Charles Bukowski - Ham On Rye

"You don't look like shit to me," I said. "How come everybody thinks you're hot shit?"

Walden glanced over to his right and when I turned my head to look in that direction, he slid around me as if I were something from the sewer and then a moment later he was in his seat in the class.

Almost every day it was Miss Gredis showing it all and Richard thumping away and this guy Walden sitting there saying nothing and acting like he believed he was a genius. I got sick of it.

I asked some of the other guys, "Listen, do you really think Harry Walden is a genius? He just sits around in his pretty clothes and doesn't say anything. What does that prove? We could all do that."

They didn't answer me. I couldn't understand their feelings about this fucking guy. And it got worse. Word got out that Harry Walden was going to see Miss Gredis every night, that he was her favorite pupil, and that they were making love. It made me sick. I could just imagine him getting out of his delicate green and blue outfit, folding it across a chair, then climbing out of his orange satin shorts and sliding under the sheets where Miss Gredis cuddled his curly golden head on her shoulder and fondled it and other things as well.

It was whispered about by the girls who always seemed to know everything. And even though the girls didn't particularly like Miss Gredis, they thought the situation was all right, that it was reasonable because Harry Walden was such a delicate genius and needed all the sympathy he could get. I caught Harry Walden in the hall one more time.

"I'll kick your ass, you son-of-a-bitch, you don't fool me!"

Harry Walden looked at me. Then he looked over my shoulder and pointed and said, "What's that over there?"

I looked around. When I looked back he was gone. He was sitting in the class safely surrounded by all the girls who thought he was a genius and who loved him.

There was more and more whispering about Harry Walden going over to Miss Gredis' house at night and some days Harry wouldn't even be in class. Those were the best days for me because I only had to deal with the thumping and not the golden curls and the adoration for that kind of stuff by all the little girls with their skirts and sweaters and starched gingham dresses. When Harry wasn't there the little girls would whisper, "He's just too sensitive … "

And Red Kirkpatrick would say, "She's fucking him to death."

One afternoon I walked into class and Harry Walden's seat was empty. I figured he was just fucking-off as usual. Then the word drifted from desk to desk. I was always the last to know anything. It finally got to me: Harry Walden had committed suicide. The night before. Miss Gredis didn't know yet. I looked over at his seat. He'd never sit there again. All those colorful clothes shot to hell. Miss Gredis finished roll call. She came and sat on the front desk, crossed her legs high. She had on a lighter shade of silk hose than ever before. Her skirt was hiked way back to her thighs.

"Our American culture," she said, "is destined for greatness. The English language, now so limited and structured, will be reinvented and improved upon. Our writers will use what I like to think of, in my mind, as Americanese.. ."

Miss Gredis' stockings were almost skin-colored. It was as if she were not wearing stockings at all, it was as if she were naked there in front of us, but since she wasn't and only appeared to be, that made it better than ever.

"More and more we will discover our own truths and our own way of speaking, and this new voice will be uncluttered by old histories, old mores, old dead and useless dreams…"

"Thump, thump, thump…"

Curly Wagner picked out Morris Moscowitz. It was after school and eight or ten of us guys had heard about it and we walked out behind the gym to watch. Wagner laid down the rules, "We fight until somebody hollers quit."

"0. K. with me," said Morris. Morris was a tall thin guy, he was a little bit dumb and he never said much or bothered anybody.

Wagner looked over at me. "And after I finish with this guy, I'm taking you on!"

" Me, coach?"

"Yeah, you, Chinaski."

I sneered at him.

"I'm going to get some god-damned respect from you guys if I have to whip all of you one by one!"

Wagner was cocky. He was always working out on the parallel bars or tumbling on the mat or taking laps around the track. He swaggered when he walked but he still had his pot belly. He liked to stand and stare at a guy for a long time like he was shit. I didn't know what was bothering him. We worried him. I believe he thought we were fucking all the girls like crazy and he didn't like to think about that.

They squared off. Wagner had some good moves. He bobbed, he weaved, he shuffled his feet, he moved in and out, and he made little hissing sounds. He was impressive. He caught Moscowitz with three straight left jabs. Moscowitz just stood there with his hands at his sides. He didn't know anything about boxing. Then Wagner cracked Moscowitz with a right to the jaw. "Shit!" said Morris and he threw a roundhouse right which Wagner ducked. Wagner countered with a right and left to Moscowitz' face. Morris had a bloody nose. "Shit!" he said and then he started swinging. And landing. You could hear the shots, they cracked against Wagner's head. Wagner tried to counter but his punches just didn't have the force and the fury of Moscowitz'.

"Holy shit! Get him, Morrie!"

Moscowitz was a puncher. He dug a left to that pot belly. Wagner gasped and dropped. He fell to both knees. His face was cut and bleeding. His chin was on his chest and he looked sick.

"I quit," Wagner said.

We left him there behind the building and we followed Morris Moscowitz out of there. He was our new hero.

"Shit, Morrie, you ought to turn pro!"

"Naw, I'm only thirteen years old."

We walked over behind the machine shop and stood around the steps. Somebody lit up some cigarettes and we passed them around.

"What has that man got against us?" asked Morrie.

"Hell, Morrie, don't you know? He's jealous. He thinks we're fucking all the chicks!"

"Why, I've never even kissed a girl."

"No shit, Morrie?"

"No shit."

"You ought to try dry-fucking, Morrie, it's great!"

Then we saw Wagner walking past. He was working on his face with his handkerchief.

"Hey, coach," yelled one of the guys, "how about a rematch?"

He stood and looked at us. "You boys put out those cigarettes!"

"Ah, no, coach, we like to smoke!"

"Come on over here, coach, and make us put out our cigarettes!"

"Yeah, come on, coach!"

Wagner stood looking at us. "I'm not done with you yet! I'll get every one of you, one way or the other!"

"How ya gonna do that, coach? Your talents seem limited."

"Yeah, coach, how ya gonna do it?"

He walked off the field to his car. I felt a little sorry for him. When a guy was that nasty he should be able to back it up.

"I guess he doesn't think there'll be a virgin on the grounds by the time we graduate," said one of the guys.

"I think," said another guy, "that somebody jacked-off into his ear and he has come for brains."

We left after that. It had been a fairly good day.

My mother went to her low-paying job each morning and my father, who didn't have a job, left each morning too. Although most of the neighbors were unemployed he didn't want them to think he was jobless. So he got into his car each morning at the same time and drove off as if he were going to work. Then in the evening he would return at exactly the same time. It was good for me because I had the place to myself. They locked the house but I knew how to get in. I would unhook the screen door with a piece of cardboard. They locked the porch door with a key from the inside. I slid a newspaper under the door and poked the key out. Then I pulled the newspaper from under the door and the key came with it. I would unlock the door and go in. When I left I would hook the screen door, lock the back porch door from the inside, leaving the key in. Then I would leave through the front door, putting the latch on lock.