Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [44]
“Shit!” moaned Pete.
“Oh, shit,” said Lilly.
Baldy and I took off. We ran out the gate and halfway up the block. We looked back through the fence. Pete and Lilly never had a chance. Wagner ran up and ripped open the car door hoping for a good look. Then the car was surrounded and we couldn’t see any more…
After that, we never saw Pete or Lilly again. We had no idea what happened to them. Baldy and I each got 1,000 demerits which put me in the lead over Magalore with 1,100. There was no way I could work them off. I was in Mt. Justin for life. Of course, they informed our parents.
“Let’s go,” said my father, and I walked into the bathroom.
He got the strop down.
“Take down your pants and shorts,” he said.
I didn’t do it. He reached in front of me, yanked my belt open, unbuttoned me and yanked my pants down. He pulled down my shorts. The strop landed. It was the same, the same explosive sound, the same pain.
“You’re going to kill your mother!” he screamed.
He hit me again. But the tears weren’t coming. My eyes were strangely dry. I thought about killing him. That there must be a way to kill him. In a couple of years I could beat him to death. But I wanted him now. He wasn’t much of anything. I must have been adopted. He hit me again. The pain was still there but the fear of it was gone. The strop landed again. The room no longer blurred. I could see everything clearly. My father seemed to sense the difference in me and he began to lash me harder, again and again, but the more he beat me the less I felt. It was almost as if he was the one who was helpless. Something had occurred, something had changed. My father stopped, puffing, and I heard him hanging up the strop. He walked to the door. I turned.
“Hey,” I said.
My father turned and looked at me.
“Give me a couple more,” I told him, “if it makes you feel any better.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me that way!” he said.
I looked at him. I saw folds of flesh under his chin and around his neck. I saw sad wrinkles and crevices. His face was tired pink putty. He was in his undershirt, and his belly sagged, wrinkling his undershirt. The eyes were no longer fierce. His eyes looked away and couldn’t meet mine. Something had happened. The bath towels knew it, the shower curtain knew it, the mirror knew it, the bathtub and the toilet knew it. My father turned and walked out the door. He knew it. It was my last beating. From him.
28
Jr. high went by quickly enough. About the 8th grade, going into the 9th, I broke out with acne. Many of the guys had it but not like mine. Mine was really terrible. I was the worst case in town. I had pimples and boils all over my face, back, neck, and some on my chest. It happened just as I was beginning to be accepted as a tough guy and a leader. I was still tough but it wasn’t the same. I had to withdraw. I watched people from afar, it was like a stage play. Only they were on stage and I was an audience of one. I’d always had trouble with the girls but with acne it was impossible. The girls were further away than ever. Some of them were truly beautiful—their dresses, their hair, their eyes, the way they stood around. Just to walk down the street during an afternoon with one, you know, talking about everything and anything, I think that would have made me feel very good.
Also, there was still something about me that continually got me into trouble. Most teachers didn’t trust or like me, especially the lady teachers. I never said anything out of the way but they claimed it was my “attitude.” It was something about the way I sat slouched in my seat and my “voice tone.” I was usually accused of “sneering” although I wasn’t conscious of it. I was often made to stand outside in the hall during class or I was sent to the principal’s office. The principal always did the same thing. He had a phone booth in his office. He made me stand in the phone booth with the door closed. I spent many hours in that phone booth. The only reading material in there was the Ladies Home Journal. It was deliberate torture.