n
again. Our friends in South America would pay their debts. Soon we would all
sleep  peacefully,  our  stomachs and our hearts full.  God  and  our  great
country  would  surround us with love and protect us  from  evil,  from  the
socialists, awaken us from our national nightmare, forever . . .


      The  President listened to the applause, waved, then went back to  his
car,  got  in,  and  was driven off followed by carloads of  secret  service
agents as the sun began to sink, the afternoon turning into evening, red and
gold and wonderful. We had seen and heard President Herbert Hoover.


     I turned in my essay on Monday. On Tuesday Mrs. Fretag faced the class.
     "I've read all your essays about our distinguished President's visit to
Los  Angeles. I was there. Some of you, I noticed, could not attend for  one
reason  or another. For those of you who could not attend, I would  like  to
read this essay by Henry Chinaski."
      The class was terribly silent. I was the most unpopular member of  the
class by far. It was like a knife slicing through all their hearts.
      "This  is very creative," said Mrs. Fretag, and she began to  read  my
essay.  The  words  sounded good to me. Everybody was  listening.  My  words
filled  the  room, from blackboard to blackboard, they hit the  ceiling  and
bounced  off,  they covered Mrs. Fretag's shoes and piled up on  the  floor.
Some  of the prettiest girls in the class began to sneak glances at me.  All
the tough guys were pissed. Their essays hadn't been worth shit. I drank  in
my  words  like  a  thirsty man. I even began to believe them.  I  saw  Juan
sitting there like I'd punched him in the face. I stretched out my legs  and
leaned back. All too soon it was over.
     "Upon this grand note," said Mrs. Fretag, "I hereby dismiss the class .
. ."
     They got up and began packing out.
      "Not  you, Henry," said Mrs. Fretag. I sat in my chair and Mrs. Fretag
stood there looking at me. Then she said, "Henry, were you there?"
      I  sat there trying to think of an answer. I couldn't. I said, "No,  I
wasn't there."
     She smiled. "That makes it all the more remarkable."
     "Yes, ma'am . . ."
     "You can leave, Henry."
      I  got  up and walked out. I began my walk home. So, that's what  they
wanted: lies. Beautiful lies. That's what they needed. People were fools. It
was  going to be easy for me. I looked around. Juan and his buddy  were  not
following me. Things were looking up.

        20
      There were times when Frank and I were friendly with Chuck, Eddie  and
Gene.  But  something would always happen (usually I caused it) and  then  I
would be out, and Frank would be partly out because he was my friend. It was
good  hanging out <i>with</i> Frank. We hitch-hiked everywhere. One  of  our
favorite  places was this movie studio. We crawled under a fence  surrounded
by  tall  weeds to get in. We saw the huge wall and steps they used  in  the
King  kong  movie.  We  saw  the fake streets and the  fake  buildings.  The
buildings were just fronts with nothing behind them. We walked all over that
movie lot many times until the guard would chase us out. We hitch-hiked down
to  the beach to the Fun House. We would stay in the Fun House three or four
hours. We memorized that place. It really wasn't that good. People shit  and
pissed  in  there and the place was littered with empty bottles.  And  there
were  rubbers in the crapper, hardened and wrinkled. Bums slept in  the  Fun
House  after  it closed. There really wasn't anything funny  about  the  Fun
House.  The House of Mirrors was good at first. We stayed in there until  we
had memorized how to walk through the maze of mirrors and then it wasn't any
good  any  more.  Frank and I never got into fights. We were  curious  about
things. There was a movie featuring a Caesarean operation on the pier and we
went  in and saw it. It was bloody. Each time they cut into the woman  blood
squirted  out,  gushers of it, and then they pulled out the  baby.  We  went
fishing  off the pier and when we caught something we would sell it  to  the
old  Jewish  ladies who sat . on the benches. I got some  beatings  from  my
father  for  running off with Frank but I figured I was  going  to  get  the
beatings anyhow so I might as well have the fun.
       But  I  continued  to  have  trouble  with  the  other  kids  in  the
neighborhood. My father didn't help. For example he bought me an Indian suit
and  a bow and arrow when all the other kids had cowboy outfits. It was  the
same  then as in the schoolyard -- I was ganged-up on. They'd circle me with
their  cowboy outfits and their guns, but when it got bad I'd  just  put  an
arrow  into  the bow, pull it back and wait. That always moved them  off.  I
never wore that Indian suit unless my father made me put it on.
      I  kept falling out with Chuck, Eddie and Gene and then we'd get  back
together and then we'd fall out all over again.
      One afternoon I was just standing around. I wasn't exactly in good  or
in  bad with the gang, I was just waiting around for them to forget the last
thing I had done that had made them angry. There wasn't anything else to do.
Just  white  air and waiting. I got tired of standing around and decided  to
walk  up the hill to Washington Boulevard, east to the movie house and  then
back down to West Adams Boulevard. Maybe I'd walk past the church. I started
walking. Then I heard Eddie:
     "Hey, Henry, come here!"
      The guys were standing in a driveway between two houses. Eddie, Frank,
Chuck  and Gene. They were watching something. They were bent over  a  large
bush watching something.
     "Come here, Henry!"
     "What is it?"
     I walked up to where they were bending over.
      "It's a spider getting ready to eat a fly!" said Eddie. I looked.  The
spider  had  spun a web between the branches of a bush and a fly had  gotten
caught in there. The spider was very excited. The fly shook the whole web as
it  tried  to pull free. It was buzzing wildly and helplessly as the  spider
wound the fly's wings and body in more and more spider web. The spider  went
around  and around, webbing the fly completely as it buzzed. The spider  was
very big and ugly.
      "It's  going to close in now!" yelled Chuck. "It's going to  sink  its
fangs!"
     I pushed in between the guys, kicked out and knocked the spider and the
fly out of the web with my foot.
     "What the hell have you done?" asked Chuck.
     "You son-of-a-bitch!" yelled Eddie. "You've <i>spoiled</i> it!"
     I backed off. Even Frank stared at me strangely.
     "Let's get his ass!" yelled Gene.
      They were between me and the street. I ran down the driveway into  the
backyard  of a strange house. They were after me. I ran through the backyard
and  behind  the  garage. There was a six-foot lattice  fence  covered  with
vines. I went straight up the fence and over the top. I ran through the next
backyard and up the driveway and as I ran up the driveway I looked back  and
saw  Chuck just reaching the top of the fence. Then he slipped and fell into
the  yard  landing  on his back. "Shit!" he said. I took a  right  and  kept
running.  I  ran for seven or eight blocks and then sat down  on  somebody's
lawn  and rested. There was nobody around. I wondered if Frank would forgive
me.  I  wondered if the others would forgive me. I decided to  stay  out  of
sight for a week or so . . .


     And so they forgot. Not much happened for a while. There were many days
of  nothing. Then Frank's father committed suicide. Nobody knew  why.  Frank
told  me  he and his mother would have to move to a smaller place in another
neighborhood. He said he would write. And he did. Only we didn't  write.  We
drew  cartoons.  About  cannibals. His cartoons  were  about  troubles  with
cannibals and then I'd continue the cartoon story where his left off,  about
the troubles with the cannibals. My mother found one of Frank's cartoons and
showed it to my father and our letter writing was over.
     5th grade became 6th grade and I began to think about running away from
home but I decided that if most of our fathers couldn't get jobs how in  the
hell  could  a  guy  under  five  feet tall  get  one?  John  Dillinger  was
everybody's hero, adults and kids alike. He took the money from  the  banks.
And there was Pretty Boy Floyd and Ma Barker and Machine Gun Kelly.
      People  began going to vacant lots where weeds grew. They had  learned
that  some  of the weeds could be cooked and eaten. There were  fist  fights
between  men in the vacant lots and on street corners. Everybody was  angry.
The  men smoked Bull Durham and didn't take any shit from anybody. They  let
the  little round Bull Durham tags hang out of their front shirt pockets and
they  could  all roll a cigarette with one hand. When you saw a man  with  a
Bull  Durham  tag dangling, that meant look out. People went around  talking
about 2nd and 3rd mortgages. My father came home one night with a broken arm
and  two black eyes. My mother had a low paying job somewhere. And each  boy
in  the  neighborhood had one pair of Sunday pants and  one  pair  of  daily
pants. When shoes wore out there weren't any new ones. The department stores
had  soles  and heels they sold for 15 or 20 cents along with the glue,  and
these  were  glued to the bottoms of the worn out shoes. Gene's parents  had
one  rooster and some chickens in their backyard, and if some chicken didn't
lay enough eggs they ate it.
      As  for  me,  it was the same -- at school, and with Chuck,  Gene  and
Eddie.  Not only did the grownups get mean, the kids got mean, and even  the
animals got mean. It was like they took their cue from the people.
      One day I was standing around, waiting as usual, not friendly with the
gang,  no  longer  really wanting to be, when Gene rushed up  to  me,  "Hey,
Henry, come on!"
     "What is it?"
     "COME ON!"
      Gene started running and I ran after him. We ran down the driveway and
into  the  Gibsons' backyard. The Gibsons had a large brick wall all  around
their backyard.
     "LOOK! HE'S GOT THE CAT CORNERED! HE'S GOING TO KILL IT!"
      There  was  a  small white cat backed into a corner of  the  wall.  It
couldn't  go up and it couldn't go in one direction or the other.  Its  back
was  arched and it was spitting, its claws ready. But it was very small  and
Chuck's  bulldog, Barney, was growling and moving closer and closer.  I  got
the feeling that the cat had been put there by the guys and then the bulldog
had  been brought in. I felt it strongly because of the way Chuck and  Eddie
and Gene were watching: they had a guilty look.
     "You guys did this," I said.
      "No," said Chuck, "it's the cat's fault. It came in here. Let it fight
its way out."
     "I hate you bastards," I said.
     "Barney's going to kill that cat," said Gene.
      "Barney will rip it to pieces," said Eddie. "He's afraid of the  claws
but when he moves in it will be all over."
      Barney was a large brown bulldog with slobbering jaws. He was dumb and
fat  with  senseless brown eyes. His growl was steady and  he  kept  inching
forward,  the hairs standing up on his neck and along his back. I felt  like
kicking him in his stupid ass but I figured he would rip my leg off. He  was
entirely  intent  upon the kill. The white cat wasn't even fully  grown.  It
hissed and waited, pressed against the wall, a beautiful creature, so clean.
     The dog moved slowly forward. Why did the guys need this? This wasn't a
matter  of  courage, it was just dirty play. Where were the grownups?  Where
were  the  authorities? They were always around accusing me. Now where  were
they?
      I  thought of rushing in, grabbing the cat and running, but  I  didn't
have the nerve. I was afraid that the bulldog would attack me. The knowledge
that  I  didn't  have  the  courage to do what was necessary  made  me  feel
terrible. I began to feel physically sick. I was weak. I didn't want  it  to
happen yet I couldn't think of any way to stop it.
     "Chuck," I said, "let the cat go, please. Call your dog off."
      Chuck didn't answer. He just kept watching. Then he said, "Barney,  go
get him! <i>Get</i> that cat!"
     Barney moved forward and suddenly the cat leaped. It was a furious blur
of  white  and  hissing,  claws and teeth. Barney backed  off  and  the  cat
retreated to the wall again.
     "Go get him, Barney," Chuck said again.
     "God damn you, shut up!" I told him.
     "Don't talk to me that way," Chuck said. Barney began to move in again.
     "You guys set this up," I said.
      I  heard  a  slight sound behind us and looked around. I saw  old  Mr.
Gibson  watching from behind his bedroom window. He wanted the  cat  to  get
killed too, just like the guys. Why?
      Old Mr. Gibson was our mailman with the false teeth. He had a wife who
stayed  in  the house all the time. She only came out to empty the  garbage.
Mrs. Gibson always wore a net over her hair and she was always dressed in  a
nightgown, bathrobe and slippers. Then as I watched, Mrs. Gibson, dressed as
always  came  and stood next to her husband, waiting for the kill.  Old  Mr.
Gibson  was one of the few men in the neighborhood with a job but  he  still
needed to see the cat killed. Gibson was just like Chuck, Eddie and Gene.
     There were too many of them.
      The  bulldog moved closer. I couldn't watch the kill. I felt  a  great
shame at leaving the cat like that. There was always the chance that the cat
might  try to escape, but I knew that they would prevent it. That cat wasn't
only facing the bulldog, it was facing Humanity.
      I  turned and walked away, out of the yard, up the driveway and to the
sidewalk. I walked along the sidewalk toward where I lived and there in  the
front yard of his home, my father stood waiting.
     "Where have you been?" he asked. I didn't answer.
      "Get  inside," he said, "and stop looking so unhappy or I'll give  you
something that will <i>really</i> make you unhappy!"

        21
      Then I started attending Mt. Justin Jr. High. About half the guys from
Delsey  Grammar  School went there, the biggest and toughest  half.  Another
gang  of giants came from other schools. Our 7th grade class was bigger than
the  9th grade class. When we lined up for gym it was funny, most of us were
bigger  than the gym teachers. We would stand there for roll call, slouched,
our guts hanging out, heads down, shoulders slumped.
      "Jesus  Christ,"  said Wagner, the gym teacher, "pull  your  shoulders
back, stand straight!"
      Nobody  would change position. We were the way we were, and we  didn't
want  to be anything else. We all came from Depression families and most  of
us  were ill-fed, yet we had grown up to be huge and strong. Most of  us,  I
think,  got  little love from our families, and we didn't ask  for  love  or
kindness  from anybody. We were a joke but people were careful not to  laugh
in front of us. It was as if we had grown up too soon and we were bored with
being  children. We had no respect for our elders. We were like tigers  with
the mange. One of the Jewish fellows, Sam Feidman, had a black beard and had
to shave every morning. By noon his chin was almost black. And he had a mass
of  black  hair all over his chest and he smelled terrible under  the  arms.
Another  guy looked like Jack Dempsey. Another guy, Peter Mangalore,  had  a
cock 10 inches long, soft. And when we got in the shower, I found out I  had
the biggest balls of anybody.
     "<i>Hey! Look at that guy's balls, will ya?</i>"
     "Holy shit! Not much cock but look at those balls! "
     <i>"Holy shit!"</i>
     I don't know what it was about us but we had something, and we felt it.
You  could see it in the way we walked and talked. We didn't talk  much,  we
just  <i>inferred,</i> and that's what got everybody mad, the  way  we  took
things for granted.
      The 7th grade team would play touch football after school against  the
8th  and  9th  graders. It was no match. We beat them easy, we knocked  them
down,  we  did it with style, almost without effort. In touch football  most
teams  passed  on every play, but our team worked in lots of runs.  Then  we
could set up the blocking and our guys would go for the other guys and knock
them  down. It was just an excuse to be violent, we didn't give a damn about
the runner. The other side was always glad when we called a pass play.
     The girls stayed after school and watched us. Some of them were already
going  out  with high school guys, they didn't want to mess  with  jr.  high
school  punks, but they stayed to watch the 7th graders. We were known.  The
girls  stayed after class and watched us and marveled. I wasn't on the  team
but  I  stood on the sidelines and sneaked smokes, feeling like a  coach  or
something.  We're all going to get fucked, we thought, watching  the  girls.
But most of us only masturbated.
      Masturbation.  I  remember how I learned about it. One  morning  Eddie
scratched on my bedroom window.
     "What is it?" I asked Eddie.
     He held up a test tube and it had something white in the bottom of it.
     "What's that?"
     "Come," said Eddie, "it's my come."
     "Yeah?"
      "Yeah, all you do is spit on your hand and begin rubbing your cock, it
feels  good and pretty soon this white juice shoots out of the end  of  your
cock. That stuff is called 'come."'
     "Yeah?"
     "Yeah."
     Eddie walked off with his test tube. I thought about it awhile and then
I  decided to try it. My cock got hard and it felt real good, it felt better
and  better,  and  I kept going and it felt like nothing  I  had  ever  felt
before. Then juice spurted out of the head of my cock. After that I  did  it
every  now and then. It got better if you imagined you were doing it with  a
girl while you whacked-off.


     One day I was standing on the sidelines watching our team kick the shit
out  of  some other team. I was sneaking a smoke and watching. There  was  a
girl  on either side of me. As our guys broke out of a huddle I saw the  gym
coach,  Curly Wagner, walking toward me. I ditched the smoke and clapped  my
hands.
     "Let's dump 'em on their butts, gang!"
      Wagner  walked  up to me. He just stood there staring  at  me.  I  had
developed an evil look on my face.
     "I'm going to get <i>all</i> you guys!" Wagner said. "Especially you!"
      I  turned  my head and glanced at him, casually, then turned  my  head
away. Wagner stood there looking at me. Then he walked off.
      I  felt  good about that. I liked being picked out as one of  the  bad
guys.  I  liked to feel bad. Anybody could be a good guy, that  didn't  take
guts.  Dillinger had guts. Ma Barker was a great woman teaching  those  guys
how to operate a submachine gun. I didn't want to be like my father. He only
pretended to be bad. When you're bad you didn't pretend, it was just  there.
I liked being bad. Trying to be good made me sick.
     The girl next to me said, "You don't have to take that from Wagner. Are
you afraid of him?"
     I turned and looked at her. I stared at her a long time, motionless.
     "What's wrong with you?" she asked.
      I  looked away from her, spit on the ground, and walked off. I  slowly
walked  the  length  of the field, exited through the rear  gate  and  began
walking home.
      Wagner  always wore a grey sweatshirt and grey sweatpants.  He  had  a
little  pot  belly.  Something  was  continually  bothering  him.  His  only
advantage  was his age. He would try to bluff us but that was  working  less
and  less.  There was always somebody pushing me who had no right  to  push.
Wagner and my father. My father and Wagner. What did they want? Why was I in
their way?

        22
      <i>One</i>  day, just like in grammar school, like with David,  a  boy
attached himself to me. He was small and thin and had almost no hair on  top
of  his  head. The guys called him Baldy. His real name was Eli LaCrosse.  I
liked his real name, but I didn't like him. He just glued himself to me.  He
was  so  pitiful that I couldn't tell him to get lost. He was like a mongrel
dog,  starved and kicked. Yet it didn't make me feel good going around  with
him.  But  since I knew that mongrel dog feeling, I let him hang around.  He
used  a  cuss word in almost every sentence, at least one cuss word, but  it
was  all  fake, he wasn't tough, he was scared. I wasn't scared  but  I  was
confused so maybe we were a good pair.
      I  walked him back to his place after school every day. He was  living
with  his  mother, his father and his grandfather. They had a  little  house
across  from a small park. I liked the area, it had great shade  trees,  and
since  some people had told me that I was ugly, I always preferred shade  to
the sun, darkness to light.
     During our walks home Baldy had told me about his father. He had been a
doctor, a successful surgeon, but he had lost his license because he  was  a
drunk. One day I met Baldy's father. He was sitting in a chair under a tree,
just sitting there.
     "Dad," he said, "this is Henry."
     "Hello, Henry."
      It  reminded me of when I had seen my grandfather for the first  time,
standing on the steps of his house. Only Baldy's father had black hair and a
black  beard,  but  his  eyes  were the same -- brilliant  and  glowing,  so
strange. And here was Baldy, the son, and he didn't glow at all.
     "Come on," Baldy said, "follow me."
      We  went down into a cellar, under the house. It was dark and damp and
we  stood awhile until our eyes grew used to the gloom. Then I could  see  a
number of barrels.
     "These barrels are full of different kinds of wine," Baldy said.
     "Each barrel has a spigot. Want to try some?"
     "No."
     "Go ahead, just try a god-damned sip."
     "What for?"
     "You think you're a god-damned man or what?"
     "I'm tough," I said.
     "Then take a fucking sample."
      Here was little Baldy, daring me. No problem. I walked up to a barrel,
ducked my head down.
     "Turn the god-damned spigot! Open your god-damned mouth!"
     "Are there any spiders around here?"
     "Go on! Go on, god damn it!"
     I put my mouth under the spigot and opened it. A smelly liquid trickled
out and into my mouth. I spit it out.
     "Don't be chicken! Swallow it, what the shit!"
      I  opened the spigot and I opened my mouth. The smelly liquid  entered
and I swallowed it. I turned off the spigot and stood there. I thought I was
going to puke.
     "Now, you drink some," I said to Baldy.
     "Sure," he said, "I ain't fucking afraid!"
      He got down under a barrel and took a good swallow. A little punk like
that  wasn't  going to outdo me. I got under another barrel, opened  it  and
took a swallow. I stood up. I was beginning to feel good.
     "Hey, Baldy," I said, "I like this stuff."
     "Well, shit, try some more."
     I tried some more. It was tasting better. I was feeling better.
     "This stuff belongs to your father, Baldy. I shouldn't drink it all."
     "He doesn't care. He's stopped drinking."
      Never had I felt so good. It was better than masturbating. I went from
barrel to barrel. It was magic. Why hadn't someone told me? With this,  life
was great, a man was perfect, nothing could touch him.
     I stood up straight and looked at Baldy.
     "Where's your mother? I'm going to fuck your mother!"
     "I'll kill you, you bastard, you stay away from my mother!"
     "You know I can whip you, Baldy."
     "Yes."
     "All right, I'll leave your mother alone."
     "Let's go then, Henry."
     "One more drink . . ."
      I  went  to  a barrel and took a long one. Then we went up the  cellar
stairway. When we were out, Baldy's father was still sitting in his chair.
     "You boys been in the wine cellar, eh?"
     "Yes," said Baldy.
     "Starting a little early, aren't you?"
      We didn't answer. We walked over to the boulevard and Baldy and I went
into a store which sold chewing gum. We bought several packs of it and stuck
it  into  our mouths. He was worried about his mother finding out. I  wasn't
worried  about  anything. We sat on a park bench and chewed the  gum  and  I
thought,  well, now I have found something, I have found something  that  is
going  to  help  me,  for a long long time to come. The  park  grass  looked
greener, the park benches looked better and the flowers were trying  harder.
Maybe  that stuff wasn't good for surgeons but anybody who wanted  to  be  a
surgeon, there was something wrong with them in the first place.

        23
      At  Mt.  Justin, biology class was neat. We had Mr. Stanhope  for  our
teacher. He was an old guy about 55 and we pretty much dominated him.  Lilly
Fischman  was  in the class and she was really developed. Her  breasts  were
enormous  and she had a marvelous behind which she wiggled while walking  in
her  high-heeled shoes. She was great, she talked to all the guys and rubbed
up against them while she talked.
      Every  day  in  biology class it was the same. We  never  learned  any
biology, Mr. Stanhope would talk for about ten minutes and then Lilly  would
say, "Oh, Mr. <i>Stanhope,</i> let's have a<i> show!"
     </i>"No!"
     "Oh, Mr. <i>Stanhope!"
      </i>She  would walk up to his desk, bend over him sweetly and  whisper
something.
     "Oh, well, all right . . ." he'd say.
      And then Lilly would begin singing and wiggling. She always opened  up
with "The Lullaby of Broadway" and then she went into her other numbers. She
was great, she was hot, she was burning up, and we were too. She was like  a
grown woman, putting it to Stanhope, putting it to us. It was wonderful. Old
Stanhope  would sit there blubbering and slobbering. We'd laugh at  Stanhope
and  cheer  Lilly on. It lasted until one day the principal, Mr.  Lacefield,
came running in.
     "What's going on here?"
     Stanhope just sat there unable to speak.
     "This class is dismissed!" Lacefield screamed.

     As we filed out, Lacefield said, <i>"</i>And <i>you,</i> Miss Fischman,
will report to my office!"


      Of  course, after that we never studied our homework, and that was all
right until the day Mr. Stanhope gave us our first examination.
     "Shit," said Peter Mangalore out loud, "what are we going to do?"
     Peter was the guy with the 10-incher, soft.
      "You'll never have to work for a living," said the guy who looked like
Jack Dempsey. "This is our problem."
     "Maybe we ought to burn the school down," said Red Kirkpatrick.
      "Shit," said a guy from the back of the room, "every time I get an 'F'
my father pulls out one of my fingernails."
      We  all  looked  at  our  examination sheets. I  thought  about  <i>my
</i>father. Then I thought about Lilly Fischman. Lilly Fischman, I  thought,
you  are  a  whore, an evil woman, wiggling your body in  front  of  us  and
singing like that, you will send us all to hell. Stanhope was watching us.
      "Why isn't anybody writing? Why isn't anybody answering the questions?
Does everybody have a pencil?"
     "Yeah, yeah, we all got pencils," one of the guys said. Lilly sat up in
front,  right  by Mr. Stanhope's desk. We saw her open her biology  textbook
and look up the answer to the first question. That was it. We all opened  up
our  textbooks. Stanhope just sat there and watched us. He didn't know  what
to do. He began to sputter. He sat there a good five minutes, then he jumped
up. He ran back and forth up and down the center aisle of the room.
      "What  are  you  people  doing?  Close those  textbooks!  Close  those
textbooks!"
      As  he ran by, the students would close their books only to open  them
again when he had run past.
      Baldy  was  in  the seat next to mine, laughing. "He's <i>an  asshole!
</i>Oh, what an old <i>asshole!"
      </i>I  felt a little sorry for Stanhope but it was either him  or  me.
Stanhope  stood  behind  his desk and screamed, <i>"All  textbooks  must  be
closed or I will flunk the entire class!"
     </i>Then Lilly Fischman stood up. She pulled her skirt up and yanked at
one of her silk stockings. She adjusted the garter, we saw white flesh. Then
she  pulled  at and adjusted the other stocking. Such a sight we  had  never
seen, nor had Stanhope ever seen anything like it. Lilly sat down and we all
finished  the  exam with our textbooks open. Stanhope sat behind  his  desk,
utterly defeated.


     Another guy we jerked around was Pop Farnsworth. It began the first day
in  Machine Shop. He said, "Here we learn by doing. We will begin right now.
You will each take an engine apart and put it back together, until it is  in
working order, during the semester. There are charts on the wall and I  will
answer  your  questions. You will also be shown movies about how  an  engine
works.  But right now please begin to dismantle your engines. The tools  are
on your workshelf."
     "Hey, Pop, how about the movies first?" some guy asked.
     "I said, 'Begin your project!"'
      I  don't  know where they got all those engines. They were greasy  and
black and rusted. They looked really dismal.
     "Fuck," said some guy, "this one is a hunk of clogged shit."
      We  stood  over  our  engines. Most of the  guys  reached  for  monkey
wrenches. Red Kirkpatrick took a screwdriver and scraped it slowly along the
top of his engine carefully creating a black ribbon of grease two feet long.
     "Come on, Pop, how about a movie? We just got out of gym, our asses are
dragging! Wagner had us doing the hop, skip and jump like a bunch of frogs!"
     "Begin your assignment as requested!"
      We started in. It was senseless. It was worse than Music Appreciation.
Some clanking of tools could be heard and some heavy breathing.
      "FUCK!"  hollered Harry Henderson, "I'VE JUST SKINNED  MY  WHOLE  GOD-
DAMNED KNUCKLE! THIS IS NOTHING BUT FUCKING WHITE SLAVERY!"
      He  wrapped a handkerchief tenderly around his right hand and  watched
the blood soak through. <i>"Shit,"</i> he said.

      The rest of us kept trying. "I'd rather stick my head up an elephant's
cunt," said Red Kirkpatrick.
     Jack Dempsey threw his wrench to the floor. "I quit," he said,
      "do  anything  you want to me, I quit. Kill me. Cut my  balls  off.  I
quit."
     He walked over and leaned against a wall. He folded his arms and looked
down at his shoes.
      The situation seemed truly terrible. There weren't any girls. When you
looked out the back door of the shop you could see the open schoolyard,  all
that  sunlight and empty space out there where there was nothing to do.  And
here  we  were bent over stupid engines that weren't even attached to  cars,
they were useless. Just stupid steel. It was dumb and it was hard. We needed
mercy. Our lives were dumb enough. Something had to save us. We'd heard  Pop
was a soft touch but it didn't seem true. He was a giant son-of-a-bitch with
a  beer gut, dressed in his greasy outfit, and with hair hanging down in his
eyes and grease on his chin.
      Arnie  Whitechapel  threw  down  his  wrench  and  walked  up  to  Mr.
Farnsworth. Arnie had a big grin on his face. "Hey, Pop, what the fuck?"
     "Get back to your engine, Whitechapel!"
     "Ah, come on. Pop, what the shit!"
      Arnie was a couple of years older than the rest of us. He had spent  a
few  years  in some boys' correctional school. But even though he was  older
than  we  were,  he  was smaller. He had very black hair slicked  back  with
vaseline.  He  would  stand  in front of the mirror  in  the  men's  crapper
squeezing  his  pimples.  He talked dirty to the  girls  and  carried  Sheik
rubbers in his pockets.
     "I got a good one for you. Pop!"
     "Yeah? Get back to your engine, Whitechapel."
     "It's a good one, Pop."
      We  stood  there and watched as Arnie began to tell Pop a dirty  joke.
Their heads were close together. Then the joke was over, Pop began laughing.
That  big body was doubled over, he was holding his gut. "Holy shit!  Oh  my
god,  holy  shit!" he laughed. Then he stopped. "O.K., Arnie, back  to  your
machine!"
     "No, wait, Pop, I got another one!"
     "Yeah?"
     "Yeah, listen . . ."
     We all left our machines and walked over. We circled them, listening as
Arnie  told the next joke. When it was over Pop doubled up. "Holy  shit,  oh
lord, holy shit!"
      "Then  there's another one, Pop. This guy is driving his  car  in  the
desert. He notices this guy jumping along the road. He's naked and his hands
and  feet arc tied with rope. The guy stops his car and asks the guy,  'Hey,
buddy, what's the matter?' And the guy tells him, 'Well, I was driving along
and  I  saw  this  bastard hitch-hiking so I stopped and the  son-of-a-bitch
pulls a gun on me, takes my clothes away and then ties me up. Then the dirty
son-of-a-bitch reams me in the ass!' 'Oh yeah?' says the guy getting out  of
his  car.  'Yeah, that's what that dirty son-of-a-bitch did!' says the  man.
'Well,'  says the guy unzipping his fly, 1 guess this just isn't your  lucky
day!"'
     Pop began laughing, he doubled over. "Oh, no! Oh, NO! OH . . . HOLY . .
. SHIT, CHRIST . . . HOLY SHIT . . . !"
     He finally stopped.
     "God damn," he said quietly, "oh my lord . . ."
     "How about a movie, Pop?"
     "Oh well, all right."
      Somebody closed the back door and Pop pulled out a dirty white screen.
He  started the projector. It was a lousy movie but it beat working on those
engines.  The gas was ignited by the spark plugs and the explosion  hit  the
cylinder  head  and the head was thrust down and that turned the  crankshaft
and  the valves opened and closed and the cylinder heads kept going  up  and
down  and the crankshaft turned some more. Not very interesting, but it  was
cool in there and you could lean back in your chair and think about what you
wanted to think about. You didn't have to bust your knuckles on dumb steel.
      We never did get those engines taken apart let alone put back together
again  and I don't know how many times we saw that same movie. Whitechapel's
jokes  kept coming and we all laughed our heads off even though most of  the
jokes were pretty terrible, except to Pop Farnsworth who kept doubling  over
and laughing,
     "Holy shit! Oh, no! Oh, no, no, no!"
     He was an O.K. guy. We all liked him.

        24
      Our  English teacher, Miss Gredis, was the absolute best.  She  was  a
blonde  with  a  long sharp nose. Her nose wasn't much good but  you  didn't
notice it when you looked at the rest of her. She wore tight dresses and low
v-necks, black high-heeled shoes and silk stockings. She was snake-like with
long  beautiful legs. She only sat behind her desk when she took roll  call.
She  kept  one desk vacant at the front of the room and after roll call  she
would come down and sit on that desk top, facing us. Miss Gredis sat perched
there  with  her legs crossed and her skirt pulled high. Never had  we  seen
such  ankles,  such legs, such thighs. Well, there was Lilly  Fischman,  but
Lilly  was a girl-woman while Miss Gredis was in full bloom. And we  got  to
gaze upon her for a full hour each day. There wasn't a boy in that class who
wasn't  sad  when the bell rang ending the English period. We'd  talk  about
her.
     "Do you think she wants to be fucked?"
      "No,  I think she's just teasing us. She knows she's driving us crazy,
that's all she needs, that's all she wants."
     "I know where she lives. I'm going over there some night."
     "You wouldn't have the balls!"
     "Yeah? Yeah? I'll fuck the shit out of her! She's asking for it!"
     "A guy I know in the 8th grade said he went over there one night."
     "Yeah? What happened?"
     "She came to the door in a nightgown, her tits were practically hanging
out. The guy said he had forgotten the next day's homework and wondered what
it was. She asked him in."
     "No shit?"
      "Yeah.  Nothing happened. She made him some tea, told  him  about  the
homework and he left."
     "If I had of gotten in, that would have been it!"
     "Yeah? What would you have done?"
      "First I would have corn-holed her, then I would have eaten her pussy,
then I would fuck her between the tits and then I would force her to give me
a blow job."
     "No kidding, dreamer boy. You ever been laid?"
     "Fuck yes, I've been laid. Several times."
     "How was it?"
     "Lousy."
     "Couldn't come, hub?"
     "I came all over the place, I thought I'd never stop."
     "Came all over the palm of your hand, hub?"
     "Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
     "Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
     "Ha, ha!"
     "All over your hand, hub?"
     "Fuck you guys!"
      "I  don't think any of us has been laid," said one of the guys.  There
was silence.
     "That's shit. I was laid when I was seven years old."
     "That's nothing. I was laid when I was four."
     "Sure, Red. Lay it on good!"
     "I got this little girl under the house."
     "You got a hard?"
     "Sure."
     "You came?"
     "I think so. Something squirted out."
     "Sure. You pissed in her cunt, Red."
     "Balls!"
     "What was her name?"
     "Betty Ann."
     "Fuck," said the guy who claimed to have gotten laid when he was seven.
"Mine was named Betty Ann too."
     "That whore," said Red.

      One  tine Spring day we were sitting in English class and Miss  Gredis
was sitting on the front desk facing us. She had her skirt pulled especially
high,  it  was  terrifying, beautiful, wondrous and dirty. Such  legs,  such
thighs, we were very close to the magic. It was unbelievable. Baldy  sat  in
the  seat across the aisle from me. He reached over and began poking  me  on
the leg with his finger:
      "<i>She's  breaking  all  the records!"</i>  he  whispered.  <i>"Look!
Look!"</i>
     "My God," I said, "shut up or she'll pull her skirt down!"
     Baldy pulled his hand back and I waited. We hadn't spooked Miss Gredis.
Her  skirt  remained as high as ever. It was truly a day to remember.  There
wasn't a boy in class without a hard-on and Miss Gredis went on talking. I'm
sure  that none of the boys heard a word she was saying. The girls,  though,
turned and glanced at each other as if to say, this bitch is going too  far.
Miss  Gredis couldn't go too far. It was almost as if there weren't  even  a
cunt  up  there but something much better. Those legs. The sun came  through
the  window and poured in on those legs and thighs, the sun played  on  that
warm  silk pulled so tightly. The skirt was so <i>high,</i> pulled hack,  we
all  prayed  for  a  glimpse of panty, a glimpse <i>of something,</i>  Jesus
Christ, it was like the world ending and beginning and ending again, it  was
everything real and unreal, the sun, the thighs, and the silk, so smooth, so
warm,  so  alluring. The whole room throbbed. Eyesight blurred and  returned
and  Miss Gredis went on sitting there as if nothing was happening  and  she
kept talking as if everything was normal. That's what made it so good and so
terrible:  the  fact that she pretended that it wasn't happening.  I  looked
down at my desk top for a moment and saw the grain in the wood heightened as
if each pattern was a pool of whirling liquid. Then I quickly looked back at
the  legs  and  thighs, angered with myself that I had  looked  away  for  a
moment, and perhaps missed something.


     Then the sound began: <i>"Thump, thump, thump, thump . .</i> ."
     Richard Waite. He sat in a seat in the back. He had huge ears and thick
lips, the lips were swollen and monstrous and he had a very large head.  His
eyes   were   almost  without  color,  they  didn't  reflect   interest   or
intelligence.  He  had large feet and his mouth always hung  open.  When  he
spoke  the words came out one by one, halting, with long pauses in  between.
He  wasn't even a sissy. Nobody ever spoke to him. Nobody knew what  he  was
doing  there in our school. He gave the impression that something  important
was  missing  from  his makeup. He wore clean clothing, but  his  shirt  was
always out in the back, one or two buttons were gone on his shirt or on  his
pants. Richard Waite. He lived somewhere and he came to school every day.


     "Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump . . ."


      Richard  Waite  was jerking-off, a salute to Miss Gredis'  thighs  and
legs.  He had finally weakened. Perhaps he didn't understand society's ways.
Now  we  all heard him. Miss Gredis heard him. The girls heard him.  We  all
knew  what  he was doing. He was so fucking dumb he didn't even  have  sense
enough  to  keep  it quiet. And he was becoming more and more  excited.  The
thumps  grew louder. His closed fist was hitting the underside of  his  desk
top.


        "THUMP, THUMP THUMP . . ."


     We looked at Miss Gredis. What would she do? She hesitated. She glanced
about  the  class. She smiled, as composed as ever