your age," said
my mother. "Why couldn't you get a job at the aircraft plant?"
      "They  can  tell  a man who doesn't have a taste for  work,"  said  my
father.  "All  he wants to do is to sit in the bedroom on his dead  ass  and
listen to his symphony music!"
     "Well, the boy likes music, that's something."
     "But he doesn't <i>do</i> anything with it! He doesn't make it USEFUL!"
     "What should he do?"
      "He  should go to a radio station and tell them he likes that kind  of
music and get a job broadcasting."
     "Christ, it's not done like that, it's not that easy."
     "What do you know? Have you tried it?"
     "I tell you, it can't be done."
      My  father  put  a large piece of pork chop into his mouth.  A  greasy
portion  hung out from between his lips as he chewed. It was as  if  he  had
three  lips. Then he sucked it in and looked at my mother. "You  see,  mama,
the boy doesn't want to work."
     My mother looked at me. "Henry, why don't you eat your food?"


      It was finally decided that I would enroll at L.A. City College. There
was  no  tuition fee and second-hand books could be purchased at  the  Go-op
Book  Store. My father was simply ashamed that I was unemployed and by going
to  school  I would at least earn some respectability. Eli LaCrosse  (Baldy)
had already been there a term. He counseled me.
     "What's the easiest fucking thing to take?" I asked him.
     "Journalism. Those journalism majors don't do anything."
     "O.K., I'll be a journalist."
     I looked through the school booklet.
     "What's this Orientation Day they speak of here?"
     "Oh, you just skip that, that's bullshit."
     "Thanks for telling me, buddy. We'll go instead to that bar across from
campus and have a couple of beers."
     "Damn right!"
     "Yeah."


      The  day  after Orientation Day was the day you signed up for classes.
People  were running about frantically with papers and booklets. I had  come
over on the streetcar. I took the "W" to Vermont and then took the "V" north
to  Monroe. I didn't know where everybody was going, or what I should do.  I
felt sick.
     "Pardon me . . ." I asked a girl.
     She turned her head and kept walking briskly. A guy came running by and
I grabbed him by the back of his belt and stopped him.
     "Hey, what the hell are you doing?" he asked.
     "Shut up. I want to know what's going on! I want to know what to do!"
     "They explained everything to you in Orientation."
     "Oh . . ."
      I  let him go and he ran off. I didn't know what to do. I had imagined
that  you  just went somewhere and told them you wanted to take  Journalism,
Beginning  Journalism, and they'd give you a card with a  schedule  of  your
classes.  It  was nothing like that. These people knew what to do  and  they
wouldn't  talk. I felt as if I was in grammar school again, being  mutilated
by  the  crowd who knew more than I did. I sat down on a bench  and  watched
them  running back and forth. Maybe I'd fake it. I'd just tell my parents  I
was  going to L.A. City College and I'd come every day and lay on the  lawn.
Then  I  saw this guy running along. It was Baldy. I got him from behind  by
the collar.
     "Hey, hey. Hank! What's happening?"
     "I ought to cream you right now, you little asshole!"
     "What's wrong? What's wrong?"
     "How do I get a fucking class? What do I do?"
     "I thought you knew!"
     "How? <i>How</i> would I know? Was I born with this knowledge inside of
me, fully indexed, ready to consult when needed?"
      I  walked him over to a bench, still holding him by his shirt  collar.
"Now,  lay it out, nice and clear, everything that needs to be done and  how
to do it. Do a good job and I might not cream you at this moment!"
      So Baldy explained it all. I had my own Orientation Day right there. I
still held him by the collar. "I'm going to let you go now. But some day I'm
going  to even this thing out. You're going to pay for fucking me over.  You
won't know when, but it's going to happen."
      I  let him go. He went running off with the rest of them. There was no
need  for  me  to worry or hurry. I was going to get the worst classes,  the
worst  teachers and the worst hours. I strolled about leisurely  signing  up
for  classes.  I appeared to be the only unconcerned student  on  campus.  I
began to feel superior.
      Until  my  first  7 a.m. English class. It was 7:30  a.m.  and  I  was
hungover  as I stood there outside the door, listening. My parents had  paid
for  my books and I had sold them for drinking money. I had slid out of  the
bedroom window the night before and had closed the neighborhood bar. I had a
throbbing  beer hangover. I still felt drunk. I opened the door  and  walked
in. I stood there. Mr. Hamilton, the English instructor, was standing before
the  class, singing, A record player was on, loud, and the class was singing
along with Mr. Hamilton. It was Gilbert and Sullivan.

     <i>Now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navy . . .
     I copied all the letters in a big round hand . . .
     Now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navy . . .
     Stick close to your desks and never go to sea . . .
     And you all may be rulers of the Queen's Navy . . . </i>

      I  walked  to the rear of the class and found an empty seat.  Hamilton
walked  over and shut off the record player. He was dressed in a  black-and-
white pepper suit with a shirt-front of bright orange. He looked like Nelson
Eddy. Then he faced the class, glanced at his wrist watch and addressed me:
     "You must be Mr. Chinaski?"
     I nodded.
     "You are thirty minutes late."
     "Yes."
     "Would you be thirty minutes late to a wedding or a funeral?"
     "No."
     "Why not, pray tell?"
      "Well,  if the funeral was mine I'd have to be on time. If the wedding
was mine it would be my funeral." I was always quick with the mouth. I would
never learn.
      "My  dear sir," said Mr. Hamilton, "we have been listening to  Gilbert
and Sullivan in order to learn proper enunciation. Please stand up."
     I stood up.
     "Now, please sing, <i>Stick close to your desks and never go to sea and
you'll always be the ruler of the Queens Navy."
     </i>I stood there.
     "Well, go ahead, please!"
     I went through it and sat down.
      "Mr. Chinaski, I could barely hear you. Couldn't you sing with just  a
bit more verve?"

      I  stood up again. I sucked in a giant sea of air and let go.  "IF  YA
WANNA  BE DA RULLER OF DEY QUEEN'S NABY STICK CLOSE TA YUR DESKS AN NEVA  GO
TA SEA!"
     I had gotten it backwards.
     "Mr. Chinaski," said Mr. Hamilton, "please sit down."
     I sat down. It was Baldy's fault.

        5