Ham on Rye: A Novel

by Charles Bukowski

  Then I saw the girls leap up and follow Jim into the water. I heard them giggling and screaming like mindless…what? No, they were nice. They weren’t like grown-ups and parents. They laughed. Things were funny. They weren’t afraid to care. There was no sense to life, to the structure of things. D. H. Lawrence had known that. You needed love, but not the kind of love most people used and were used up by. Old D. H. had known something. His buddy Huxley was just an intellectual fidget, but what a marvelous one. Better than G. B. Shaw with that hard keel of a mind always scraping bottom, his labored wit finally only a task, a burden on himself, preventing him from really feeling anything, his brilliant speech finally a bore, scraping the mind and the sensibilities. It was good to read them all though. It made you realize that thoughts and words could be fascinating, if finally useless.

  Jim was splashing water on the girls. He was the Water God and they loved him. He was the possibility and the promise. He was great. He knew how to do it. I had read many books but he had read a book that I had never read. He was an artist with his little pair of bathing trunks and his balls and his wicked little look and his round ears. He was the best. I couldn’t challenge him any more than I could have challenged that big son-of-a-bitch in the green coupe with the looker whose hair flowed in the wind. They both had got what they deserved. I was just a 50-cent turd floating around in the green ocean of life.

  I watched them come out of the water, glistening, smooth-skinned and young, undefeated. I wanted them to want me. But never out of pity. Yet, despite their smooth untouched bodies and minds they still were missing something because they were as yet basically untested. When adversity finally arrived in their lives it might come too late or too hard. I was ready. Maybe.

  I watched Jim toweling off, using one of their towels. As I watched, somebody’s child, a boy of about four came along, picked up a handful of sand and threw it in my face. Then he just stood there, glowering, his sandy stupid little mouth puckered in some kind of victory. He was a daring darling little shit. I wiggled my finger for him to come closer, come, come. He stood there.

  “Little boy,” I said, “come here. I have a bag of candy-covered shit for you to eat.”

  The fucker looked, turned and ran off. He had a stupid ass. Two little pear-shaped buttocks wobbling, almost disjointed. But, another enemy gone.

  Then Jim, the lady killer, was back. He stood there over me. Glowering also.

  “They’re gone,” he said.

  I looked down to where the five girls had been and sure enough they were gone.

  “Where did they go?” I asked.

  “Who gives a fuck? I’ve got the phone numbers of the two best ones.”

  “Best ones for what?”

  “For fucking, you jerk!”

  I stood up.

  “I think I’ll deck you, jerk!”

  His face looked good in the sea wind. I could already see him, knocked down, squirming on the sand, kicking up his white-bottomed feet.

  Jim backed off.

  “Take it easy, Hank. Look, you can have their phone numbers!”

  “Keep them. I don’t have your god-damned dumb ears!”

  “O.K., O.K., we’re friends, remember?”

  We walked up the beach to the strand where we had our bicycles locked behind someone’s beach house. And as we walked along we both knew whose day it had been, and knocking somebody on their ass could not have changed that, although it might have helped, but not enough. All the way home, on our bikes, I didn’t try to show him up as I had earlier. I needed something more. Maybe I needed that blonde in the green coupe with her long hair blowing in the wind.

  40

  R.O.T.C. (Reserve Officer Training Corps) was for the misfits. Like I said, it was either that or gym. I would have taken gym but I didn’t want people to see the boils on my back. There was something wrong with everybody enrolled in R.O.T.C. It almost entirely consisted of guys who didn’t like sports or guys whose parents forced them to take R.O.T.C. because they thought it was patriotic. The parents of rich kids tended to be more patriotic because they had more to lose if the country went under. The poor parents were far less patriotic, and then often professed their patriotism only because it was expected or because it was the way they had been raised. Subconsciously they knew it wouldn’t be any better or worse for them if the Russians or the Germans or the Chinese or the Japanese ran the country, especially if they had dark skin. Things might even improve. Anyhow, since many of the parents of Chelsey High were rich, we had one of the biggest R.O.T.C.’s in the city.

  So we marched around in the sun and learned to dig latrines, cure snake-bite, tend the wounded, tie tourniquets, bayonet the enemy; we learned about hand grenades, infiltration, deployment of troops, maneuvers, retreats, advances, mental and physical discipline; we got on the firing range, bang bang, and we got our marksmen’s medals. We had actual field maneuvers, we went out into the woods and waged a mock war. We crawled on our bellies toward each other with our rifles. We were very serious. Even I was serious. There was something about it that got your blood going. It was stupid and we all knew it was stupid, most of us, but something clicked in our brains and we really wanted to get involved in it. We had an old retired Army man, Col. Sussex. He was getting senile and drooled, little trickles of saliva running out of the corners of his mouth and down, around and under his chin. He never said anything. He just stood around in his uniform covered with medals and drew his pay from the high school. During our mock maneuvers he carried around a clipboard and kept score. He stood on a high hill and made marks on the clipboard—probably. But he never told us who won. Each side claimed victory. It made for bad feelings.

  Lt. Herman Beechcroft was best. His father owned a bakery and a hotel catering service, whatever that was. Anyhow, he was best. He always gave the same speech before a maneuver.

  “Remember, you must hate the enemy! They want to rape your mother and sisters! Do you want those monsters to rape your mother and sisters?”

  Lt. Beechcroft had almost no chin at all. His face dropped away suddenly and where the jaw bone should have been there was only a little button. We weren’t sure if it was a deformity or not. But his eyes were magnificent in their fury, large blue blazing symbols of war and victory.

  “Whitlinger!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Would you want those guys raping your mother?”

  “My mother’s dead, sir.”

  “Oh, sorry…Drake!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Would you want those guys raping your mother?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Good. Remember, this is war! We accept mercy but we do not give mercy. You must hate the enemy. Kill him! A dead man can’t defeat you. Defeat is a disease! Victory writes history! NOW LET’S GO GET THOSE COCKSUCKERS!”

  We deployed our line, sent out the advance scouts and began crawling through the brush. I could see Col. Sussex on his hill with his clipboard. It was the Blues vs. the Greens. We each had a piece of colored rag tied around our upper right arm. We were the Blues. Crawling through those bushes was pure hell. It was hot. There were bugs, dust, rocks, thorns. I didn’t know where I was. Our squad leader, Kozak, had vanished somewhere. There was no communication. We were fucked. Our mothers were going to get raped. I kept crawling forward, bruising and scratching myself, feeling lost and scared, but really feeling more the fool. All this vacant land and empty sky, hills, streams, acres and acres. Who owned it all? Probably the father of one of the rich guys. We weren’t going to capture anything. The whole place was on loan to the high school. NO SMOKING. I crawled forward. We had no air cover, no tanks, nothing. We were just a bunch of fairies out on a half-assed maneuver without food, without women, without reason. I stood up, walked over and sat down with my back against a tree, put my rifle down and waited.

  Everybody was lost and it didn’t matter. I pulled my arm band off and waited for a Red Cross Ambulance or something. War was probably hell but the in-between
parts were boring.

  Then the bushes cracked open and a guy leaped out and saw me. He had on a Green arm band. A rapist. He pointed his rifle at me. I had no arm band on, it was down in the grass. He wanted to take a prisoner. I knew him. He was Harry Missions. His father owned a lumber company. I sat there against the tree.

  “Blue or Green?” he hollered at me.

  “I’m Mata Hari.”

  “A spy! I take spies!”

  “Come on, cut the shit, Harry. This is a game for children. Don’t bother me with your fetid melodrama.”

  The bushes cracked open again and there was Lt. Beechcroft. Missions and Beechcroft faced each other.

  “I hereby take you prisoner!” screamed Beechcroft at Missions.

  “I hereby take you prisoner!” screamed Missions at Beechcroft.

  They both were really nervous and angry, I could feel it.

  Beechcroft drew his sabre. “Surrender or I’ll run you through!”

  Missions grabbed his gun by the barrel. “Come over here and I’ll knock your god-damned head off!”

  Then the bushes cracked open everywhere. The screaming had attracted both the Blues and the Greens. I sat against the tree while they mixed it up. There was dust and scuffling and now and then the evil sound of rifle stock against skull. “Oh, Jesus! Oh, my God!” Some bodies were down. Rifles were lost. There were fist fights and headlocks. I saw two guys with Green arm bands locked in a death-grip. Then Col. Sussex appeared. He blew frantically on his whistle. Spit sprayed everywhere. Then he ran over with his swagger stick and began beating the troops with it. He was good. It cut like a whip and sliced like a razor.

  “Oh shit! I QUIT!”

  “No, stop! Jesus! Mercy!”

  “Mother!”

  The troops separated and stood looking at each other. Col. Sussex picked up his clipboard. His uniform was unwrinkled. His medals were still in place. His cap sat at the correct angle. He flipped his swagger stick, caught it, and walked off. We followed.

  We climbed into the old army trucks with their ripped canvas sides and tops that had brought us. The engines started and we drove off. We faced each other on the long wooden benches. We had come out, all the Blues in one of the trucks, all the Greens in the other. Now we were mixed together, sitting there, most of us looking down at our scuffed and dusty shoes, being jiggled this way and that, to the left, to the right, up and down, as the truck tires hit the ruts in the old roads. We were tired and we were defeated and we were frustrated. The war was over.

  41

  R.O.T.C. kept me away from sports while the other guys practiced every day. They made the school teams, won their letters and got the girls. My days were spent mostly marching around in the sun. All you ever saw were the backs of some guy’s ears and his buttocks. I quickly became disenchanted with military proceedings. The others shined their shoes brightly and seemed to go through maneuvers with relish. I couldn’t see any sense in it. They were just getting shaped up in order to get their balls blown off later. On the other hand, I couldn’t see myself crouched down in a football helmet, shoulder pads laced on, decked out in Blue and White, #69, trying to block some mean son-of-a-bitch from across town, trying to move out some brute with tacos on his breath so that the son of the district attorney could slant off left tackle for six yards. The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.

  I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. Suicide? Jesus Christ, just more work. I felt like sleeping for five years but they wouldn’t let me.

  So there I was, at Chelsey High, still in the R. O. T. C., still with my boils. That always reminded me of how fucked up I was.

  It was a grand day. One man from each squad who had won the Manual of Arms competition within his squad stepped into a long line where the final competition was to be held. Somehow I had won the competition in my squad. I had no idea how. I was no hot shot.

  It was Saturday. Many mothers and fathers were in the stands. Somebody blew a bugle. A sword flashed. Commands rang out. Right shoulder arms! Left shoulder arms! Rifles hit shoulders, rifle butts hit the ground, rifle stocks slammed into shoulders again. Little girls sat in the stands in their blue and green and yellow and orange and pink and white dresses. It was hot, it was boring, it was insanity.

  “Chinaski, you are competing for the honor of our squadron!”

  “Yes, Corporal Monty.”

  All those little girls in the stands each waiting for her lover, for her winner, for her corporate executive. It was sad. A flock of pigeons, frightened by a piece of paper blown in the wind, flapped noisily away. I yearned to be drunk on beer. I wanted to be anywhere but here.

  As each man made an error he dropped out of line. Soon there were six, then five, then three. I was still there. I had no desire to win. I knew that I wouldn’t win. I’d soon be out of it. I wanted to be out of there. I was tired and bored. And covered with boils. I didn’t give cream-shit for what they were chasing. But I couldn’t make an obvious error. Corporal Monty would be hurt.

  Then there were just two of us. Me and Andrew Post. Post was a darling. His father was a great criminal lawyer. He was in the stands with his wife, Andrew’s mother. Post was sweating but determined. We both knew that he would win. I could feel the energy and all the energy was his.

  It’s all right, I thought, he needs it, they need it. It’s the way it works. It’s the way it’s meant to work.

  We went on and on, repeating various Manual of Arms maneuvers. From the corner of my eye I saw the goal posts on the field and I thought, maybe if I had tried harder I could have become a great football player.

  “ORDER!” shouted the Commander and I ripped my bolt home. There had been only one click. There had been no click to my left. Andrew Post had frozen. A little moan rose from the grandstands.

  “ARMS!” the Commander finished and I completed the maneuver. Post did too but his bolt was open…

  The actual ceremony for the winner came some days later. Luckily for me there were other awards to be given. I stood and waited with the others as Col. Sussex came down the line. My boils were worse than ever and as always when I was wearing that itchy brown wool uniform the sun was up and hot and making me conscious of every wool fiber in that son-of-a-bitching shirt. I wasn’t much of a soldier and everybody knew it. I had won on a fluke because I hadn’t cared enough to be nervous. I felt badly for Col. Sussex because I knew what he was thinking and maybe he knew what I was thinking: that his peculiar type of devotion and courage didn’t seem exceptional to me.

  Then he was standing right in front of me. I stood at attention but managed to sneak a peek at him. He had his saliva in good order. Maybe when he was pissed-off it dried up. In spite of the heat there was a good west wind blowing. Col. Sussex pinned the medal on me. Then he reached out and shook my hand.

  “Congratulations,” he said. Then he smiled at me. And moved on.

  Why the old fuck. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all…

  Walking home I had the medal in my pocket. Who was Col. Sussex? Just some guy who had to shit like the rest of us. Everybody had to conform, find a mold to fit into. Doctor, lawyer, soldier—it didn’t matter what it was. Once in the mold you had to push forward. Sussex was as helpless as the next man. Either you managed to do something or you starved in the streets.

  I was alone, walking. On my side of the street just before reaching the first boulevard on the long walk home th
ere was a small neglected store. I stopped and looked in the window. Various objects were on display with their soiled price tags. I saw some candle holders. There was an electric toaster. A table lamp. The glass of the window was dirty inside and out. Through the rather dusty brown smear I saw two toy dogs grinning. A miniature piano. These things were for sale. They didn’t look very appealing. There weren’t any customers in the store and I couldn’t see a clerk either. It was a place I had passed many times before but had never stopped to examine.

  I looked in and I liked it. There was nothing happening there. It was a place to rest, to sleep. Everything in there was dead. I could see myself happily employed as a clerk there so long as no customers entered the door.

  I turned away from the window and walked along some more. Just before reaching the boulevard I stepped into the street and saw an enormous storm drain almost at my feet. It was like a great black mouth leading down to the bowels of the earth. I reached into my pocket and took the medal and tossed it toward the black opening. It went right in. It disappeared into the darkness.

  Then I stepped onto the sidewalk and walked back home. When I got there my parents were busy with various cleaning chores. It was a Saturday. Now I had to mow and clip the lawn, water it and the flowers.

  I changed into my working clothes, went out, and with my father watching me from beneath his dark and evil eyebrows, I opened the garage doors and carefully pulled the mower out backwards, the mower blades not turning then, but waiting.

  42

  “You ought to try to be like Abe Mortenson,” said my mother, “he gets straight A’s. Why can’t you ever get any A’s?”

  “Henry is dead on his ass,” said my father. “Sometimes I can’t believe he’s my son.”

  “Don’t you want to be happy, Henry?” asked my mother. “You never smile. Smile and be happy.”