Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [74]
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m the night custodian. Get your ass out of here before I call the cops!”
“What for? This is the Senior Prom and I’m a senior.”
He flashed his light into my face. The band was playing “Deep Purple.”
“Bullshit!” he said. “You’re at least 22 years old!”
“I’m in the yearbook, Class of 1939, graduating class, Henry Chinaski.”
“Why aren’t you in there dancing?”
“Forget it. I’m going home.”
“Do that.”
I walked off. I kept walking. His flashlight leaped on the path, the light following me. I walked off campus. It was a nice warm night, almost hot. I thought I saw some fireflies but I wasn’t sure.
45
Graduation Day. We filed in with our caps and gowns to “Pomp and Circumstance.” I suppose that in our three years we must have learned something. Our ability to spell had probably improved and we had grown in size. I was still a virgin. “Hey, Henry, you busted your cherry yet?” “No way,” I’d say.
Jimmy Hatcher sat next to me. The principal was giving his address and really scraping the bottom of the old shit barrel. “America is the great land of Opportunity and any man or woman with a desire to do so will succeed…”
“Dishwasher,” I said.
“Dog catcher,” said Jimmy.
“Burglar,” I said.
“Garbage collector,” said Jimmy.
“Madhouse attendant,” I said.
“America is brave, America was built by the brave…Ours is a just society.”
“Just so much for the few,” said Jimmy.
“…a fair society and all those who search for that dream at the end of the rainbow will find…”
“A hairy crawling turd,” I suggested.
“…and I can say, without hesitation, that this particular Class of Summer 1939, less than a decade removed from the beginning of our terrible national Depression, this class of Summer ’39 is more ripe with courage, talent and love than any class it has been my pleasure to witness!”
The mothers, fathers, relatives applauded wildly; a few of the students joined in.
“Class of Summer 1939, I am proud of your future, I am sure of your future. I send you out now to your great adventure!”
Most of them were headed over to U.S.C. to live the non-working life for at least four more years.
“And I send my prayers and blessings with you!”
The honor students received their diplomas first. Out they came. Abe Mortenson was called. He got his. I applauded.
“Where’s he gonna end up?” Jimmy asked.
“Cost accountant in an auto parts manufacturing concern. Somewhere near Gardena, California.”
“A lifetime job…” said Jimmy.
“A lifetime wife,” I added.
“Abe will never be miserable…”
“Or happy.”
“An obedient man…”
“A broom.”
“A stiff…”
“A wimp.”
When the honor students had been taken care of they began on us. I felt uncomfortable sitting there. I felt like walking out.
“Henry Chinaski!” I was called.
“Public servant,” I told Jimmy.
I walked up to and across the stage, took the diploma, shook the principal’s hand. It felt slimy like the inside of a dirty fish bowl. (Two years later he would be exposed as an embezzler of school funds; he was to be tried, convicted and jailed.)
I passed Mortenson and the honor group as I went back to my seat. He looked over and gave me the finger, so only I could see it. That got me. It was so unexpected.
I walked back and sat down next to Jimmy.
“Mortenson gave me the finger!”
“No, I don’t believe it!”
“Son-of-a-bitch! He’s spoiled my day! Not that it was worth a fuck anyhow but he’s really greased it over now!”
“I can’t believe he had the guts to finger you.”
“It’s not like him. You think he’s getting some coaching?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“He knows that I can bust him in half without even inhaling!”
“Bust him!”
“But don’t you see, he’s won? It’s the way he surprised me!”
“All you gotta do is kick his ass all up and down.”
“Do you think that son-of-a-bitch learned something reading all those books? I know there’s nothing in them because I read every fourth page.”
“Jimmy Hatcher!” His name was called.
“Priest,” he said.
“Poultry farmer,” I said.
Jimmy went up and got his. I applauded loudly. Anybody who could live with a mother