Charles Bukowski - Ham On Rye

"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."

"I just got paid."

"The girls drink tea and they water your drinks. The prices are double and you never see the girl afterwards."

"I'm going in."

Becker walked in. One of the best unpublished writers in America, dressed to kill and to die. I followed him. He walked up to one of the girls and spoke to her. She pulled her skirt up, swung her high heels and laughed. They walked over to a booth in a corner. The bartender came around the bar to take their order. The other girl at the bar looked at me.