Run With the Hunted (9 page)

“All right,” she said, “this is going to be your last ultra-violet ray treatment. Lay on your stomach.”

“I know your first name now,” I told her. “Janice. That's a pretty name. It's just like you.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said.

I saw her once again when the first buzzer sounded. I turned over, Janice re-set the machine and left the room. I never saw her again.

My father didn't believe in doctors who were not free. “They make you piss in a tube, take your money, and drive home to their wives in Beverly Hills,” he said.

But once he did send me to one. To a doctor with bad breath and a head as round as a basketball, only with two little eyes where a basketball had none. I didn't like my father and the doctor wasn't any better. He said, no fried foods, and to drink carrot juice. That was it.

I would re-enter high school the next term, said my father.

“I'm busting my ass to keep people from stealing. Some nigger broke the glass on a case and stole some rare coins yesterday. I caught the bastard. We rolled down the stairway together. I held him until the others came. I risk my life every day. Why should you sit around on your ass, moping? I want you to be an engineer. How the hell you gonna be an engineer when I find notebooks full of women with their skirts pulled up to their ass? Is
that
all you can draw? Why don't you draw flowers or mountains or the ocean? You're going back to school!”

I drank carrot juice and waited to re-enroll. I had only missed one term. The boils weren't cured but they weren't as bad as they had been.

—
H
AM ON
R
YE

16 years old

during the depression

I'd come home drunk

and all my clothing—

shorts, shirts, stockings—

suitcase, and pages of

short stories

would be thrown out on the

front lawn and about the

street.

my mother would be

waiting behind a tree:

“Henry, Henry, don't

go in … he'll

kill you, he's read

your stories …”

“I can whip his

ass …”

“Henry, please take

this … and

find yourself a room.”

but it worried him

that I might not

finish high school

so I'd be back

again.

one evening he walked in

with the pages of

one of my short stories

(which I had never submitted

to him)

and he said, “this is

a great short story.”

I said, “o.k.,”

and he handed it to me

and I read it.

it was a story about

a rich man

who had a fight with

his wife and had

gone out into the night

for a cup of coffee

and had observed

the waitress and the spoons

and forks and the

salt and pepper shakers

and the neon sign

in the window

and then had gone back

to his stable

to see and touch his

favorite horse

who then

kicked him in the head

and killed him.

somehow

the story held

meaning for him

though

when I had written it

I had no idea

of what I was

writing about.

so I told him,

“o.k., old man, you can

have it.”

and he took it

and walked out

and closed the door.

I guess that's

as close

as we ever got.

 

I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn't particularly want money. I didn't know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn't have to do anything. The thought of being something didn't only appall me, it sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer or a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work every day and to return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother's Day … was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep.

My father had a master plan. He told me, “My son, each man during his lifetime should buy a house. Finally he dies and leaves that house to his son. Then his son gets his own house and dies, leaves both houses to
his
son. That's two houses. That son gets his own house, that's three houses …”

The family structure. Victory over adversity through the family. He believed in it. Take the family, mix with God and Country, add the ten-hour day and you had what was needed.

I looked at my father, at his hands, his face, his eyebrows, and I knew that this man had nothing to do with me. He was a stranger. My mother was non-existent. I was cursed. Looking at my father I saw nothing but indecent dullness. Worse, he was even more afraid to fail than most others. Centuries of peasant blood and peasant training. The Chinaski bloodline had been thinned by a series of peasant-servants who had surrendered their real lives for fractional and illusionary gains. Not a man in the line who said, “I don't want a house, I want a
thousand
houses,
now!
”

He had sent me to that rich high school hoping that the ruler's attitude would rub off on me as I watched the rich boys screech up in their cream-colored coupes and pick up the girls in bright dresses. Instead I learned that the poor usually stay poor. That the young rich smell the stink of the poor and learn to find it a bit amusing. They had to laugh, otherwise it would be too terrifying. They'd learned that, through the centuries. I would never forgive the girls for getting into those cream-colored coupes with the laughing boys. They couldn't help it, of course, yet you always think, maybe … But no, there weren't any maybes. Wealth meant victory and victory was the only reality.

What woman chooses to live with a dishwasher?

Throughout high school I tried not to think too much about how things might eventually turn out for me. It seemed better to delay thinking …

Finally it was the day of the Senior Prom. It was held in the girls' gym with live music, a real band. I don't know why but I walked over that night, the two-and-one-half miles from my parents' place. I stood outside in the dark and I looked in there, through the wire-covered window, and I was astonished. All the girls looked very grown-up, stately, lovely, they were in long dresses, and they all looked beautiful. I almost didn't recognize them. And the boys in their tuxes, they looked great, they danced so straight, each of them holding a girl in his arms, their faces pressed against the girl's hair. They all danced beautifully and the music was loud and clear and good, powerful.

Then I caught a glimpse of my reflection staring in at them—boils and scars on my face, my ragged shirt. I was like some jungle animal drawn to the light and looking in. Why had I come? I felt sick. But I kept watching. The dance ended. There was a pause. Couples spoke easily to each other. It was natural and civilized. Where had they learned to converse and to dance? I couldn't converse or dance. Everybody knew something I didn't know. The girls looked so good, the boys so handsome. I would be too terrified to even look at one of those girls, let alone be close to one. To look into her eyes or dance with her would be beyond me.

And yet I knew that what I saw wasn't as simple and good as it appeared. There was a price to be paid for it all, a general falsity, that could be easily believed, and could be the first step down a dead-end street. The band began to play again and the boys and girls began to dance again and the lights revolved overhead throwing shades of gold, then red, then blue, then green, then gold again on the couples. As I watched them I said to myself, someday my dance will begin. When that day comes I will have something that they don't have.

But then it got to be too much for me. I hated them. I hated their beauty, their untroubled youth, and as I watched them dance through the magic colored pools of light, holding each other, feeling so good, little unscathed children, temporarily in luck, I hated them because they had something I had not yet had, and I said to myself, I said to myself again,
someday I will be as happy as any of you, you will see
.

They kept dancing, and I repeated it to them.

Then there was a sound behind me.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

It was an old man with a flashlight. He had a head like a frog's head.

“I'm watching the dance.”

He held the flashlight right up under his nose. His eyes were round and large, they gleamed like a cat's eyes in the moonlight. But his mouth was shriveled, collapsed, and his head was round. It had a peculiar senseless roundness that reminded me of a pumpkin trying to play pundit.

“Get your ass out of here!”

He ran the flashlight up and down all over me.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I'm the night custodian. Get your ass out of here before I call the cops!”

“What for? This is the Senior Prom and I'm a senior.”

He flashed his light into my face. The band was playing “Deep Purple.”

“Bullshit!” he said. “You're at least 22 years old!”

“I'm in the yearbook, Class of 1939, graduating class, Henry Chinaski.”

“Why aren't you in there dancing?”

“Forget it. I'm going home.”

“
Do that.
”

I walked off. I kept walking. His flashlight leaped on the path, the light following me. I walked off campus. It was a nice warm night, almost hot. I thought I saw some fireflies but I wasn't sure.

—
H
AM ON
R
YE

the old L.A. Public Library burned

down

that library downtown

and with it went

a large part of my

youth.

I sat on one of those stone

benches there with my friend

Baldy when he

asked,

“you gonna join the

Abraham Lincoln

Brigade?”

“sure,” I told

him.

but realizing that I wasn't

an intellectual or a political

idealist

I backed off on that

one

later.

I was a
reader

then

going from room to

room: literature, philosophy,

religion, even medicine

and geology.

early on

I decided to be a writer,

I thought it might be the easy

way

out

and the big boy novelists didn't look

too tough to

me.

I had more trouble with

Hegel and Kant.

the thing that bothered

me

about everybody

is that they took so long

to finally say

something lively and/

or

interesting.

I thought I had it

over everybody

then.

I was to discover two

things:

a) most publishers thought that anything

boring had something to do with things

profound.

b) that it would take decades of

living and writing

before I would be able to

put down

a sentence that was

anywhere near

what I wanted it to

be.

meanwhile

while other young men chased the

ladies

I chased the old

books.