Ham On Rye - Charles Bukowski [84]
My mother looked at me. “Henry, why don’t you eat your food?”
It was finally decided that I would enroll at L.A. City College. There was no tuition fee and second-hand books could be purchased at the Co-op Book Store. My father was simply ashamed that I was unemployed and by going to school I would at least earn some respectability. Eli LaCrosse (Baldy) had already been there a term. He counseled me.
“What’s the easiest fucking thing to take?” I asked him.
“Journalism. Those journalism majors don’t do anything.”
“O.K., I’ll be a journalist.”
I looked through the school booklet.
“What’s this Orientation Day they speak of here?”
“Oh, you just skip that, that’s bullshit.”
“Thanks for telling me, buddy. We’ll go instead to that bar across from campus and have a couple of beers.”
“Damn right!”
“Yeah.”
The day after Orientation Day was the day you signed up for classes. People were running about frantically with papers and booklets. I had come over on the streetcar. I took the “W” to Vermont and then took the “V” north to Monroe. I didn’t know where everybody was going, or what I should do. I felt sick.
“Pardon me…” I asked a girl.
She turned her head and kept walking briskly. A guy came running by and I grabbed him by the back of his belt and stopped him.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Shut up. I want to know what’s going on! I want to know what to do!”
“They explained everything to you in Orientation.”
“Oh…”
I let him go and he ran off. I didn’t know what to do. I had imagined that you just went somewhere and told them you wanted to take Journalism, Beginning Journalism, and they’d give you a card with a schedule of your classes. It was nothing like that. These people knew what to do and they wouldn’t talk. I felt as if I was in grammar school again, being mutilated by the crowd who knew more than I did. I sat down on a bench and watched them running back and forth. Maybe I’d fake it. I’d just tell my parents I was going to L.A. City College and I’d come every day and lay on the lawn. Then I saw this guy running along. It was Baldy. I got him from behind by the collar.
“Hey, hey, Hank! What’s happening?”
“I ought to cream you right now, you little asshole!”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”
“How do I get a fucking class? What do I do?”
“I thought you knew!”
“How? How would I know? Was I born with this knowledge inside of me, fully indexed, ready to consult when needed?”
I walked him over to a bench, still holding him by his shirt collar. “Now, lay it out, nice and clear, everything that needs to be done and how to do it. Do a good job and I might not cream you at this moment!”
So Baldy explained it all. I had my own Orientation Day right there. I still held him by the collar. “I’m going to let you go now. But some day I’m going to even this thing out. You’re going to pay for fucking me over. You won’t know when, but it’s going to happen.”
I let him go. He went running off with the rest of them. There was no need for me to worry or hurry. I was going to get the worst classes, the worst teachers and the worst hours. I strolled about leisurely signing up for classes. I appeared to be the only unconcerned student on campus. I began to feel superior.
Until my first 7 a.m. English class. It was 7:30 a.m. and I was hungover as I stood there outside the door, listening. My parents had paid for my books and I had sold them for drinking money. I had slid out of the bedroom window the night before and had closed the neighborhood bar. I had a throbbing beer hangover. I still felt drunk. I opened the door and walked in. I stood there. Mr. Hamilton, the English instructor, was standing before the class, singing. A record player was on, loud, and the class was singing along with Mr. Hamilton. It was Gilbert and Sullivan.
Now I am the ruler
of the Queen’s Navy…
I copied all the letters
in a big round band…
Now I am the ruler
of the Queen’s Navy…
Stick close to your desks
and never go to sea…
And you