Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [27]
That left only two planes, number 5 and number 2, going for the grand prize. Number 5 was the slim plane almost without wings and it was much faster than number 2. Number 2 was the football, he didn’t have much speed, but he made up a lot of ground on the turns. It didn’t help much. The 5 kept lapping the 2.
“Plane number 5,” said the announcer, “is now two laps ahead with two laps to go.”
It looked like number 5 was going to get the grand prize. Then he ran into a pylon. Instead of making the turn he just ran into the pylon and knocked the whole thing down. He kept going, straight down the field, lower and lower, the engine at full throttle, and then he hit the ground. The wheels hit and the plane bounced high into the air, flipped over, skidded along the ground. The ambulance and fire engine had a long way to go.
Number 2 just kept circling the three pylons that were left and the one fallen pylon and then he landed. He had won the grand prize. He climbed out. He was a fat guy, just like his airplane. I had expected a handsome tough guy. He had been lucky. Hardly anybody applauded.
To close the show they had a parachute contest. There was a circle painted on the ground, a big bullseye, and the one who landed the closest won. It seemed dull to me. There wasn’t much noise or action. The jumpers just bailed out and aimed for the circle.
“This isn’t very good,” I told Frank.
“Naw,” he said.
They kept coming down near the circle. More jumpers bailed out of the planes overhead. Then the crowd started oohing and ahhhing.
“Look!” said Frank.
One chute had only partially opened. There wasn’t much air in it. He was falling faster than the others. You could see him kicking his legs and working his arms, trying to untangle the parachute.
“Jesus Christ,” said Frank.
The guy kept dropping, lower and lower, you could see him better and better. He kept yanking at the cords trying to untangle the chute but nothing worked. He hit the ground, bounced just a bit, then fell back and was still. The half-filled chute came down over him.
They cancelled the remainder of the jumps.
We walked out with the people, still watching out for Daniel.
“Let’s not hitch-hike back,” I said to Frank.
“All right,” he said.
Walking out with the people, I didn’t know which was more exciting, the air race, the parachute jump that failed, or the cunt.
19
The 5th grade was a little better. The other students seemed less hostile and I was growing larger physically. I still wasn’t chosen for the homeroom teams but I was threatened less. David and his violin had gone away. The family had moved. I walked home alone. I was often trailed by one or two guys, of whom Juan was the worst, but they didn’t start anything. Juan smoked cigarettes. He’d walk behind me smoking a cigarette and he always had a different buddy with him. He never followed me alone. It scared me. I wished they’d go away. Yet, in another way, I didn’t care. I didn’t like Juan. I didn’t like anybody in that school. I think they knew that. I think that’s why they disliked me. I didn’t like the way they walked or looked or talked, but I didn’t like my father or mother either. I still had the feeling of being surrounded by white empty space. There was always a slight nausea in my stomach. Juan was dark-skinned and he wore a brass chain instead of a belt. The girls were afraid of him, and the boys too. He and one of his buddies followed me home almost every day. I’d walk into the house and they’d stand outside. Juan would smoke his cigarette, looking tough, and his buddy would stand there. I’d watch them through the curtain. Finally, they would walk off.
Mrs. Fretag was our English teacher. The first day in class she asked us each our names.
“I want to get to know all of you,” she said.
She smiled.
“Now, each