Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [75]
“You can’t blame them for being rich,” Jimmy said.
“No, I blame their fucking parents.”
“And their grandparents,” said Jimmy.
“Yes, I’d be happy to take their new cars and their pretty girlfriends and I wouldn’t give a fuck about anything like social justice.”
“Yeah,” said Jimmy. “I guess the only time most people think about injustice is when it happens to them.”
The golden boys and girls went on parading across the stage. I sat there wondering whether to punch Abe out or not. I could see him flopping on the sidewalk still in his cap and gown, the victim of my right cross, all the pretty girls screaming, thinking, my god, this Chinaski guy must be a bull on the springs!
On the other hand, Abe wasn’t much. He was hardly there. It wouldn’t take anything to punch him out. I decided not to do it. I had already broken his arm and his parents hadn’t sued mine, finally. If I busted his head they would surely go ahead and sue. They would take my old man’s last copper. Not that I would mind. It was my mother: she would suffer in a fool’s way: senselessly and without reason.
Then, the ceremony was over. The students left their seats and filed out. Students met with parents, relatives on the front lawn. There was much hugging, embracing. I saw my parents waiting. I walked up to them, stood about four feet away.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
My mother was looking at me.
“Henry, I’m so proud of you!”
Then my mother’s head turned. “Oh, there goes Abe and his parents! They’re such nice people! Oh, Mrs. Mortenson!”
They stopped. My mother ran over and threw her arms about Mrs. Mortenson. It was Mrs. Mortenson who had decided not to sue after many, many hours of conversation upon the telephone with my mother. It had been decided that I was a confused individual and that my mother had suffered enough that way.
My father shook hands with Mr. Mortenson and I walked over to Abe.
“O. K., cocksucker, what’s the idea of giving me the finger?”
“What?”
“The finger!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“The finger!”
“Henry, I really don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“All right, Abraham, it’s time to go!” said his mother.
The Mortenson family walked off together. I stood there watching them. Then we started walking to our old car. We walked west to the corner and turned south.
“Now that Mortenson boy really knows how to apply himself!” said my father. “How are you ever going to make it? I’ve never even seen you look at a schoolbook, let alone inside of one!”
“Some books are dull,” I said.
“Oh, they’re dull, are they? So you don’t want to study? What can you do? What good are you? What can you do? It has cost me thousands of dollars to raise you, feed you, clothe you! Suppose I left you here on the street? Then what would you do?”
“Catch butterflies.”
My mother began to cry. My father pulled her away and down the block to where their ten-year-old car was parked. As I stood there, the other families roared past in their new cars, going somewhere.
Then Jimmy Hatcher and his mother walked by. She stopped. “Hey, wait a minute,” she told Jimmy, “I want to congratulate Henry.”
Jimmy waited and Clare walked over. She put her face close to mine. She spoke softly so Jimmy wouldn’t hear. “Listen, Honey, any time you really want to graduate, I can arrange to give you your diploma.”
“Thanks, Clare, I might be seeing you.”
“I’ll rip your balls off, Henry!”
“I don’t doubt it, Clare.”
She went back to Jimmy and they walked away down the street.
A very old car rolled up, stopped, the engine died. I could see my mother weeping, big tears were running down her cheeks.
“Henry, get in! Please get in! Your father is right but I love you!”
“Forget it. I’ve got a place to go.”
“No, Henry, get in!” she wailed. “Get in or I’ll die!”
I walked over, opened the rear door, climbed into the rear seat. The engine started and we were off again. There I sat, Henry Chinaski, Class of Summer ’39, driving into the bright