Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [19]
“When they catch that son-of-a-bitch,” he said, “I’ll sue him! I’ll sue him for his last penny! He’ll support me the rest of his life! I’m sick of that god-damned milk truck! Golden State Creamery! Golden State, my hairy ass! We’ll move to the South Seas. We’ll live on coconuts and pineapples!”
My father reached the car and put me in the front seat. Then he got in on his side. He started the car.
“I hate drunks! My father was a drunk. My brothers are drunks. Drunks are weak. Drunks are cowards. And hit-and-run drunks should be jailed for the rest of their lives!”
As we drove toward home he continued to talk to me.
“Do you know that in the South Seas the natives live in grass shacks? They get up in the morning and the food falls from the trees to the ground. They just pick it up and eat it, coconuts and pineapple. And the natives think that white men are gods! They catch fish and roast boar, and their girls dance and wear grass skirts and rub their men behind the ears. Golden State Creamery, my hairy ass!”
But my father’s dream was not to be. They caught the man who hit me and put him in jail. He had a wife and three children and didn’t have a job. He was a penniless drunkard. The man sat in jail for some time but my father didn’t press charges. As he said, “You can’t get blood out of a fucking turnip!”
15
My father always ran the neighborhood kids away from our house. I was told not to play with them but I walked down the street and watched them anyhow.
“Hey, Heinie!” they yelled, “Why don’t you go back to Germany?”
Somehow they had found out about my birthplace. The worst thing was that they were all about my age and they not only hung together because they lived in the same neighborhood but because they went to the same Catholic school. They were tough kids, they played tackle football for hours and almost every day a couple of them got into a fist fight. The four main guys were Chuck, Eddie, Gene and Frank.
“Hey, Heinie, go back to Krautland!”
There was no getting in with them…
Then a red-headed kid moved in next door to Chuck. He went to some kind of special school. I was sitting on the curb one day when he came out of his house. He sat on the curb next to me. “Hi, my name’s Red.”
“I’m Henry.”
We sat there and watched the guys play football. I looked at Red.
“How come you got a glove on your left hand?” I asked.
“I’ve only got one arm,” he said.
“That hand looks real.”
“It’s fake. It’s a fake arm. Touch it.”
“What?”
“Touch it. It’s fake.”
I felt it. It was hard, rock hard.
“How’d that happen?”
“I was born that way. The arm’s fake all the way up to the elbow. I’ve got to strap it on. I’ve got little fingers at the end of my elbow, fingernails and all, but the fingers aren’t any good.”
“You got any friends?” I asked.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Those guys won’t play with you?”
“No.”
“I got a football.”
“Can you catch it?”
“Straight shit,” said Red.
“Go get it.”
“O. K….”
Red went back to his father’s garage and came out with a football. He tossed it to me. Then he backed across his front lawn.
“Go on, throw it…”
I let it go. His good arm came around and his bad arm came around and he caught it. The arm made a slight squeaking sound as he caught the football.
“Nice catch,” I said. “Now wing me one!”
He cocked his arm and let it fly; it came like a bullet and I managed to hold onto it as it dug into my stomach.
“You’re standing too close,” I told him. “Step back some more.”
At last, I thought, some practice catching and throwing. It felt real good.
Then I was the quarterback. I rolled back, straight-armed an invisible tackler, and let go a spiral fly. It fell short. Red ran forward, leaped, caught the ball, rolled over three or four times and still held onto it.
“You’re good,