Run With the Hunted (6 page)

The President listened to the applause, waved, then went back to his car, got in, and was driven off followed by carloads of secret service agents as the sun began to sink, the afternoon turning into evening, red and gold and wonderful. We had seen and heard President Herbert Hoover.

I turned in my essay on Monday. On Tuesday Mrs. Fretag faced the class.

“I've read all your essays about our distinguished President's visit to Los Angeles. I was there. Some of you, I noticed, could not attend for one reason or another. For those of you who could not attend, I would like to read this essay by Henry Chinaski.”

The class was terribly silent. I was the most unpopular member of the class by far. It was like a knife slicing through all their hearts.

“This is very creative,” said Mrs. Fretag, and she began to read my essay. The words sounded good to me. Everybody was listening. My words filled the room, from blackboard to blackboard, they hit the ceiling and bounced off, they covered Mrs. Fretag's shoes and piled up on the floor. Some of the prettiest girls in the class began to sneak glances at me. All the tough guys were pissed. Their essays hadn't been worth shit. I drank in my words like a thirsty man. I even began to believe them. I saw Juan sitting there like I'd punched him in the face. I stretched out my legs and leaned back. All too soon it was over.

“Upon this grand note,” said Mrs. Fretag, “I hereby dismiss the class …”

They got up and began packing out.

“Not you, Henry,” said Mrs. Fretag.

I sat in my chair and Mrs. Fretag stood there looking at me.

Then she said, “Henry, were you there?”

I sat there trying to think of an answer. I couldn't. I said, “No, I wasn't there.”

She smiled. “That makes it all the more remarkable.”

“Yes, ma'am …”

“You can leave, Henry.”

I got up and walked out. I began my walk home. So, that's what they wanted: lies. Beautiful lies. That's what they needed. People were fools. It was going to be easy for me. I looked around. Juan and his buddy were not following me. Things were looking up.

—
H
AM ON
R
YE

when my father ate

his lips became

greasy

with food.

and when he ate

he talked about how

good

the food was

and that

most other people

didn't eat

as good

as we

did.

he liked to

sop up

what was left

on his plate

with a piece of

bread,

meanwhile making

appreciative sounds

rather like

half-

grunts.

he
slurped
his

coffee

making loud

bubbling

sounds.

then he'd put

the cup

down:

“dessert? is it

jello?”

my mother would

bring it

in a large bowl

and my father would

spoon it

out.

as it plopped

in the dish

the jello made

strange sounds,

almost fart-

like

sounds.

then came the

whipped cream,

mounds of it

on the

jello.

“ah! jello and

whipped cream!”

my father sucked the

jello and whipped

cream

off his spoon—

it sounded as if it

was entering a

wind

tunnel.

finished with

that

he would wipe his

mouth

with a huge white

napkin,

rubbing hard

in circular

motions,

the napkin almost

hiding his

entire

face.

after that

out came the

Camel

cigarettes.

he'd light one

with a wooden

kitchen match,

then place the

match,

still burning,

onto an

ashtray.

then a slurp of

coffee, the cup

back down, and a go

drag on the

Camel.

“ah that was a

good

meal!”

moments later

in my bedroom

on my bed

in the dark

the food that I

had eaten

and what I had

seen

was already

making me

ill.

the only good

thing

was

listening to

the crickets

out there,

out there

in another world

I didn't

live

in.

 

One day, just like in grammar school, like with David, a boy attached himself to me. He was small and thin and had almost no hair on top of his head. The guys called him Baldy. His real name was Eli LaCrosse. I liked his real name, but I didn't like him. He just glued himself to me. He was so pitiful that I couldn't tell him to get lost. He was like a mongrel dog, starved and kicked. Yet it didn't make me feel good going around with him. But since I knew that mongrel dog feeling, I let him hang around. He used a cuss word in almost every sentence, at least one cuss word, but it was all fake, he wasn't tough, he was scared. I wasn't scared but I was confused so maybe we were a good pair.

I walked him back to his place after school every day. He was living with his mother, his father and his grandfather. They had a little house across from a small park. I liked the area, it had great shade trees, and since some people had told me that I was ugly, I always preferred shade to the sun, darkness to light.

During our walks home Baldy had told me about his father. He had been a doctor, a successful surgeon, but he had lost his license because he was a drunk. One day I met Baldy's father. He was sitting in a chair under a tree, just sitting there.

“Dad,” he said, “this is Henry.”

“Hello, Henry.”

It reminded me of when I had seen my grandfather for the first time, standing on the steps of his house. Only Baldy's father had black hair and a black beard, but his eyes were the same—brilliant and glowing, so strange. And here was Baldy, the son, and he didn't glow at all.

“Come on,” Baldy said, “follow me.”

We went down into a cellar, under the house. It was dark and damp and we stood awhile until our eyes grew used to the gloom. Then I could see a number of barrels.

“These barrels are full of different kinds of wine,” Baldy said. “Each barrel has a spigot. Want to try some?”

“No.”

“Go ahead, just try a god-damned sip.”

“What for?”

“You think you're a god-damned man or what?”

“I'm tough,” I said.

“Then take a fucking sample.”

Here was little Baldy, daring me. No problem. I walked up to a barrel, ducked my head down.

“Turn the god-damned spigot! Open your god-damned mouth!”

“Are there any spiders around here?”

“Go on! Go on, god damn it!”

I put my mouth under the spigot and opened it. A smelly liquid trickled out and into my mouth. I spit it out.

“Don't be chicken! Swallow it, what the shit!”

I opened the spigot and I opened my mouth. The smelly liquid entered and I swallowed it. I turned off the spigot and stood there. I thought I was going to puke.

“Now, you drink some,” I said to Baldy.

“Sure,” he said, “I ain't fucking afraid!”

He got down under a barrel and took a good swallow. A little punk like that wasn't going to outdo me. I got under another barrel, opened it and took a swallow. I stood up. I was beginning to feel good.

“Hey, Baldy,” I said, “I like this stuff.”

“Well, shit, try some more.”

I tried some more. It was tasting better. I was feeling better.

“This stuff belongs to your father, Baldy. I shouldn't drink it all.”

“He doesn't care. He's stopped drinking.”

Never had I felt so good. It was better than masturbating.

I went from barrel to barrel. It was magic. Why hadn't someone told me? With this, life was great, a man was perfect, nothing could touch him.

I stood up straight and looked at Baldy.

“Where's your mother? I'm going to fuck your mother!”

“I'll kill you, you bastard, you stay away from my mother!”

“You know I can whip you, Baldy.”

“Yes.”

“All right, I'll leave your mother alone.”

“Let's go then, Henry.”

“One more drink …”

I went to a barrel and took a long one. Then we went up the cellar stairway. When we were out, Baldy's father was still sitting in his chair.

“You boys been in the wine cellar, eh?”

“Yes,” said Baldy.

“Starting a little early, aren't you?”

We didn't answer. We walked over to the boulevard and Baldy and I went into a store which sold chewing gum. We bought several packs of it and stuck it into our mouths. He was worried about his mother finding out. I wasn't worried about anything. We sat on a park bench and chewed the gum and I thought, well, now I have found something, I have found something that is going to help me, for a long long time to come. The park grass looked greener, the park benches looked better and the flowers were trying harder. Maybe that stuff wasn't good for surgeons but anybody who wanted to be a surgeon, there was something wrong with them in the first place.

—
H
AM ON
R
YE

50 years ago I watched the girls

shake it and strip

at The Burbank and The Follies

and it was very sad

and very dramatic

as the light turned from green to

purple to pink

and the music was loud and

vibrant,

now I sit here tonight

smoking and

listening to classical

music

but I still remember some of

their names: Darlene, Candy, Jeanette

and Rosalie.

Rosalie was the

best, she knew how,

and we twisted in our seats and

made sounds

as Rosalie brought magic

to the lonely

so long ago.

now Rosalie

either so very old or

so quiet under the

earth,

this is the pimple-faced

kid

who lied about his

age

just to watch

you.

you were good, Rosalie

in 1935,

good enough to remember

now

when the light is

yellow

and the nights are

slow.

 

Jr. high went by quickly enough. About the eighth grade, going into the ninth, I broke out with acne. Many of the guys had it but not like mine. Mine was really terrible. I was the worst case in town. I had pimples and boils all over my face, back, neck, and some on my chest. It happened just as I was beginning to be accepted as a tough guy and a leader. I was still tough but it wasn't the same. I had to withdraw. I watched people from afar, it was like a stage play. Only they were on stage and I was an audience of one. I'd always had trouble with the girls but with acne it was impossible. The girls were further away than ever. Some of them were truly beautiful—their dresses, their hair, their eyes, the way they stood around. Just to walk down the street during an afternoon with one, you know, talking about everything and anything, I think that would have made me feel very good.