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two bucks."
Delmore dropped out, Jimmy dropped out. Fastshoes looked at me. "What
else do you see besides City Hall when you stick your head out the window?"
"Just play your hand. I'm not here to chat about gymnastics or the
scenery."
"All right," he said, "I'm out."
I scooped up the pot and gathered in their cards, leaving mine face
down.
"What did ya have?" asked Fastshoes.
"Pay to see or weep forever," I said sweeping my cards into the deck
and mixing them together, shuffling them, feeling like Gable before he got
weakened by God at the time of the San Francisco earthquake.
The deck changed hands but my luck held, most of the time. It had been
payday at the aircraft plant. Never bring a lot of money to where a poor man
lives. He can only lose what little he has. On the other hand it is
mathematically possible that he might win whatever you bring with you. What
you must do, with money and the poor, is never let them get too close to one
another.
Somehow I felt that the night was to be mine. Delmore soon tapped out
and left.
"Fellows," I said, "I've got an idea. Cards are too slow. Let's just
match coins, ten bucks a toss, odd man wins."
"O.K.," said Jimmy.
"O.K.," said Fastshoes.
The whiskey was gone. We were into a bottle of my cheap wine.
"All right," I said, "flip the coins high! Catch them on your palms.
And when I say lift,' we'll check the result."
We flipped them high. Caught them.
"Lift!" I said.
I was odd man. Shit. Twenty bucks, just like that. I jammed the tens
into my pocket.
"Flip!" I said. We did.
"Lift!" I said. I won again.
"Flip!" I said.
"Lift!" I said. Fastshoes won. I got the next. Then Jimmy won. I got
the next two.
"Wait," I said, "I've got to piss!"
I walked over to the sink and pissed. We had finished the bottle of
wine. I opened the closet door. "I got another bottle of wine in here," I
told them.
I took most of the bills out of my pocket and threw them into the
closet. I came out, opened the bottle, poured drinks all around.
"Shit," said Fastshoes looking into his wallet, "I'm almost broke."
"Me too," said Jimmy.
"I wonder who's got the money?" I asked. They weren't very good
drinkers. Mixing the wine and the whiskey was bad for them. They were
weaving a bit.
Fastshoes fell back against the dresser knocking an ashtray to the
floor. It broke in half.
"Pick it up," I said.
"I won't pick up shit," he said.
"I said, 'pick it up'!"
"I won't pick up shit."
Jimmy reached and picked up the broken ashtray.
"You guys get out of here," I said.
"You can't make me go," said Fastshoes.
"All right," I said, "just open your mouth owe more time, say owe word
and you won't be able to separate your head from your asshole!"
"Let's go, Fastshoes," said Jimmy.
I opened the door and they filed past unsteadily. I followed them down
the hall to the head of the stairway. We stood there.
"Hank," said Jimmy, "I'll see you again. Take it easy."
"All right, Jim ..."
"Listen," Fastshoes said to me, "You . . ."
I shot a straight right into his mouth. He fell backward down the
stairway, twisting and bouncing. He was about my size, six feet and one-
eighty, and you could hear the sound of him for a block. Two Filipinos and
the blond landlady were in the lobby. They looked at Fastshoes laying there
but they didn't move toward him.
"You killed him!" said Jimmy.
He ran down the stairway and turned Fastshoes over. Fastshoes had a
bloody nose and mouth. Jimmy held his head. Jimmy looked up at me.
"That wasn't right, Hank . . ."
"Yeah, what ya gonna do?"
"I think," said Jimmy, "that we're going to come back and get you . .
."
"Wait a minute," I said.
I walked back to my room and poured myself a wine. I hadn't liked
Jimmy's paper cups and I had been drinking out of a used jelly glass. The
paper label was still on the side, stained with dirt and wine. I walked back
out.
Fastshoes was reviving. Jimmy was helping him to his feet. Then he put
Fastshoes' arm around his neck. They were standing there.
"Now what did you say?" I asked.
"You're an ugly man, Hank. You need to be taught a lesson."
"You mean I'm not pretty?"
"I mean, you act ugly . . ."
"Take your friend out of here before I come down there and finish him
off!"
Fastshoes raised his bloody head. He had on a flowered Hawaiian shirt,
only now many of the colors were stained with red.
He looked at me. Then he spoke. I could barely hear him. But I heard
it. He said, "I'm going to kill you . . ."
"Yeah," said Jimmy, "we'll get you."
"YEAH, FUCKERS?" I screamed. "I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE! ANYTIME YOU WANT
TO FIND ME I'LL BE IN ROOM 5! I'LL BE WAITING! ROOM 5, GOT IT? AND THE DOOR
WILL BE OPEN!"
I lifted the jelly glass full of wine and drained it. Then I hurled
that jelly glass at them. I threw the son-of-a-bitch, hard. But my aim was
bad. It hit the side of the stairway wall, glanced off and shot into the
lobby between the landlady and her two Filipino friends.
Jimmy turned Fastshoes toward the exit door and began slowly walking
him out. It was a tedious, agonizing journey. I heard Fastshoes again, half
moaning, half weeping, "I'll kill him . . . I'll kill him . . ."
Then Jimmy had him out the doorway. They were gone. The blond landlady
and the two Filipinos were still standing in the lobby, looking up at me. I
was barefooted, and had gone five or six days without a shave. I needed a
haircut. I only combed my hair once, in the morning, then didn't bother
again. My gym teachers were always after me about my posture: "Pull your
shoulders back! Why are you looking at the ground? What's down
there?"
I would never set any trends or styles. My white t-shirt was
stained with wine, burned, with many cigarettes and cigar holes, spotted
with blood and vomit. It was too small, it rode up exposing my gut and belly
button. And my pants were too small. They gripped me tightly and rose well
above my ankles.
The three of them stood and looked at me. I looked down at them. "Hey,
you guys, come on up for a little drink!"
The two little men looked up at me and grinned. The landlady, a faded
Carole Lombard type, looked on impassively. Mrs. Kansas, they called her.
Could she be in love with me? She was wearing pink shoes with high heels and
a black sparkling sequinned dress. Little chips of light flashed at me. Her
breasts were something that no mere mortal would ever see -- they were only
for kings, dictators, rulers, Filipinos.
"Anybody got a smoke?" I asked. "I'm out of smokes."
The little dark fellow standing to one side of Mrs. Kansas made a
slight motion with one hand toward his jacket pocket and a pack of Camels
jumped in the lobby air. Deftly he caught the pack in his other hand. With
the invisible tap of a finger on the bottom of the pack a smoke leaped up,
tall, true, singular and exposed, ready to be taken.
"Hey, shit, thanks," I said.
I started down the stairway, made a mis-step, lunged, almost fell,
grabbed the bannister, righted myself, readjusted my perceptions, and walked
on down. Was I drunk? I walked up to the little guy holding the pack. I
bowed slightly.
I lifted out the Camel. Then I flipped it in the air, caught it, stuck
it into my mouth. My dark friend remained expressionless, the grin having
vanished when I had begun down the stairway. My little friend bent forward,
cupped his hands around the flame and lit my smoke.
I inhaled, exhaled. "Listen, why don't you all come up to my place and
we'll have a couple of drinks?"
"No," said the little guy who had lit my cigarette.
"Maybe we can catch the Bee or some Bach on my radio! I'm
educated, you know. I'm a student . . ."
"No," said the other little guy.
I took a big drag on my smoke, then looked at Carole Lombard -- Mrs.
Kansas. Then I looked at my two friends.
"She's yours. I don't want her. She's yours. Just come on up.
We'll drink a little wine. In good old room 5."
There was no answer. I rocked on my heels a bit as the whiskey and the
wine fought for possession. I let my cigarette dangle a bit from the right
side of my mouth as I sent up a plume of smoke. I continued letting the
cigarette dangle like that.
I knew about stilettoes. In the little time I had been there I had seen
two enactments of the stiletto. From my window one night, looking out at the
sound of sirens, I saw a body there just below my window on the Temple
Street sidewalk, in the moonlight, under the streetlight. Another time,
another body. Nights of the stiletto. Once a white man, the other time one
of them. Each time, blood running on the pavement, real blood, just like
that, moving across the pavement and into the gutter, you could see it going
along in the gutter, meaningless, dumb . . . that so much blood could
come from just one man.
"All right, my friends," I said to them, "no hard feelings. I'll drink
alone . . ."
I turned and started to walk toward the stairway.
"Mr. Chinaski," I heard Mrs. Kansas' voice. I turned and looked at her
flanked by my two little friends.
"Just go to your room and sleep. If you cause any more disturbance I
will phone the Los Angeles Police Department."
I turned and walked back up the stairway. No life anywhere, no life
in this town or this place or in this weary existence.. .
My door was open. I walked in. There was one-third of a cheap
bottle of wine left.
Maybe there was another bottle in the closet? I opened the closet door.
No bottle. But there were tens and twenties everywhere. There was a rolled
twenty lying between a pair of dirty socks with holes in the toes; and there
from a shirt collar, a ten dangling; and here from an old jacket, another
ten caught in a side pocket. Most of the money was on the floor.
I picked up a bill, slipped it into the side pocket of my pants, went
to the door, closed and locked it, then went down the stairway to the bar.
A couple of nights later Becker walked in. I guess my parents gave him
my address or he located me through the college. I had my name and address
listed with the employment division at the college, under "unskilled labor."
"I will do anything honest or otherwise," I had written on my card. No
calls.
Becker sat in a chair as I poured the wine. He had on a Marine uniform.
"I see they sucked you in," I said.
"I lost my Western Union job. It was all that was left."
I handed him his drink. "You're not a patriot then?"
"Hell no."
"Why the Marines?"
"I heard about boot camp. I wanted to see if I could get through it."
"And you did."
"I did. There are some crazy guys there. There's a fight almost every
night. Nobody stops it. They almost kill each other."
"I like that."
"Why don't you join?"
"I don't like to get up early in the morning and I don't like to take
orders."
"How are you going to make it?"
"I don't know. When I get down to my last dime I'll just walk over to
skid row."
"There are some real weirdos down there."
"They're everywhere."
I poured Becker another wine.
"The problem is," he said, "that there's not much time to write."
"You still want to be a writer?"
"Sure. How about you?"
"Yeah," I said, "but it's pretty hopeless."
"You mean you're not good enough?"
"No, they're not good enough."
"What do you mean?"
"You read the magazines? The 'Best Short Stories of the Year' books?
There are at least a dozen of them."
"Yeah, I read them . . ."
"You read The New Yorker" Harper's? The Atlantic?"
"Yeah ..."
"This is 1940. They're still publishing 19th Century stuff, heavy,
labored, pretentious. You either get a headache reading the stuff or you
fall asleep.".
"What's wrong?"
"It's a trick, it's a con, a little inside game."
"Sounds like you've been rejected."
"I knew I would be. Why waste the stamps? I need wine."
"I'm going to break through," said Becker. "You'll see my books on the
library shelves one day."
"Let's not talk about writing."
"I've read your stuff," said Becker. "You're too bitter and you hate
everything."
"Let's not talk about writing."
"Now you take Thomas Wolfe . . ."
"God damn Thomas Wolfe! He sounds like an old woman on the telephone!"
"O.K., who's your boy?"
"James Thurber."
"All that upper-middle-class folderol . . ."
"He knows that everyone is crazy."
"Thomas Wolfe is of the earth . . ."
"Only assholes talk about writing . . ."
"You calling me an asshole?"
"Yes ..."
I poured him another wine and myself another wine.
"You're a fool for getting into that uniform."
"You call me an asshole and you call me a fool. I thought we were
friends."
"We are. I just don't think you're protecting yourself."
"Every time I see you you have a drink in your hand. You call
that protecting yourself?"
"It's the best way I know. Without drink I would have long ago cut my
god-damned throat."
"That's bullshit."
"Nothing's bullshit that works. The Pershing Square preachers have
their God. I have the blood of my god!"
I raised my glass and drained it.
"You're just hiding from reality," Becker said.
"Why not?"
"You'll never be a writer if you hide from reality."
"What are you talking about? That's what writers do.'"
Becker stood up. "When you talk to me, don't raise your voice."
"What do you want to do, raise my dick?"
"You don't have a dick!"
I caught him unexpectedly with a right that landed behind his ear. The
glass flew out of his hand and he staggered across the room. Becker was a
powerful man, much stronger than I was. He hit the edge of the dresser,
turned, and I landed another straight right to the side of his face. He
staggered over near the window which was open and I was afraid to hit him
then because he might fall into the street.
Becker gathered himself together and shook his head to clear it.
"All right now," I said, "let's have a little drink. Violence nauseates
me."
"O.K.," said Becker.
He walked over and picked up his glass. The cheap wine I drank didn't
have corks, the tops just unscrewed. I unscrewed a new bottle. Becker held
out his glass and I poured him one. I poured myself one, set the bottle
down. Becker emptied his. I emptied mine.
"No hard feelings," I said.
"Hell, no, buddy," said Becker, putting down his glass. Then he dug a
right into my gut. I doubled over and as I did he pushed down on the back of
my head and brought his knee up into my face. I dropped to my knees, blood
running from my nose all over my shirt.
"Pour me a drink, buddy," I said, "let's think this thing over."
"Get up," said Becker, "that was just chapter one."
I got up and moved toward Becker. I blocked his jab, caught his right
on my elbow, and punched a short straight right to his nose. Becker stepped
back. We both had bloody noses.
I rushed him. We were both swinging blindly. I caught some good shots.
He hit me with another good right to the belly. I doubled over but came up
with an uppercut. It landed. It was a beautiful shot, a lucky shot. Becker
lurched backwards and fell against the dresser. The back of his head hit the
mirror. The mirror shattered. He was stunned. I had him. I grabbed him by
the shirt front and hit him with a hard right behind his left ear. He
dropped on the rug, and knelt there on all fours. I walked over and
unsteadily poured myself a drink.
"Becker," I told him, "I kick ass around here about twice a week. You
just showed up on the wrong day."
I emptied my glass. Becker got up. He stood a while looking at me. Then
he came forward.
"Becker," I said, "listen . . ."
He started a right lead, pulled it back and slammed a left to my mouth.
We started in again. There wasn't much defense. It was just punch, punch,
punch. He pushed me over a chair and the chair flattened. I got up, caught
him coming in. He stumbled backwards and I landed another right. He crashed
backwards into the wall and the whole room shook. He bounced off and landed
a right high on my forehead and I saw lights: green, yellow, red . . . Then
he landed a left to the ribs and a right to the face. I swung and missed.
God damn, I thought, doesn't anybody hear all this noise? Why
don't they come and stop it? Why don't they call the police?
Becker rushed me again. I missed a roundhouse right and then that was
it for me . . .
When I regained consciousness it was dark, it was night. I was under
the bed, just my head was sticking out. I must have crawled under there. I
was a coward. I had puked all over myself. I crawled out from under the bed.
I looked at the smashed dresser mirror and the chair. The table was
upside down. I walked over and tried to set it upright. It fell over. Two of
the legs wouldn't hold. I tried to fix them as best I could. I set the table
up. It stood a moment, then fell over again. The rug was wet with wine and
puke. I found a wine bottle lying on its side. There was a bit left. I drank
that down and then looked around for more. There was nothing. There was
nothing to drink. I put the chain on the door. I found a cigarette, lit it
and stood in the window, staring down at Temple Street. It was a nice night
out.
Then there was a knock on the door. "Mr. Chinaski?" It was Mrs. Kansas.
She wasn't alone. I heard other voices whispering. She was with her little
dark friends.
"Mr. Chinaski?"
"Yes?"
"I want to come into your room."
"What for?"
"I want to change the sheets."
"I'm sick now. I can't let you in."
"I just want to change the sheets. I'll be just a few minutes."
"No, I can't let you in. Come in the morning."
I heard them whispering. Then I heard them walking down the hall. I
went over and sat on the bed. I needed a drink, bad. It was a Saturday
night, the whole town was drunk. Maybe I could sneak out?
I walked to the door and opened it a crack, leaving the chain on, and I
peeked out. At the top of the stairway there was a Filipino, one of Mrs.
Kansas' friends. He had a hammer in his hand. He was down on his knees. He
looked up at me, grinned, and then pounded a nail into the rug. He was
pretending to fix the rug. I closed the door.
I really needed a drink. I paced the floor. Why could everybody in the
world have a drink but me? How long was I going to have to stay in that god-
damned room? I opened the door again. It was the same. He looked up at me,
grinned, then hammered another nail into the floor. I closed the door.
I got out my suitcase and began throwing my few clothes in there. I
still had quite a bit of money I had won gambling but I knew
that I could never pay for the damages to that room. Nor did I want to.
It really hadn't been my fault. They should have stopped the fight. And
Becker had broken the mirror . . .
I was packed. I had the suitcase in one hand and my portable typewriter
in its case in the other. I stood in front of the door for some time. I
looked out again. He was still there. I slipped the chain off the door. Then
I pulled the door open and burst out. I ran toward the stairway.
"HEY! Where you go?" the little guy asked. He was still down on
one knee. He started to raise his hammer. I swung the portable typewriter
hard against the side of his head. It made a horrible sound. I was down the
steps and through the lobby and out the door.
Maybe I had killed the guy.
I started running down Temple Street. Then I saw a cab. He was empty. I
leaped in.
"Bunker Hill," I said, "fast!"
56
I saw a vacancy sign in the window in front of a rooming-house, had the
cabby pull up. I paid him and walked up on the front porch, rang the bell. I
had one black eye from the fight, another cut eye, a swollen nose, and my
lips were puffed. My left ear was bright red and every time I touched it, an
electric shock ran through my body.
An old man came to the door. He was in his undershirt and it looked
like he had spilled chili and beans across the front of it. His hair was
grey and uncombed, he needed a shave and he was puffing on a wet cigarette
that stank.
"You the landlord?" I asked.
"Yep."
"I need a room."
"You workin'?"
"I'm a writer."
"You don't look like a writer."
"What do they look like?"
He didn't answer. Then he said, "$2.50 a week."
"Can I see it?"
He belched, then said, "Foller me . . ."
We walked down a long hall. There was no hall rug. The boards creaked
and sank as we walked on them. I heard a man's voice from one of the rooms.
"Suck me, you piece of shit!"
"Three dollars," I heard a woman's voice.
"Three dollars? I'll give you a bloody asshole!"
He slapped her hard, she screamed. We walked on.
"The place is in back," the guy said, "but you are allowed to use the
house bathroom."
There was a shack in back with four doors. He walked up to #3 and
opened it. We walked in. There was a cot, a blanket, a small dresser and a
little stand. On the stand was a hotplate.
"You got a hotplate here," he said.
"That's nice."
"$2.50 in advance."
I paid him.
"I'll give you your receipt in the morning."
"Fine."
"What's your name?"
"Chinaski."
"I'm Connors."
He slipped a key off his key ring and gave it to me.
"We run a nice quiet place here. I want to keep it that way."
"Sure."
I closed the door behind him. There was a single light overhead,
unshaded. Actually the place was fairly clean. Not bad. I got up, went
outside and locked the door behind me, walked through the back yard to an
alley.
I shouldn't have given that guy my real name, I thought. I might have
killed my little dark friend over on Temple Street.
There was a long wooden stairway which went down the side of a cliff
and led to the street below. Quite romantic. I walked along until I saw a
liquor store. I was going to get my drink. I bought two bottles of wine and
I felt hungry too so I purchased a large bag of potato chips.
Back at my place, I undressed, climbed onto my cot, leaned against the
wall, lit a cigarette and poured a wine. I felt good. It was quiet back
there. I couldn't hear anybody in any of the other rooms in my shack. I had
to take a piss, so I put on my shorts, went around the back of the shack and
let go. From up there I could see the lights of the city. Los Angeles was a
good place, there were many poor people, it would be easy to get lost among
them. I went back inside, climbed back on the cot. As long as a man had wine
and cigarettes he could make it. I finished off my glass and poured another.
Maybe I could live by my wits. The eight-hour day was impossible, yet
almost everybody submitted to it. And the war, everybody was talking about
the war in Europe. I wasn't interested in world history, only my own. What
crap. Your parents controlled your growing-up period, they pissed all over
you. Then when you got ready to go out on your own, the others wanted to
stick you into a uniform so you could get your ass shot off. The wine tasted
great. I had another.
The war. Here I was a virgin. Could you imagine getting your ass blown
off for the sake of history before you even knew what a woman was? Or owned
an automobile? What would I be protecting? Somebody else. Somebody else who
didn't give a shit about me. Dying in a war never stopped wars from
happening.
I could make it. I could win drinking contests, I could gamble. Maybe I
could pull a few holdups. I didn't ask much, just to be left alone.
I finished the first bottle of wine and started in on the second.
Halfway through the second bottle, I stopped, stretched out. My first night
in my new place. It was all right. I slept.
I was awakened by the sound of a key in the door. Then the door pushed
open. I sat up on the cot. A man started to step in.
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" I screamed. He left fast. I heard him
running off. I got up and slammed the door.
People did that. They rented a place, stopped paying rent and kept the
key, sneaking back to sleep there if it was vacant or robbing the place if
the occupant was out. Well, he wouldn't be back. He knew if he tried
it again that I'd bust his sack. I went back to my cot and had another
drink. I was a little nervous. I was going to have to pick up a knife. I
finished my drink, poured another, drank that and went back to sleep.
After English class one day Mrs. Curtis asked me to stay.
She had great legs and a lisp and there was something about the legs
and the lisp together that heated me up. She was about 32, had culture and
style, but like everybody else, she was a goddamned liberal and that didn't
take much originality or fight, it was just more Franky Roosevelt worship. I
liked Franky because of his programs for the poor during the Depression. He
had style too. I didn't think he really gave a damn about the poor but he
was a great actor, great voice, and he had a great speech writer. But he
wanted us in the war. It would put him into the history books. War
presidents got more power and, later, more pages. Mrs. Curtis was just a
chip off old Franky only she had much better legs. Poor Franky didn't have
any legs but he had a wonderful brain. In some other country he would have
made a powerful dictator.
When the last student left I walked up to Mrs. Curtis' desk. She smiled
up at me. I had watched her legs for many hours and she knew it. She knew
what I wanted, that she had nothing to teach me. She had only said one thing
which I remembered. It wasn't her own idea, obviously, but I liked it:
"You can't overestimate the stupidity of the general public."
"Mr. Chinaski," she looked up at me, "we have certain students in this
class who think they are very smart."
"Yeh?"
"Mr. Felton is our smartest student."
"O.K."
"What is it that troubles you?"
"What?"
"There's something . . . troubling you."
"Maybe."
"This is your last semester, isn't it?"
"How did you know?"
I'd been giving those legs a goodbye look. I'd decided the campus was
just a place to hide. There were some campus freaks who stayed on forever.
The whole college scene was soft. They never told you what to expect out
there in the real world. They just crammed you with theory and never told
you how hard the pavements were. A college education could destroy an
individual for life. Books could make you soft. When you put them down, and
really went out there, then you needed to know what they never told
you. I had decided to quit after that semester, hang around Stinky and the
gang, maybe meet somebody who had guts enough to hold up a liquor store or
better yet, a bank.
"I knew you were going to quit," she said softly. '"Begin' is a better
word."
"There's going to be a war. Did you read 'Sailor Off The Bremen'?"
"That New Yorker stuff doesn't work for me."
"You've got to read things like that if you want to understand what is
happening today."
"I don't think so."
"You just rebel against everything. How are you going to
survive?"
"I don't know. I'm already tired."
Mrs. Curtis looked down at her desk for a long time. Then she looked up
at me.
"We're going to get drawn into the war, one way or the other. Are you
going to go?"
"That doesn't matter. I might, I might not."
"You'd make a good sailor."
I smiled, thought about being a sailor, then discarded that idea.
"If you stay another term," she said, "you can have anything you want."
She looked up at me and I knew exactly what she meant and she knew that
I knew exactly what she meant.
"No," I said, "I'm leaving."
I walked toward the door. I stopped there, turned, gave her a little
nod goodbye, a slight and quick goodbye. Outside I walked along under the
campus trees. Everywhere, it seemed, there was a boy and a girl together.
Mrs. Curtis was sitting alone at her desk as I walked alone. What a great
triumph it would have been. Kissing that lisp, working those fine legs open,
as Hitler swallowed up Europe and peered toward London.
After a while I walked over toward the gym. I was going to clean out my
locker. No more exercising for me. People always talked about the good clean
smell of fresh sweat. They had to make excuses for it. They never talked
about the good clean smell of fresh shit. There was nothing really as
glorious as a good beer shit -- 1 mean after drinking twenty or twenty-five
beers the night before. The odor of a beer shit like that spread all around
and stayed for a good hour-and-a-half. It made you realize that you were
really alive.
I found the locker, opened it and dumped my gym suit and shoes into the
trash. Also two empty wine bottles. Good luck to the next one who got my
locker. Maybe he'd end up mayor of Boise, Idaho. I threw the combo lock into
the trash too. I'd never liked that combination: 1,2, 1, 1,2. Not very
mental. The address of my parents' house had been 2122. Everything was
minimal. In the R.O.T.C. it had been 1, 2, 3,4; 1, 2, 3, 4. Maybe some day
I'd move up to 5.
I walked out of the gym and took a shortcut through the playing field.
There was a game of touch football going on, a pick-up game. I cut to one
side to avoid it. Then I heard Baldy: "Hey, Hank!"
I looked up and he was sitting in the stands with Monty Ballard. There
wasn't much to Ballard. The nice thing about him was that he never talked
unless you asked him a question. I never asked him any questions. He just
looked at life out from underneath his dirty yellow hair and yearned to be a
biologist. I waved to them and kept walking.
"Come on up here. Hank!" Baldy yelled. "It's important."
I walked over. "What is it?"
"Sit down and watch that stocky guy in the gym suit."
I sat down. There was only one guy in a gym suit. He had on track shoes
with spikes. He was short but wide, very wide. He had amazing biceps,
shoulders, a thick neck, heavy short legs. His hair was black; the front of
his face almost flat; small mouth, not much nose, and the eyes, the eyes
were there somewhere.
"Hey, I heard about this guy," I said.
"Watch him," said Baldy.
There were four guys on each team. The ball was snapped. The
quarterback faded to pass. King Kong, Jr. was on defense. He played about
halfway back. One of the guys on the offensive team ran deep, the other ran
short. The center blocked. King Kong, Jr. lowered his shoulders and sped
toward the guy playing short. He smashed into him, burying a shoulder into
his side and gut and dumped him hard. Then he turned and trotted away. The
pass was completed to the deep man for a TD.
"You see?" said Baldy.
"King Kong . . ."
"King Kong isn't playing football at all. He just hits some guy as hard
as he can, play after play."
"You can't hit a pass receiver before he catches the ball," I said.
"It's against the rules."
"Who's going to tell him?" Baldy asked.
"You going to tell him?" I asked Ballard.
"No," said Ballard.
King Kong's team took the kickoff. Now he could block legally. He came
down and savaged the littlest guy on the field. He knocked the guy
completely over, his head went between his legs as he flipped. The little
guy was slow getting up.
"That King Kong is a subnormal," I said. "How did he ever pass his
entrance exam?"
"They don't have them here."
King Kong's team lined up. Joe Stapen was the best guy on the other
team. He wanted to be a shrink. He was tall, six foot two, lean, and he had
guts. Joe Stapen and King Kong charged each other. Stapen did pretty good.
He didn't get dumped. The next play they charged each other again. This time
Joe bounced off and gave a little ground.
"Shit," said Baldy, "Joe's giving up."
The next time Kong hit Joe even harder, spinning him around, then
running him 5 or 6 yards back up the field, his shoulder buried in Joe's
back.
"This is really disgusting! That guy's nothing but a fucking
sadist!" I said.
"Is he a sadist?" Baldy asked Ballard.
"He's a fucking sadist," said Ballard.
The next play Kong shifted back to the smallest guy. He just ran over
him and piled on top of him, dropping him hard. The little guy didn't move
for a while. Then he sat up and held his head. It looked like he was
finished. I stood up.
"Well, here I go," I said.
"Get that son-of-a-bitch!" said Baldy.
"Sure," I said. I walked down to the field.
"Hey, fellas. Need a player?"
The little guy stood up, started to walk off the field. He stopped as
he reached me.
"Don't go in there. All that guy wants is to kill somebody."
"It's just touch football," I said.
It was our ball. I got into the huddle with Joe Stapen and the other
two survivors.
"What's the game plan?" I asked.
"Just to stay the fuck alive," said Joe Stapen.
"What's the score?"
"I think they're winning," said Lenny Hill, the center. We broke out of
the huddle. Joe Stapen stood back and waited for the ball. I stood looking
at Kong. I'd never seen him around campus. He probably hung around the men's
crapper in the gym. He looked like a shit-sniffer. He also looked like a
fetus-eater.
"Time!" I called.
Lenny Hill straightened up over the ball. I looked at Kong.
"My name's Hank. Hank Chinaski. Journalism."
Kong didn't answer. He just stared at me. He had dead white skin. There
was no glitter or life in his eyes.
"What's your name?" I asked him. He just kept staring.
"What's the matter? Got some placenta caught in your teeth?"
Kong slowly raised his right arm. Then he straightened it out and
pointed a finger at me. Then he lowered his arm.
"Well, suck my weenie," I said, "what's that mean?"
"Come on, let's play ball," one of Kong's mates said. Lenny bent over
the ball and snapped it. Kong came at me. I couldn't seem to focus on him. I
saw the grandstand and some trees and part of the Chemistry Building shake
as he crashed into me. He knocked me over backwards and then circled around
me, flapping his arms like wings. I got up, feeling dizzy. First Becker
K.O.'s me, then this sadistic ape. He smelled; he stank; a real evil son-of-
a-bitch.
Stapen had thrown an incomplete pass. We huddled.
"I got an idea," I said.
"What's that?" asked Joe.
"I'll throw the ball. You block."
"Let's leave it the way it is," said Joe.
We broke out of the huddle. Lenny bent over the ball, snapped it back
to Stapen. Kong came at me. I lowered a shoulder and rushed at him. He had
too much strength. I bounced off him, straightened up, and as I did Kong
came again, knifing his shoulder into my belly. I fell. I leaped up right
away but I didn't feel like getting up. I was having breathing problems.
Stapen had thrown a short complete pass. Third down. No huddle. When
the ball snapped Kong and I ran at each other. At the last moment I left my
feet and hurled myself at him. The weight of my body hit his neck and his
head, knocking him off balance. As he fell I kicked him as hard as I could
and caught him right on the chin. We were both on the ground. I got up
first. As Kong rose there was a red blotch on the side of his face and blood
at the corner of his mouth. We trotted back to our positions.
Stapen had thrown an incomplete pass. Fourth down. Stapen dropped back
to punt. Kong dropped back to protect his safety man. The safety man caught
the punt and they came pounding up the field, Kong leading 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 English Lit 1. "
"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.
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."
Delmore dropped out, Jimmy dropped out. Fastshoes looked at me. "What
else do you see besides City Hall when you stick your head out the window?"
"Just play your hand. I'm not here to chat about gymnastics or the
scenery."
"All right," he said, "I'm out."
I scooped up the pot and gathered in their cards, leaving mine face
down.
"What did ya have?" asked Fastshoes.
"Pay to see or weep forever," I said sweeping my cards into the deck
and mixing them together, shuffling them, feeling like Gable before he got
weakened by God at the time of the San Francisco earthquake.
The deck changed hands but my luck held, most of the time. It had been
payday at the aircraft plant. Never bring a lot of money to where a poor man
lives. He can only lose what little he has. On the other hand it is
mathematically possible that he might win whatever you bring with you. What
you must do, with money and the poor, is never let them get too close to one
another.
Somehow I felt that the night was to be mine. Delmore soon tapped out
and left.
"Fellows," I said, "I've got an idea. Cards are too slow. Let's just
match coins, ten bucks a toss, odd man wins."
"O.K.," said Jimmy.
"O.K.," said Fastshoes.
The whiskey was gone. We were into a bottle of my cheap wine.
"All right," I said, "flip the coins high! Catch them on your palms.
And when I say lift,' we'll check the result."
We flipped them high. Caught them.
"Lift!" I said.
I was odd man. Shit. Twenty bucks, just like that. I jammed the tens
into my pocket.
"Flip!" I said. We did.
"Lift!" I said. I won again.
"Flip!" I said.
"Lift!" I said. Fastshoes won. I got the next. Then Jimmy won. I got
the next two.
"Wait," I said, "I've got to piss!"
I walked over to the sink and pissed. We had finished the bottle of
wine. I opened the closet door. "I got another bottle of wine in here," I
told them.
I took most of the bills out of my pocket and threw them into the
closet. I came out, opened the bottle, poured drinks all around.
"Shit," said Fastshoes looking into his wallet, "I'm almost broke."
"Me too," said Jimmy.
"I wonder who's got the money?" I asked. They weren't very good
drinkers. Mixing the wine and the whiskey was bad for them. They were
weaving a bit.
Fastshoes fell back against the dresser knocking an ashtray to the
floor. It broke in half.
"Pick it up," I said.
"I won't pick up shit," he said.
"I said, 'pick it up'!"
"I won't pick up shit."
Jimmy reached and picked up the broken ashtray.
"You guys get out of here," I said.
"You can't make me go," said Fastshoes.
"All right," I said, "just open your mouth owe more time, say owe word
and you won't be able to separate your head from your asshole!"
"Let's go, Fastshoes," said Jimmy.
I opened the door and they filed past unsteadily. I followed them down
the hall to the head of the stairway. We stood there.
"Hank," said Jimmy, "I'll see you again. Take it easy."
"All right, Jim ..."
"Listen," Fastshoes said to me, "You . . ."
I shot a straight right into his mouth. He fell backward down the
stairway, twisting and bouncing. He was about my size, six feet and one-
eighty, and you could hear the sound of him for a block. Two Filipinos and
the blond landlady were in the lobby. They looked at Fastshoes laying there
but they didn't move toward him.
"You killed him!" said Jimmy.
He ran down the stairway and turned Fastshoes over. Fastshoes had a
bloody nose and mouth. Jimmy held his head. Jimmy looked up at me.
"That wasn't right, Hank . . ."
"Yeah, what ya gonna do?"
"I think," said Jimmy, "that we're going to come back and get you . .
."
"Wait a minute," I said.
I walked back to my room and poured myself a wine. I hadn't liked
Jimmy's paper cups and I had been drinking out of a used jelly glass. The
paper label was still on the side, stained with dirt and wine. I walked back
out.
Fastshoes was reviving. Jimmy was helping him to his feet. Then he put
Fastshoes' arm around his neck. They were standing there.
"Now what did you say?" I asked.
"You're an ugly man, Hank. You need to be taught a lesson."
"You mean I'm not pretty?"
"I mean, you act ugly . . ."
"Take your friend out of here before I come down there and finish him
off!"
Fastshoes raised his bloody head. He had on a flowered Hawaiian shirt,
only now many of the colors were stained with red.
He looked at me. Then he spoke. I could barely hear him. But I heard
it. He said, "I'm going to kill you . . ."
"Yeah," said Jimmy, "we'll get you."
"YEAH, FUCKERS?" I screamed. "I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE! ANYTIME YOU WANT
TO FIND ME I'LL BE IN ROOM 5! I'LL BE WAITING! ROOM 5, GOT IT? AND THE DOOR
WILL BE OPEN!"
I lifted the jelly glass full of wine and drained it. Then I hurled
that jelly glass at them. I threw the son-of-a-bitch, hard. But my aim was
bad. It hit the side of the stairway wall, glanced off and shot into the
lobby between the landlady and her two Filipino friends.
Jimmy turned Fastshoes toward the exit door and began slowly walking
him out. It was a tedious, agonizing journey. I heard Fastshoes again, half
moaning, half weeping, "I'll kill him . . . I'll kill him . . ."
Then Jimmy had him out the doorway. They were gone. The blond landlady
and the two Filipinos were still standing in the lobby, looking up at me. I
was barefooted, and had gone five or six days without a shave. I needed a
haircut. I only combed my hair once, in the morning, then didn't bother
again. My gym teachers were always after me about my posture: "Pull your
shoulders back! Why are you looking at the ground? What's down
there?"
I would never set any trends or styles. My white t-shirt was
stained with wine, burned, with many cigarettes and cigar holes, spotted
with blood and vomit. It was too small, it rode up exposing my gut and belly
button. And my pants were too small. They gripped me tightly and rose well
above my ankles.
The three of them stood and looked at me. I looked down at them. "Hey,
you guys, come on up for a little drink!"
The two little men looked up at me and grinned. The landlady, a faded
Carole Lombard type, looked on impassively. Mrs. Kansas, they called her.
Could she be in love with me? She was wearing pink shoes with high heels and
a black sparkling sequinned dress. Little chips of light flashed at me. Her
breasts were something that no mere mortal would ever see -- they were only
for kings, dictators, rulers, Filipinos.
"Anybody got a smoke?" I asked. "I'm out of smokes."
The little dark fellow standing to one side of Mrs. Kansas made a
slight motion with one hand toward his jacket pocket and a pack of Camels
jumped in the lobby air. Deftly he caught the pack in his other hand. With
the invisible tap of a finger on the bottom of the pack a smoke leaped up,
tall, true, singular and exposed, ready to be taken.
"Hey, shit, thanks," I said.
I started down the stairway, made a mis-step, lunged, almost fell,
grabbed the bannister, righted myself, readjusted my perceptions, and walked
on down. Was I drunk? I walked up to the little guy holding the pack. I
bowed slightly.
I lifted out the Camel. Then I flipped it in the air, caught it, stuck
it into my mouth. My dark friend remained expressionless, the grin having
vanished when I had begun down the stairway. My little friend bent forward,
cupped his hands around the flame and lit my smoke.
I inhaled, exhaled. "Listen, why don't you all come up to my place and
we'll have a couple of drinks?"
"No," said the little guy who had lit my cigarette.
"Maybe we can catch the Bee or some Bach on my radio! I'm
educated, you know. I'm a student . . ."
"No," said the other little guy.
I took a big drag on my smoke, then looked at Carole Lombard -- Mrs.
Kansas. Then I looked at my two friends.
"She's yours. I don't want her. She's yours. Just come on up.
We'll drink a little wine. In good old room 5."
There was no answer. I rocked on my heels a bit as the whiskey and the
wine fought for possession. I let my cigarette dangle a bit from the right
side of my mouth as I sent up a plume of smoke. I continued letting the
cigarette dangle like that.
I knew about stilettoes. In the little time I had been there I had seen
two enactments of the stiletto. From my window one night, looking out at the
sound of sirens, I saw a body there just below my window on the Temple
Street sidewalk, in the moonlight, under the streetlight. Another time,
another body. Nights of the stiletto. Once a white man, the other time one
of them. Each time, blood running on the pavement, real blood, just like
that, moving across the pavement and into the gutter, you could see it going
along in the gutter, meaningless, dumb . . . that so much blood could
come from just one man.
"All right, my friends," I said to them, "no hard feelings. I'll drink
alone . . ."
I turned and started to walk toward the stairway.
"Mr. Chinaski," I heard Mrs. Kansas' voice. I turned and looked at her
flanked by my two little friends.
"Just go to your room and sleep. If you cause any more disturbance I
will phone the Los Angeles Police Department."
I turned and walked back up the stairway. No life anywhere, no life
in this town or this place or in this weary existence.. .
My door was open. I walked in. There was one-third of a cheap
bottle of wine left.
Maybe there was another bottle in the closet? I opened the closet door.
No bottle. But there were tens and twenties everywhere. There was a rolled
twenty lying between a pair of dirty socks with holes in the toes; and there
from a shirt collar, a ten dangling; and here from an old jacket, another
ten caught in a side pocket. Most of the money was on the floor.
I picked up a bill, slipped it into the side pocket of my pants, went
to the door, closed and locked it, then went down the stairway to the bar.
A couple of nights later Becker walked in. I guess my parents gave him
my address or he located me through the college. I had my name and address
listed with the employment division at the college, under "unskilled labor."
"I will do anything honest or otherwise," I had written on my card. No
calls.
Becker sat in a chair as I poured the wine. He had on a Marine uniform.
"I see they sucked you in," I said.
"I lost my Western Union job. It was all that was left."
I handed him his drink. "You're not a patriot then?"
"Hell no."
"Why the Marines?"
"I heard about boot camp. I wanted to see if I could get through it."
"And you did."
"I did. There are some crazy guys there. There's a fight almost every
night. Nobody stops it. They almost kill each other."
"I like that."
"Why don't you join?"
"I don't like to get up early in the morning and I don't like to take
orders."
"How are you going to make it?"
"I don't know. When I get down to my last dime I'll just walk over to
skid row."
"There are some real weirdos down there."
"They're everywhere."
I poured Becker another wine.
"The problem is," he said, "that there's not much time to write."
"You still want to be a writer?"
"Sure. How about you?"
"Yeah," I said, "but it's pretty hopeless."
"You mean you're not good enough?"
"No, they're not good enough."
"What do you mean?"
"You read the magazines? The 'Best Short Stories of the Year' books?
There are at least a dozen of them."
"Yeah, I read them . . ."
"You read The New Yorker" Harper's? The Atlantic?"
"Yeah ..."
"This is 1940. They're still publishing 19th Century stuff, heavy,
labored, pretentious. You either get a headache reading the stuff or you
fall asleep.".
"What's wrong?"
"It's a trick, it's a con, a little inside game."
"Sounds like you've been rejected."
"I knew I would be. Why waste the stamps? I need wine."
"I'm going to break through," said Becker. "You'll see my books on the
library shelves one day."
"Let's not talk about writing."
"I've read your stuff," said Becker. "You're too bitter and you hate
everything."
"Let's not talk about writing."
"Now you take Thomas Wolfe . . ."
"God damn Thomas Wolfe! He sounds like an old woman on the telephone!"
"O.K., who's your boy?"
"James Thurber."
"All that upper-middle-class folderol . . ."
"He knows that everyone is crazy."
"Thomas Wolfe is of the earth . . ."
"Only assholes talk about writing . . ."
"You calling me an asshole?"
"Yes ..."
I poured him another wine and myself another wine.
"You're a fool for getting into that uniform."
"You call me an asshole and you call me a fool. I thought we were
friends."
"We are. I just don't think you're protecting yourself."
"Every time I see you you have a drink in your hand. You call
that protecting yourself?"
"It's the best way I know. Without drink I would have long ago cut my
god-damned throat."
"That's bullshit."
"Nothing's bullshit that works. The Pershing Square preachers have
their God. I have the blood of my god!"
I raised my glass and drained it.
"You're just hiding from reality," Becker said.
"Why not?"
"You'll never be a writer if you hide from reality."
"What are you talking about? That's what writers do.'"
Becker stood up. "When you talk to me, don't raise your voice."
"What do you want to do, raise my dick?"
"You don't have a dick!"
I caught him unexpectedly with a right that landed behind his ear. The
glass flew out of his hand and he staggered across the room. Becker was a
powerful man, much stronger than I was. He hit the edge of the dresser,
turned, and I landed another straight right to the side of his face. He
staggered over near the window which was open and I was afraid to hit him
then because he might fall into the street.
Becker gathered himself together and shook his head to clear it.
"All right now," I said, "let's have a little drink. Violence nauseates
me."
"O.K.," said Becker.
He walked over and picked up his glass. The cheap wine I drank didn't
have corks, the tops just unscrewed. I unscrewed a new bottle. Becker held
out his glass and I poured him one. I poured myself one, set the bottle
down. Becker emptied his. I emptied mine.
"No hard feelings," I said.
"Hell, no, buddy," said Becker, putting down his glass. Then he dug a
right into my gut. I doubled over and as I did he pushed down on the back of
my head and brought his knee up into my face. I dropped to my knees, blood
running from my nose all over my shirt.
"Pour me a drink, buddy," I said, "let's think this thing over."
"Get up," said Becker, "that was just chapter one."
I got up and moved toward Becker. I blocked his jab, caught his right
on my elbow, and punched a short straight right to his nose. Becker stepped
back. We both had bloody noses.
I rushed him. We were both swinging blindly. I caught some good shots.
He hit me with another good right to the belly. I doubled over but came up
with an uppercut. It landed. It was a beautiful shot, a lucky shot. Becker
lurched backwards and fell against the dresser. The back of his head hit the
mirror. The mirror shattered. He was stunned. I had him. I grabbed him by
the shirt front and hit him with a hard right behind his left ear. He
dropped on the rug, and knelt there on all fours. I walked over and
unsteadily poured myself a drink.
"Becker," I told him, "I kick ass around here about twice a week. You
just showed up on the wrong day."
I emptied my glass. Becker got up. He stood a while looking at me. Then
he came forward.
"Becker," I said, "listen . . ."
He started a right lead, pulled it back and slammed a left to my mouth.
We started in again. There wasn't much defense. It was just punch, punch,
punch. He pushed me over a chair and the chair flattened. I got up, caught
him coming in. He stumbled backwards and I landed another right. He crashed
backwards into the wall and the whole room shook. He bounced off and landed
a right high on my forehead and I saw lights: green, yellow, red . . . Then
he landed a left to the ribs and a right to the face. I swung and missed.
God damn, I thought, doesn't anybody hear all this noise? Why
don't they come and stop it? Why don't they call the police?
Becker rushed me again. I missed a roundhouse right and then that was
it for me . . .
When I regained consciousness it was dark, it was night. I was under
the bed, just my head was sticking out. I must have crawled under there. I
was a coward. I had puked all over myself. I crawled out from under the bed.
I looked at the smashed dresser mirror and the chair. The table was
upside down. I walked over and tried to set it upright. It fell over. Two of
the legs wouldn't hold. I tried to fix them as best I could. I set the table
up. It stood a moment, then fell over again. The rug was wet with wine and
puke. I found a wine bottle lying on its side. There was a bit left. I drank
that down and then looked around for more. There was nothing. There was
nothing to drink. I put the chain on the door. I found a cigarette, lit it
and stood in the window, staring down at Temple Street. It was a nice night
out.
Then there was a knock on the door. "Mr. Chinaski?" It was Mrs. Kansas.
She wasn't alone. I heard other voices whispering. She was with her little
dark friends.
"Mr. Chinaski?"
"Yes?"
"I want to come into your room."
"What for?"
"I want to change the sheets."
"I'm sick now. I can't let you in."
"I just want to change the sheets. I'll be just a few minutes."
"No, I can't let you in. Come in the morning."
I heard them whispering. Then I heard them walking down the hall. I
went over and sat on the bed. I needed a drink, bad. It was a Saturday
night, the whole town was drunk. Maybe I could sneak out?
I walked to the door and opened it a crack, leaving the chain on, and I
peeked out. At the top of the stairway there was a Filipino, one of Mrs.
Kansas' friends. He had a hammer in his hand. He was down on his knees. He
looked up at me, grinned, and then pounded a nail into the rug. He was
pretending to fix the rug. I closed the door.
I really needed a drink. I paced the floor. Why could everybody in the
world have a drink but me? How long was I going to have to stay in that god-
damned room? I opened the door again. It was the same. He looked up at me,
grinned, then hammered another nail into the floor. I closed the door.
I got out my suitcase and began throwing my few clothes in there. I
still had quite a bit of money I had won gambling but I knew
that I could never pay for the damages to that room. Nor did I want to.
It really hadn't been my fault. They should have stopped the fight. And
Becker had broken the mirror . . .
I was packed. I had the suitcase in one hand and my portable typewriter
in its case in the other. I stood in front of the door for some time. I
looked out again. He was still there. I slipped the chain off the door. Then
I pulled the door open and burst out. I ran toward the stairway.
"HEY! Where you go?" the little guy asked. He was still down on
one knee. He started to raise his hammer. I swung the portable typewriter
hard against the side of his head. It made a horrible sound. I was down the
steps and through the lobby and out the door.
Maybe I had killed the guy.
I started running down Temple Street. Then I saw a cab. He was empty. I
leaped in.
"Bunker Hill," I said, "fast!"
56
I saw a vacancy sign in the window in front of a rooming-house, had the
cabby pull up. I paid him and walked up on the front porch, rang the bell. I
had one black eye from the fight, another cut eye, a swollen nose, and my
lips were puffed. My left ear was bright red and every time I touched it, an
electric shock ran through my body.
An old man came to the door. He was in his undershirt and it looked
like he had spilled chili and beans across the front of it. His hair was
grey and uncombed, he needed a shave and he was puffing on a wet cigarette
that stank.
"You the landlord?" I asked.
"Yep."
"I need a room."
"You workin'?"
"I'm a writer."
"You don't look like a writer."
"What do they look like?"
He didn't answer. Then he said, "$2.50 a week."
"Can I see it?"
He belched, then said, "Foller me . . ."
We walked down a long hall. There was no hall rug. The boards creaked
and sank as we walked on them. I heard a man's voice from one of the rooms.
"Suck me, you piece of shit!"
"Three dollars," I heard a woman's voice.
"Three dollars? I'll give you a bloody asshole!"
He slapped her hard, she screamed. We walked on.
"The place is in back," the guy said, "but you are allowed to use the
house bathroom."
There was a shack in back with four doors. He walked up to #3 and
opened it. We walked in. There was a cot, a blanket, a small dresser and a
little stand. On the stand was a hotplate.
"You got a hotplate here," he said.
"That's nice."
"$2.50 in advance."
I paid him.
"I'll give you your receipt in the morning."
"Fine."
"What's your name?"
"Chinaski."
"I'm Connors."
He slipped a key off his key ring and gave it to me.
"We run a nice quiet place here. I want to keep it that way."
"Sure."
I closed the door behind him. There was a single light overhead,
unshaded. Actually the place was fairly clean. Not bad. I got up, went
outside and locked the door behind me, walked through the back yard to an
alley.
I shouldn't have given that guy my real name, I thought. I might have
killed my little dark friend over on Temple Street.
There was a long wooden stairway which went down the side of a cliff
and led to the street below. Quite romantic. I walked along until I saw a
liquor store. I was going to get my drink. I bought two bottles of wine and
I felt hungry too so I purchased a large bag of potato chips.
Back at my place, I undressed, climbed onto my cot, leaned against the
wall, lit a cigarette and poured a wine. I felt good. It was quiet back
there. I couldn't hear anybody in any of the other rooms in my shack. I had
to take a piss, so I put on my shorts, went around the back of the shack and
let go. From up there I could see the lights of the city. Los Angeles was a
good place, there were many poor people, it would be easy to get lost among
them. I went back inside, climbed back on the cot. As long as a man had wine
and cigarettes he could make it. I finished off my glass and poured another.
Maybe I could live by my wits. The eight-hour day was impossible, yet
almost everybody submitted to it. And the war, everybody was talking about
the war in Europe. I wasn't interested in world history, only my own. What
crap. Your parents controlled your growing-up period, they pissed all over
you. Then when you got ready to go out on your own, the others wanted to
stick you into a uniform so you could get your ass shot off. The wine tasted
great. I had another.
The war. Here I was a virgin. Could you imagine getting your ass blown
off for the sake of history before you even knew what a woman was? Or owned
an automobile? What would I be protecting? Somebody else. Somebody else who
didn't give a shit about me. Dying in a war never stopped wars from
happening.
I could make it. I could win drinking contests, I could gamble. Maybe I
could pull a few holdups. I didn't ask much, just to be left alone.
I finished the first bottle of wine and started in on the second.
Halfway through the second bottle, I stopped, stretched out. My first night
in my new place. It was all right. I slept.
I was awakened by the sound of a key in the door. Then the door pushed
open. I sat up on the cot. A man started to step in.
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" I screamed. He left fast. I heard him
running off. I got up and slammed the door.
People did that. They rented a place, stopped paying rent and kept the
key, sneaking back to sleep there if it was vacant or robbing the place if
the occupant was out. Well, he wouldn't be back. He knew if he tried
it again that I'd bust his sack. I went back to my cot and had another
drink. I was a little nervous. I was going to have to pick up a knife. I
finished my drink, poured another, drank that and went back to sleep.
After English class one day Mrs. Curtis asked me to stay.
She had great legs and a lisp and there was something about the legs
and the lisp together that heated me up. She was about 32, had culture and
style, but like everybody else, she was a goddamned liberal and that didn't
take much originality or fight, it was just more Franky Roosevelt worship. I
liked Franky because of his programs for the poor during the Depression. He
had style too. I didn't think he really gave a damn about the poor but he
was a great actor, great voice, and he had a great speech writer. But he
wanted us in the war. It would put him into the history books. War
presidents got more power and, later, more pages. Mrs. Curtis was just a
chip off old Franky only she had much better legs. Poor Franky didn't have
any legs but he had a wonderful brain. In some other country he would have
made a powerful dictator.
When the last student left I walked up to Mrs. Curtis' desk. She smiled
up at me. I had watched her legs for many hours and she knew it. She knew
what I wanted, that she had nothing to teach me. She had only said one thing
which I remembered. It wasn't her own idea, obviously, but I liked it:
"You can't overestimate the stupidity of the general public."
"Mr. Chinaski," she looked up at me, "we have certain students in this
class who think they are very smart."
"Yeh?"
"Mr. Felton is our smartest student."
"O.K."
"What is it that troubles you?"
"What?"
"There's something . . . troubling you."
"Maybe."
"This is your last semester, isn't it?"
"How did you know?"
I'd been giving those legs a goodbye look. I'd decided the campus was
just a place to hide. There were some campus freaks who stayed on forever.
The whole college scene was soft. They never told you what to expect out
there in the real world. They just crammed you with theory and never told
you how hard the pavements were. A college education could destroy an
individual for life. Books could make you soft. When you put them down, and
really went out there, then you needed to know what they never told
you. I had decided to quit after that semester, hang around Stinky and the
gang, maybe meet somebody who had guts enough to hold up a liquor store or
better yet, a bank.
"I knew you were going to quit," she said softly. '"Begin' is a better
word."
"There's going to be a war. Did you read 'Sailor Off The Bremen'?"
"That New Yorker stuff doesn't work for me."
"You've got to read things like that if you want to understand what is
happening today."
"I don't think so."
"You just rebel against everything. How are you going to
survive?"
"I don't know. I'm already tired."
Mrs. Curtis looked down at her desk for a long time. Then she looked up
at me.
"We're going to get drawn into the war, one way or the other. Are you
going to go?"
"That doesn't matter. I might, I might not."
"You'd make a good sailor."
I smiled, thought about being a sailor, then discarded that idea.
"If you stay another term," she said, "you can have anything you want."
She looked up at me and I knew exactly what she meant and she knew that
I knew exactly what she meant.
"No," I said, "I'm leaving."
I walked toward the door. I stopped there, turned, gave her a little
nod goodbye, a slight and quick goodbye. Outside I walked along under the
campus trees. Everywhere, it seemed, there was a boy and a girl together.
Mrs. Curtis was sitting alone at her desk as I walked alone. What a great
triumph it would have been. Kissing that lisp, working those fine legs open,
as Hitler swallowed up Europe and peered toward London.
After a while I walked over toward the gym. I was going to clean out my
locker. No more exercising for me. People always talked about the good clean
smell of fresh sweat. They had to make excuses for it. They never talked
about the good clean smell of fresh shit. There was nothing really as
glorious as a good beer shit -- 1 mean after drinking twenty or twenty-five
beers the night before. The odor of a beer shit like that spread all around
and stayed for a good hour-and-a-half. It made you realize that you were
really alive.
I found the locker, opened it and dumped my gym suit and shoes into the
trash. Also two empty wine bottles. Good luck to the next one who got my
locker. Maybe he'd end up mayor of Boise, Idaho. I threw the combo lock into
the trash too. I'd never liked that combination: 1,2, 1, 1,2. Not very
mental. The address of my parents' house had been 2122. Everything was
minimal. In the R.O.T.C. it had been 1, 2, 3,4; 1, 2, 3, 4. Maybe some day
I'd move up to 5.
I walked out of the gym and took a shortcut through the playing field.
There was a game of touch football going on, a pick-up game. I cut to one
side to avoid it. Then I heard Baldy: "Hey, Hank!"
I looked up and he was sitting in the stands with Monty Ballard. There
wasn't much to Ballard. The nice thing about him was that he never talked
unless you asked him a question. I never asked him any questions. He just
looked at life out from underneath his dirty yellow hair and yearned to be a
biologist. I waved to them and kept walking.
"Come on up here. Hank!" Baldy yelled. "It's important."
I walked over. "What is it?"
"Sit down and watch that stocky guy in the gym suit."
I sat down. There was only one guy in a gym suit. He had on track shoes
with spikes. He was short but wide, very wide. He had amazing biceps,
shoulders, a thick neck, heavy short legs. His hair was black; the front of
his face almost flat; small mouth, not much nose, and the eyes, the eyes
were there somewhere.
"Hey, I heard about this guy," I said.
"Watch him," said Baldy.
There were four guys on each team. The ball was snapped. The
quarterback faded to pass. King Kong, Jr. was on defense. He played about
halfway back. One of the guys on the offensive team ran deep, the other ran
short. The center blocked. King Kong, Jr. lowered his shoulders and sped
toward the guy playing short. He smashed into him, burying a shoulder into
his side and gut and dumped him hard. Then he turned and trotted away. The
pass was completed to the deep man for a TD.
"You see?" said Baldy.
"King Kong . . ."
"King Kong isn't playing football at all. He just hits some guy as hard
as he can, play after play."
"You can't hit a pass receiver before he catches the ball," I said.
"It's against the rules."
"Who's going to tell him?" Baldy asked.
"You going to tell him?" I asked Ballard.
"No," said Ballard.
King Kong's team took the kickoff. Now he could block legally. He came
down and savaged the littlest guy on the field. He knocked the guy
completely over, his head went between his legs as he flipped. The little
guy was slow getting up.
"That King Kong is a subnormal," I said. "How did he ever pass his
entrance exam?"
"They don't have them here."
King Kong's team lined up. Joe Stapen was the best guy on the other
team. He wanted to be a shrink. He was tall, six foot two, lean, and he had
guts. Joe Stapen and King Kong charged each other. Stapen did pretty good.
He didn't get dumped. The next play they charged each other again. This time
Joe bounced off and gave a little ground.
"Shit," said Baldy, "Joe's giving up."
The next time Kong hit Joe even harder, spinning him around, then
running him 5 or 6 yards back up the field, his shoulder buried in Joe's
back.
"This is really disgusting! That guy's nothing but a fucking
sadist!" I said.
"Is he a sadist?" Baldy asked Ballard.
"He's a fucking sadist," said Ballard.
The next play Kong shifted back to the smallest guy. He just ran over
him and piled on top of him, dropping him hard. The little guy didn't move
for a while. Then he sat up and held his head. It looked like he was
finished. I stood up.
"Well, here I go," I said.
"Get that son-of-a-bitch!" said Baldy.
"Sure," I said. I walked down to the field.
"Hey, fellas. Need a player?"
The little guy stood up, started to walk off the field. He stopped as
he reached me.
"Don't go in there. All that guy wants is to kill somebody."
"It's just touch football," I said.
It was our ball. I got into the huddle with Joe Stapen and the other
two survivors.
"What's the game plan?" I asked.
"Just to stay the fuck alive," said Joe Stapen.
"What's the score?"
"I think they're winning," said Lenny Hill, the center. We broke out of
the huddle. Joe Stapen stood back and waited for the ball. I stood looking
at Kong. I'd never seen him around campus. He probably hung around the men's
crapper in the gym. He looked like a shit-sniffer. He also looked like a
fetus-eater.
"Time!" I called.
Lenny Hill straightened up over the ball. I looked at Kong.
"My name's Hank. Hank Chinaski. Journalism."
Kong didn't answer. He just stared at me. He had dead white skin. There
was no glitter or life in his eyes.
"What's your name?" I asked him. He just kept staring.
"What's the matter? Got some placenta caught in your teeth?"
Kong slowly raised his right arm. Then he straightened it out and
pointed a finger at me. Then he lowered his arm.
"Well, suck my weenie," I said, "what's that mean?"
"Come on, let's play ball," one of Kong's mates said. Lenny bent over
the ball and snapped it. Kong came at me. I couldn't seem to focus on him. I
saw the grandstand and some trees and part of the Chemistry Building shake
as he crashed into me. He knocked me over backwards and then circled around
me, flapping his arms like wings. I got up, feeling dizzy. First Becker
K.O.'s me, then this sadistic ape. He smelled; he stank; a real evil son-of-
a-bitch.
Stapen had thrown an incomplete pass. We huddled.
"I got an idea," I said.
"What's that?" asked Joe.
"I'll throw the ball. You block."
"Let's leave it the way it is," said Joe.
We broke out of the huddle. Lenny bent over the ball, snapped it back
to Stapen. Kong came at me. I lowered a shoulder and rushed at him. He had
too much strength. I bounced off him, straightened up, and as I did Kong
came again, knifing his shoulder into my belly. I fell. I leaped up right
away but I didn't feel like getting up. I was having breathing problems.
Stapen had thrown a short complete pass. Third down. No huddle. When
the ball snapped Kong and I ran at each other. At the last moment I left my
feet and hurled myself at him. The weight of my body hit his neck and his
head, knocking him off balance. As he fell I kicked him as hard as I could
and caught him right on the chin. We were both on the ground. I got up
first. As Kong rose there was a red blotch on the side of his face and blood
at the corner of his mouth. We trotted back to our positions.
Stapen had thrown an incomplete pass. Fourth down. Stapen dropped back
to punt. Kong dropped back to protect his safety man. The safety man caught
the punt and they came pounding up the field, Kong leading 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 English Lit 1. "
"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.
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."