Charles Bukowski - Ham On Rye

"Hey, honey, don't you wanna play?"

"Yeah, but only when it's my game."

"You scared or queer?"

"Both," I said, sitting at the far end of the bar. There was a guy between us, his head on the bar. His wallet was gone. When he awakened and complained, he'd either be thrown out by the bartender or handed over to the police.

After serving Becker and the B-girl the bartender came back behind the bar and walked over to me.

"Yeh?"

"Nothing."

"Yeh? What ya want in here?"

"I'm waiting for my friend," I nodded at the corner booth.

"You sit here, you gotta drink."

"O.K. Water."

The bartender went off, came hack, set down a glass of water.

"Two bits."

I paid him.

The girl at the bar said to the bartender, "He's queer or scared."

The bartender didn't say anything. Then Becker waved to him and he went to take their order.

The girl looked at me. "How come you ain't in uniform?"

"I don't like to dress like everybody else."

"Are there any other reasons?"

"The other reasons are my own business."

"Fuck you," she said.

The bartender came back. "You need another drink."

"O.K.," I said, slipping another quarter toward him.

Outside, Becker and I walked down Main Street.

"How'd it go?" I asked.

"There was a table charge, plus the two drinks. It came to $32."

"Christ, I could stay drunk for two weeks on that."

"She grabbed my dick under the table, she rubbed it."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing. She just kept rubbing my dick."

"I'd rather rub my own dick and keep the thirty-two bucks."

"But she was so beautiful."

"God damn, man, I'm walking along in step with a perfect idiot."

"Someday I'm going to write all this down. I'll be on the library shelves: BECKER. The 'B's' are very weak, they need help."

"You talk too much about writing," I said.

We found another bar near the bus depot. It wasn't a hustle joint. There was just a barkeep and five or six travelers, all men. Becker and I sat down.

"It's on me," said Becker.

"Eastside in the bottle."

Becker ordered two. He looked at me.

"Come on, be a man, join up. Be a Marine."

"I don't get any thrill trying to be a man."

"Seems to me you're always beating up on somebody."

"That's just for entertainment."

"Join up. It'll give you something to write about."

"Becker, there's always something to write about."

"What are you gonna do, then?"

I pointed at my bottle, picked it up.

"How are ya gonna make it?" Becker asked.

"Seems like I've heard that question all my life."

"Well, I don't know about you but I'm going to try everything! War, women, travel, marriage, children, the works. The first car I own I'm going to take it completely apart! Then I'm going to put it back together again! I want to know about things, what makes them work! I'd like to be a correspondent in Washington, D.C. I'd like to be where big things are happening."

"Washington's crap, Becker."

"And women? Marriage? Children?"

"Crap."

"Yeah? Well, what do you want?"

"To hide."

"You poor fuck. You need another beer."

"All right."

The beer arrived.

We sat quietly. I could sense that Becker was off on his own, thinking about being a Marine, about being a writer, about getting laid. He'd probably make a good writer. He was bursting with enthusiasms. He probably loved many things: the hawk in flight, the god-damned ocean, full moon, Balzac, bridges, stage plays, the Pulitzer Prize, the piano, the god-damned Bible.

There was a small radio in the bar. There was a popular song playing. Then in the middle of the song there was an interruption. The announcer said, "A bulletin has just come in. The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. I repeat: The Japanese have just bombed Pearl Harbor. All military personnel are requested to return immediately to their bases!"

We looked at each other, hardly able to understand what we'd just heard.

"Well," said Becker quietly, "that's it."

"Finish your beer," I told him. Becker took a hit.

"Jesus, suppose some stupid son-of-a-bitch points a machine gun at me and pulls the trigger?"

"That could well happen."

"Hank…"

"What?"

"Will you ride back to the base with me on the bus?"

"I can't do that."

The bartender, a man about 45 with a watermelon gut and fuzzy eyes walked over to us. He looked at Becker. "Well, Marine, it looks like you gotta go back to your base, hub?"

That pissed me. "Hey, fat boy, let him finish his drink, O.K.?"

"Sure, sure… Want a drink on the house. Marine? How about a shot of good whiskey?"

"No," said Becker, "it's all right."

"Go ahead," I told Becker, "take the drink. He figures you're going to die to save his bar."

"All right," said Becker, "I'll take the drink."

The barkeep looked at Becker.

"You got a nasty friend…"

"Just give him his drink," I said.

The other few customers were babbling wildly about Pearl Harbor. Before, they wouldn't speak to each other. Now they were mobilized. The Tribe was in danger.

Becker got his drink. It was a double shot of whiskey. He drank it down.

"I never told you this," he said, "but I'm an orphan."

"God damn," I said.

"Will you at least come to the bus depot with me?"

"Sure."

We got up and walked toward the door,

The barkeep was rubbing his hands all over his apron. He had his apron all bunched up and was excitedly rubbing his hands on it.

"Good luck, Marine!" he hollered.

Becker walked out. I paused inside the door and looked back at the barkeep.

"World War I, eh?"

"Yeh, yeh…" he said happily.

I caught up with Becker. We half-ran to the bus depot together. Servicemen in uniform were already beginning to arrive. The whole place had an air of excitement. A sailor ran past.

"I'M GOING TO KILL ME A JAP!" he screamed. Becker stood in the ticket line. One of the servicemen had his girlfriend with him. The girl was talking, crying, holding onto him, kissing him. Poor Becker only had me. I stood to one side, waiting. It was a long wait. The same sailor who had screamed earlier came up to me. "Hey, fellow, aren't you going to help us?

What're you standing there for? Why don't you go down and sign

^^ up?

There was whiskey on his breath. He had freckles and a very large nose.

"You're going to miss your bus," I told him. He went off toward the bus departure point.

" Fuck the god-damned fucking Japs!" he said.

Becker finally had his ticket. I walked him to his bus. He stood in another line.

"Any advice?" he asked.

"No."

The line was filing slowly into the bus. The girl was weeping and talking rapidly and quietly to her soldier. Becker was at the door. I punched him on the shoulder. "You're the best I've known."

"Thanks, Hank…"

"Goodbye…"

I walked out of there. Suddenly there was traffic on the street. People were driving badly, running stoplights, screaming at each other. I walked back over to Main Street. America was at war. I looked into my wallet: I had a dollar. I counted my change: 61.

I walked along Main Street. There wouldn't be much for the B-girls today. I walked along. Then I came to the Penny Arcade. There wasn't anybody in there. Just the owner standing in his high-perched booth. It was dark in that place and it stank of piss.

I walked along in the dark aisles among the broken machines. They called it a Penny Arcade but most of the games cost a nickel and some a dime. I stopped at the boxing machine, my favorite. Two little steel men stood in a glass cage with buttons on their chins. There were two hand grips, like pistol grips, with triggers, and when you squeezed the triggers the arms of your fighter would uppercut wildly. You could move your fighter back and forth and from side to side. When you hit the button on the chin of the other fighter he would go down hard on his back, K.O.'d. When I was a kid and Max Schmeling K.O.'d Joe Louis, I had run out into the street looking for my buddies, yelling "Hey, Max Schmeling K.O.'d Joe Louis!" And nobody answered me, nobody said anything, they had just walked away with their heads down.