Rebel Without a Cause

by Robert M. Lindner

  THE TWENTY-FOURTH HOUR

  As far back as I can remember I didn’t like my father. I would never speak to him other than when it was necessary. For some reason I disliked him and I couldn’t talk to him. I would tell my mother and sister to say things to him; I’d tell them and they’d tell him. My sister always got along with him. I got along best with my uncle. He and I were going to South America together when he received his bonus. He had a wife but he hadn’t lived with her for eight years. He didn’t get along very well with my father either. I guess it was because my father was quick-tempered and would argue with everybody. I know my father worked hard and didn’t get much pay. He would always complain about something hurting him, his back or his head, and my mother babied him a lot.

  When I was around twelve I got into trouble by breaking into a store with several other fellows and I went to the Juvenile Court and they sent me to the Home for three weeks. When I came back my father didn’t say anything to me. He knew because my mother told him, and yet he didn’t say anything about it. I figured he must be a pretty swell man if he didn’t say anything to his son after he spent three weeks in a reform school. When I was older, around seventeen, he always wanted me to get a job. Whenever he’d see me he’d ask if I was looking for work. Usually I would lie to him and say yes, but he knew I was lying so he would turn around and call me a liar. That’s why I would always try to be away from home when he came from work. I’d hear my father and mother arguing about me many times. When I was around seventeen I didn’t have any job, no money, fed up with everything, so I figured I’d get money as easy and as quick as possible.

  L: ‘You were saying that your mother babied your father. Were you jealous of the attentions she showered on him?’

  When he had a sore back or something I didn’t like the way she was so sorry for him.

  L: ‘Did you resent your mother’s attentions to your father?’

  I always thought it was useless.

  L: ‘Did you ever have any distinct resentment against your father about that?’

  I think the only reason she was attentive to him was so he shouldn’t be angry and start arguing with her. He always argued with her, that’s the reason.

  My father used to have two cars. He used one to go to work with; what the other car was bought for was because he wanted to get my sister interested in learning to drive and taking out a license. So one day she said to him in front of me, “What’s the matter with him?” He said that he bought it for her, not for me. I guess I disliked him more after that. I guess he dislikes me too.

  L: ‘Why do you think he dislikes you?’

  I guess he couldn’t hear very well so when he said something to me and I would answer him so he couldn’t hear it he would think I’d given him a sarcastic answer.

  L: ‘Have you always disliked him or was there a time when you felt differently towards him?’

  I’ve always disliked him. He would always argue with somebody about something: he’d pick on me and my sister or my mother. Jesus! He’d even argue with my grandmother. I disliked him even more for that. Why should he argue with an old woman? But maybe there was a time when I liked him. I never talked to him because I felt he couldn’t understand me. There are loads of reasons. One time I called him in to supper when he was fixing his car. He had a hammer in his hand and he said he would hit me in the head with it. I was about thirteen then. I didn’t say anything, just let things go by. He told my mother about it and she argued with him. I could hear them.

  When we lived on S—— Street we had four rooms; a kitchen, two bedrooms and a parlor. There was a door from one of the bedrooms to the parlor. I slept in the parlor sometimes and they slept in the next bedroom. My sister slept in the other bedroom. I—I—Sometimes I used to. I was sleeping in the bedroom next to their bedroom and I used to hear them moving over and—preparing for intercourse. Sometimes I heard my father tell my mother to—move—over and—and put her—legs up and … I hated to hear it. I would put the cover over my head and try not to listen. An action like that, it isn’t nice for a son to hear. Many times I heard my father say to my mother, “What the hell do you think I married you for?” I’m not sure if I actually saw them doing anything like that.

  There was marked overt resistance while the patient was speaking of physical relations between his parents. He twisted and squirmed on the couch, bit his lips and grimaced frequently.

  L: ‘How do you suppose you would have felt if you had seen anything like that?’

  It’s pretty hard to explain. I guess I hated to see him do anything like that in front of everybody. Sometimes when my sister used to get beatings from my father or mother—when she was younger she used to get hit sometimes for not listening to them—she would sit in the room crying, and I would go away by myself. I didn’t like to see her get hit. My sister is a good girl. She works. She gives all her money to her mother. She doesn’t play around with boys. My younger sister gets beaten a lot though. My mother beats her because she talks back. My mother is a timid woman; she cries right away. I guess I feel sorry for her, so I wanted to get away from everything and everybody and I’d leave home. I left home a lot of times; I can’t remember how often but it was plenty.

  L: ‘If you had seen your parents during any intimacy, Harold, how do you suppose it would have appeared to you?’

  Well, it appeared that my father was hurting my mother. I guess it might have a lot of different meanings. Maybe I did see my father and mother do that. I can’t recall. It must have been way back before I can remember. It might seem vulgar, brutal, filthy, dirty, or what not.

  L: ‘Is that the way a child would think?’

  Well, whenever we had to take a leak when we were little kids we would consider the penis dirty, nasty. My mother might have said that. She taught us that the genitals were dirty: she said that the penis was dirty.

  I don’t remember ever seeing my father naked. He strikes me as being the poor illiterate and ignorant European peasant type that come over to America to get something. They leave over there because there is nothing for them. He’s a good mechanic but he doesn’t know how to read or write. He has a big chest and a neck like a bull. He has a kind of pugilistic appearance. If I had ever seen anything like that it would make me feel as if he was hurting my mother, that he was choking her, killing her. But sometimes I know, when he was home and I was old enough to realize some things, I saw my father put his hands on my mother’s buttocks. It didn’t exactly appeal to me. I didn’t think it was right. I guess I did feel a little resentment against my father for touching my mother.

  L: ‘You felt he shouldn’t do it?’

  I disliked it when he did it in front of everybody. My mother would always tell him to look out for the children but he didn’t care.

  L: ‘And you resented the fact that he handled your mother that way?’

  I certainly did.

  L: ‘You felt he had no right to?’

  Yes. But when I got older I saw it in a different light. I guess I know right from wrong.

  L: ‘You were jealous of him?’

  I must have thought that my father could at least be decent enough not to do anything like that in front of everybody.

  L: ‘You thought of your father’s relationship with your mother as distasteful?’

  When I’d hear them in bed, hear them talk and him coaxing my mother I hated to listen to it. I’d put the covers over my head and try to shut out everything: sometimes I’d recite nursery rhymes to myself, just to forget, just to forget. I still sleep with the covers over my head. I hated to listen to it. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to be around. I wanted to be away from there. I’d pull the covers over my head.

  I don’t remember much about my father and mother before that time. I got one severe beating from him for ruining his razor. He really beat me up: he lifted me from the ground and let me drop on the floor.

  My mother told me that when they were first married he’d hit her. I hated him f
or that. I guess my mother was married to him about a week when she says she left him. They were living in B—— then and she came running back to my grandmother’s; and my grandmother chased her back. My mother was about sixteen when they got married. Sometimes I wish my grandmother hadn’t made her go back; she’s had a very unhappy life with him.

  Maybe he really is not as bad as I say he is. Maybe he treated my mother o.k. He always argued with my mother about me; why didn’t I get a job, and this and that. When we lived on S—— Street, when I was about eleven, my mother would close the door between the parlor and the bedroom where I slept. She’d come in the room and just sit, read a book or look out the window. I didn’t hear anything when she closed the door, but sometimes when it was warm the door would be opened and I’d have to sleep underneath the covers. Sometimes when my father came home from driving a truck he would have some kind of joke he would be aching to tell my mother, and I knew it must be a dirty joke of some kind. He would tell my mother to remind him to tell her and my mother would say, “If that’s the kind of a joke I think it is I don’t want to hear it.” I knew it was a dirty joke when he would say anything like that and I disliked it; he shouldn’t say anything like that to her. I guess I hated him. I remember when I was about eight or nine I was learning to ride a bicycle and there was a fellow that wanted to sell his for three dollars, so I asked my mother to buy it for me and she told me to ask my father. I didn’t have guts enough to ask him; so finally I mentioned it at the table and he said, “What do you want to do, get killed?” So I never asked him for anything again. I have often wondered why I didn’t want to ask him for anything. Now I think that’s the reason.

  I know my father used to chase a lot of women. My mother told me. My mother was born in this country and she could read and write and speak English good. I got along alright with her. My mother, my oldest sister and myself were always more like companions. O, we had a few arguments, but they were nothing. Sometimes my mother told me about the things my father used to do: how he used to hit her when they were first married. I was old enough then to think about such things. I didn’t form any hasty opinions.

  I think the reason my mother’s godfather left us is that he had an argument with my father.

  My father doesn’t drink or smoke but my mother told me that he used to go around in his car picking up women. I don’t know if she ever said anything to him. She said she knew he was doing it.

  I’d tell myself when I saw how my mother and father fought that I’d never get married.

  I always used to dress neatly, clean clothes; my mother always saw to it that we were clean. She’d try to help me with my ABCs, teach me how to add. My father never did anything like that.

  Often I’d go to sleep on the davenport and when I woke up my mother’d be there. I guess she came in during the middle of the night to see if I was comfortable. She’d cry a lot too. She’d argue with my father; he would holler at her so she’d go somewheres by herself and cry and pay no attention to anybody or anything; and she would take my sister or me on her lap and cry. She’d never tell us why she was crying.

  He used to say things about my eyes and curse me out.

  My sister was a tomboy and he would say things about cutting off my penis and giving it to her.

  L: ‘Do you remember him actually saying that?’

  When I was around eight or under he would say things like that. He was always telling dirty jokes. I feel there is something there. He said something like that. He used to say those kind of things then, lots of things.

  L: ‘Such as …?’

  A lot of dirty jokes. He would hint around at the table. When he was telling dirty jokes I didn’t like to hear him tell them in front of my sister and myself. I didn’t like to be around. My mother would holler at him to be quiet. He said something about cutting off my penis and giving it to my sister. She was a tomboy when she was a kid and he’d tease her about it. She’d fight with all the kids. One time there was a kid about my age she had a fight with because he said something about my eyes. She would always hold up like that for me when I was young. I know my father used to fix cars and he made a car once out of an old taxi. He changed the body and painted it up and sold it. I was afraid he’d change my body too. He always said he wished I was the girl instead of my sister. He likes her best. I remember when I was eight he said he wished she was the boy: that she was the best one; she would fight anybody and was afraid of nobody. He always said I ran to my mother in case anything happened. He would say I was the girl and she was the boy. I remember one time we had a dog, a little dog named Nellie. He would tell me that he would sic the dog on me and the dog would bite off my penis. The dog was a wild dog: she’d bite anybody; and she used to listen to my father and do what he told her. I don’t know whether he actually did sic the dog on me but he said that once or twice. We had the dog for about two or three years when we lived on B—— Street. She got killed by a car: she always chased cars. I guess I was under eight when he said that. He used to threaten me about this dog. The dog bit me one time when I was running past the alley. He said it once or twice in Polish, never in English. In Polish he said he’d sic the dog on me so she’d bite off my penis. I remember one time at the table he said that. My mother came to my rescue and scolded him for saying it. Then she started telling me that Nellie wouldn’t bite me and she called her over and told me to pat her head to see she wouldn’t bite me. It might have been when I was seven. I remember I got along with the dog better after that: she was always with me. I was very small then. I guess my sister wasn’t more than four.

  I can see it all; like a picture. My sister, real small. I can see my hands. My sister has dirty-blond hair, straight, cut in front. It seems so real to me. I can see the knicker pants I’ve got on and I feel so small in the chair. My father looks like he always looked to me. I have a distaste for his appearance; he always needs a shave.

  L: ‘When your father made that threat, do you remember how you felt? Were you afraid he’d carry it out?’

  Yes; I was afraid he would. I didn’t know what to do. When he said that my mother was sitting on the other side of me. She told my father, “What do you want to say things like that for?” She touched my knee, put her hand on my knee and touched it and said, “Don’t worry; Nellie wouldn’t bite you.” Then she called the dog over. The dog was dark-colored and white underneath the chin and neck and throat, and the dog’s tail was wagging as my mother was patting him. She told me, “Pat him on the head, Harold.” I was afraid of dogs for a while after that. His tail was wagging and she kept patting him and saying to me, “He won’t bite you.” The dog looked at me with such pitiful eyes and he put his head under my leg when I kept on patting him.

  L: ‘Was Nellie a he or a she?’

  She was a female dog …

  THE TWENTY-FIFTH HOUR

  When I was about eleven, maybe twelve, Riggs and myself were in the clubhouse together and we were masturbating ourselves, not each other. There wasn’t any discharge. I don’t know if this was the first time or not. I guess it was to find out who could discharge first. We were talking on the street about masturbating and we went into the clubhouse to do it. I don’t think either one of us finished. I have a hard time thinking about how it was when I was younger. I can remember that though. Then we went down by the river that day after we left the clubhouse. It was in the afternoon and we swam until around five o’clock, then went home for supper.

  I have another cousin, Benny, who just got married not so long ago. I remember he stole twelve dollars once off his brother. We went to the show together and I remember when we were coming out of the show he dropped a big knife he had; dropped it on the floor and the manager or someone took it away from him. That day before we went into the show we bought a big bag of cakes and cookies and we ate all through the show. I was about nine then.

  I am trying to think back further than that. I think my cousin Benny and me laid the same girl once. I’m trying to go back a li
ttle further than that.

  About my masturbating I don’t remember much other than the incident in the clubhouse. Well, I left H—— Street School and went to St. A—— School. When I was in about seventh grade there was one girl used to sit in back of me who would always pull her dress way up over her knees. I was looking at her and all the fellows sitting around by me. We all had hand mirrors and held it in our palms so we could look back there. This girl knew it, and one time she gave me an emotion. She held her hand as if she was holding a penis and she was moving it back and forth about an inch or so. She asked me to come to her house on M—— Street to see her, but I was afraid to go. I was afraid of the gang on that street.

  My favorite occupation was playing truant then. I’d go swimming or just lay around and do nothing. Sometimes I’d go to the show.

  I was about nine or less and there was a young girl, one of two sisters. Back of my father’s garage there was a cab body with a seat in it and we were sitting on it. I started playing with her knee and then putting my hand under her dress and playing with her genitals. She kept pushing my hand away and saying, “Stop it!” After about five or ten minutes I had intercourse with her. First she consented to play with my penis and, I don’t know, it gave me such a tickling sensation. I saw her a lot. We’d go in the cab body and play on the seat. I remember she used to lay across the seat and I’d lay on top of her. Sometimes after I was through she’d feel my penis for a while; it was a funny, tickling sensation. I remember when I’d go to bed sometimes my penis would be hard and I’d imagine she was playing with it, so I’d play with it myself. I guess that was how I masturbated the first time. We used to be in the cab body a lot together. I was in the first section, the front of the cab body, myself, and I was imagining that I was driving the cab and I had my hands on the steering wheel. She came through the back of the garage and sat down on the seat beside me. She began pushing the shift on the car back and forth. Then I went to the back and I was jumping up and down on the seat. She came back and jumped up and down with me. She laid down first and I put my head on her chest and started playing with her. I guess that’s how it happened the first time. I was real small then. When she moved away there were several girls there; O, a lot of them. My father’s cousin had been in the World War and he had a part of a soldier’s equipment, a gun and a gas mask and things like that in the cellar. I used to parade with those things down there. Sometimes I would get down there with some girls and maybe I’d wait until everybody would go away except one of the girls and me. Then I would start playing with her and then I would go in one of the corners and masturbate. It seems to me that I liked that tickling sensation. I remember I used to go around with a big hat on and the gas mask in a sack over my shoulder. I would try to make one of the girls and if she didn’t want to I would go in the corner and masturbate. I used to wait until everybody was out of the way.