Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [80]
“Home gardening.”
“What did you do, fertilize the fuchsias?”
“Yeah, I drop one turd in each pot.”
“Listen, Chinaski…”
“Yes?”
“The punchlines around here belong to me. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Well, get this. I’ve got an order here for Men’s Wear.”
He handed me the order slip.
“Locate these items, deliver them, obtain a signature and return.”
Men’s Wear was run by Mr. Justin Phillips, Jr. He was well-bred, he was polite, around twenty-two. He stood very straight, had dark hair, dark eyes, brooding lips. There was an unfortunate absence of cheekbones but it was hardly noticeable. He was pale and wore dark clothing with beautifully starched shirts. The salesgirls loved him. He was sensitive, intelligent, clever. He was also just a bit nasty as if some forebear had passed down that right to him. He had only broken with tradition once to speak to me. “It’s a shame, isn’t it, those rather ugly scars on your face?”
As I rolled my cart up to Men’s Wear, Justin Phillips was standing very straight, head tilted a bit, staring, as he did most of the time, looking off and up as if he was seeing things we were not. He saw things out there. Maybe I just didn’t recognize breeding when I saw it. He certainly appeared to be above his surroundings. It was a good trick if you could do it and get paid at the same time. Maybe that’s what management and the salesgirls liked. Here was a man truly too good for what he was doing, but he was doing it anyhow.
I rolled up. “Here’s your order, Mr. Phillips.”
He appeared not to notice me, which hurt in a sense, and was a good thing in another. I stacked the goods on the counter as he stared off into space, just above the elevator door.
Then I heard golden laughter and I looked. It was a gang of guys who had graduated with me from Chelsey High. They were trying on sweaters, hiking shorts, various items. I knew them by sight only, as we had never spoken during our four years of high school. The leader was Jimmy Newhall. He had been the halfback on our football team, undefeated for three years. His hair was a beautiful yellow, the sun always seemed to be highlighting parts of it, the sun or the lights in the schoolroom. He had a thick, powerful neck and above it sat the face of a perfect boy sculpted by some master sculptor. Everything was exactly as it should be: nose, forehead, chin, the works. And the body likewise, perfectly formed. The others with Newhall were not exactly as perfect as he was, but they were close. They stood around and tried on sweaters and laughed, waiting to go to U.S.C. or Stanford.
Justin Phillips signed my receipt. I was on my way back to the elevator when I heard a voice:
“HEY, SKI! SKI, YOU LOOK GREAT IN YOUR LITTLE OUTFIT!”
I stopped, turned, gave them a casual wave of the left hand.
“Look at him! Toughest guy in town since Tommy Dorsey!”
“Makes Gable look like a toilet plunger.”
I left my wagon and walked back. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I stood there and looked at them. I didn’t like them, never had. They might look glorious to others but not to me. There was something about their bodies that was like a woman’s body. They were soft, they had never faced any fire. They were beautiful nothings. They made me sick. I hated them. They were part of the nightmare that always haunted me in one form or another.
Jimmy Newhall smiled at me. “Hey, stockboy, how come you never tried out for the team?”
“It wasn’t what I wanted.”
“No guts, eh?”
“You know where the parking lot on the roof is?”
“Sure.”
“See you there…”
They strolled out toward the parking lot as I took my smock off and threw it into the cart. Justin Phillips, Jr. smiled at me, “My dear boy, you are going to get your ass whipped.”
Jimmy Newhall was waiting, surrounded by his buddies.
“Hey, look, the stockboy!”
“You think he’s wearing ladies’ underwear?”
Newhall was standing in the sun. He had his shirt off and his undershirt too. He had his gut sucked in and his chest pushed out. He looked good. What the hell had I gotten into? I felt my underlip trembling. Up there on the