Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [83]
The men in Pershing Square argued all day about whether there was a God or not. Most of them didn’t argue very well but now and then you got a Religionist and an Atheist who were well-versed and it was a good show.
When I had a few coins I’d go to the underground bar beneath the big movie house. I was 18 but they served me. I looked like I could be almost any age. Sometimes I looked 25, sometimes I felt like 30. The bar was run by Chinese who never spoke to anyone. All I needed was the first beer and then the homosexuals would start buying. I’d switch to whiskey sours. I’d bleed them for whiskey sours and when they started closing in on me, I’d get nasty, push off and leave. After a while they caught on and the place wasn’t any good anymore.
The library was the most depressing place I went. I had run out of books to read. After a while I would just grab a thick book and look for a young girl somewhere. There were always one or two about. I’d sit three or four chairs away, pretending to read the book, trying to look intelligent, hoping some girl would pick me up. I knew that I was ugly but I thought if I looked intelligent enough I might have some chance. It never worked. The girls just made notes on their pads and then they got up and left as I watched their bodies moving rhythmically and magically under their clean dresses. What would Maxim Gorky have done under such circumstances?
At home it was always the same. The question was never asked until after the first few bites of dinner were partaken. Then my father would ask, “Did you find a job today?”
“No.”
“Did you try anywhere?”
“Many places. I’ve gone back to some of the same places for the second or third time.”
“I don’t believe it.”
But it was true. It was also true that some companies put ads in the papers every day when there were no jobs available. It gave the employment department in those companies something to do. It also wasted the time and screwed up the hopes of many desperate people.
“You’ll find a job tomorrow, Henry,” my mother would always say…
49
I looked for a job all summer and couldn’t find one. Jimmy Hatcher caught on at an aircraft plant. Hitler was acting up in Europe and creating jobs for the unemployed. I had been with Jimmy that day when we had turned in our applications. We filled them out in similar fashion, the only difference being where it said Place of Birth, I put down Germany and he put down Reading, Pa.
“Jimmy got a job. He came from the same school and he’s your age,” said my mother. “Why couldn’t you get a job at the aircraft plant?”
“They can tell a man who doesn’t have a taste for work,” said my father. “All he wants to do is to sit in the bedroom on his dead ass and listen to his symphony music!”
“Well, the boy likes music. That’s something.”
“But he doesn’t DO anything with it! He doesn’t make it USEFUL!”
“What should he do?”
“He should go to a radio station and tell them he likes that kind of music and get a job broadcasting.”
“Christ, it’s not done like that, it’s not that easy.”
“What do you know? Have you tried it?”
“I tell you, it can’t be done.”
My father put a large piece of pork chop into his mouth. A greasy portion hung out from between his lips as he chewed. It was as if he had three lips. Then he sucked it in and looked at