Uncollected Works

by Thomas Pynchon

  In your last letter you said you wanted to know more about Mr. Rafael Faggiaducci, who teaches “trig” at Hamster High. For Christmas our “trig” class gave Mr. Faggiaducci a necktie with an inscription that lights up in the dark. The first day after Christmas vacation, Mr. Faggiaducci came into class with a large red mark across his face, but he refused to tell us what had happened. We also gave him a gold-plated drumstick inscribed “To Coolcat Faggiaducci from the Boys.”

  The “Boys” (note well the capital B) are a peculiar and very select group. They occupy the rear seats. Officially they are there to learn trigonometry. Actually they are engaged, under the leadership of Crazy Harrigan and Big Bob Woods, in a fascinating experiment in psychology entailing the instilling of paranoid hallucinations into the logical mind by psychoanalytic deletion of the super-ego. In other words, we are trying to see how much Faggiaducci can take before he flips his lid.

  And you may be sure we are succeeding, although Faggiaducci does not exactly appreciate this. Already, he screams, his psychologist says he is getting delusions of persecution; that is, he is imagining that there is a conspiracy against him. You know the funny thing about it? There is!

  For one thing, Faggiaducci hates the song “High Noon”—he goes “nuts” every time he hears it. So, John Trodsky brings his guitar to class, and we all sing, “Do not forsake me, Faggiaducci,” etc. He gets very, very peeved sometimes. I can show you a scar where I was hit by a compass Faggiaducci threw in a blind fit of rage. We also have the habit of laughing unexpectedly. It may be during a test, when the whole room is quiet—all of a sudden there is a huge roar from the back of the room. Every time Faggiaducci jumps as if he had sat on a mousetrap. Sometimes that happens too. We also pulled a real cool bit a few weeks ago. At a prearranged signal, the whole class started rocking from side to side. Faggiaducci said, “Stop that rocking!” and Sid Scully laughed and said, “What rocking?” Faggiaducci got mad and called the principal, Mr. Sowfurkle, and said, “My class is rocking back and forth. Come up and do something about it.” So, the inevitable happened; when Furk came into the room, we stopped rocking and sat perfectly still. The conversation which followed between Faggiaducci and the principal I leave to your own imagination.

  Well, Sam, I guess that’s about all for now. Write soon and tell me if you have any teachers like Faggiaducci at Oyster Bay High.

  As always,

  Bose.

  Purple and Gold, 19 February 1953, 8. “Voice of the Hamster.”

  Dear Sam,

  Did it! Passed trig! I was taking it half-year, you know, with The Boys, and we finally succeeded in getting Faggiaducci to the point where he was completely fed up with us. He got so mad that the day of the Regents he refused to proctor the exam. So we were stuck with some neurotic Czech who screamed instead of talked.

  Anyway, we started singing, “Do not forsake me, Faggiaducci,” and he got purple and screamed—screamed, mind you, not yelled like Faggiaducci—“Shut up or I’ll kick you all out!” Then he started swearing and insulting us and throwing things until finally he got us pretty riled. Now you know there’s one thing meaner than The Boys, and that’s The Boys riled. Sid Scully called the Czech something very uncomplimentary; Crazy Harrigan hit him from behind with a ruler; and Bob Woods tripped him with a chair when he swung at Sid. He headed out of the room, intending to call the principal. That did it! En masse, The Boys arose, surrounded the Czech, picked him up bodily, stuffed him in the dumbwaiter, and left him there until we could finish the exam in peace.

  Faggiaducci had said that the best mark he had expected was somewhere in the low 60’s; as it was, there was no mark lower than 92. (Don’t ask me how we did it!) This, of course, had a severe psychological effect on Faggiaducci. He hasn’t been to school in a week. I hear he had a breakdown. The Czech? Well, nobody uses that dumbwaiter shaft anymore, and so we decided to leave him there. They may find him some day—I don’t care much—he gets fed twice a week.

  Must go now

  Arrivaderci,

  Bose.

  “The Boys”

  “The Boys” is a short, humorous piece that appeared in Pynchon’s high school newspaper, the Oyster Bay High School Purple and Gold, in 1953, a few months before Pynchon graduated at the age of 16. “The Boys” is what Pynchon called his group of friends and fellow members of the school Math Club (of which Pynchon was a founding member, it seems). The following piece relates the story of how the shadowy, secret group was finally outed, when a photo of them was published in the high school yearbook.

  The text is taken from Clifford Mead’s Thomas Pynchon: A Bibliography of Primary and Secondary Materials (Elmwood, IL: The Dalkey Archive Press, 1989), and according to both Mead and our own investigation these stories are in the public domain. Mead’s book also reproduces a number of photos from Pynchon’s yearbook, and the only group photo that Pynchon smiles in is, sure enough, the Math Club.

  By Thomas Pynchon

  Purple and Gold, 19 March 1953, 8. “The Boys”

  In the past few weeks at O. B. H. S. there has arisen a newer, brighter star in the already brilliant constellation of our extracurricular activities. This organization evolved slowly and painfully; many factors contributed to its maturity (for lack of a better word). One has been the natural psychological manic phase prevalent in most seniors coupled with a compulsive-obsessive complex to apathy concerning schoolwork; in other words, goofing off and fooling around. Another has been a certain series of articles in the P. & G. which has fired the imagination of the group of students comprising this society.

  “The Boys,” for so this group is called, had heretofore been working in the shadow of anonymous immunity, and their names and faces were unknown save to their own compact enclave. But now the secret is out, for “The Boys” have finally reached a peak: they have gotten their pictures taken for the yearbook of ‘53.

  This singular event took place at the beginning of sixth period on Thursday, February 26. This date is significant; it marks the beginning of a new era of student-teacher relations. Quietly, efficiently, a few couriers infiltrated the halls and classrooms. A whispered sentence, a tap on the shoulder, and another silently left class. Finally, the entire organization was assembled on the front steps of the school, the camera set up, the picture ready to be snapped. But wait! No Mr. X! (Mr. X, of course, being the math teacher). Shouting enthusiastically, “The Boys” gathered under his classroom window, and began chanting, “We want X! We want X!”

  Slowly, Mr. X approached the window, peered out through his horn-rimmed glasses and retreated hastily. The shouts grew louder; finally, timidly, Mr. X raised his hand, and said, “All right, all right. I’m coming.” A roar went up, as “The Boys” cheered en masse, and finally Mr. X appeared, resplendent in bow tie and bop cardigan. The picture was snapped, and history was made.

  “Ye Legend of Sir Stupid and the Purple Knight”

  This piece by Pynchon appeared in his high school newspaper, the Oyster Bay High School Purple and Gold, in 1953, a few months before Pynchon graduated at the age of 16.

  The text is taken from Clifford Mead’s Thomas Pynchon: A Bibliography of Primary and Secondary Materials (Elmwood, IL: The Dalkey Archive Press, 1989), and according to both Mead and our own investigation these stories are in the public domain.

  By Thomas Pynchon

  Purple and Gold, 19 March 1953, 2. “Ye Legend of Sir Stupid and the Purple Knight”

  “Ridiculous!” roared King Arthur, slamming his beer mug on the Round Table. “Purple, you say?”

  “All purple, my liege,” said Sir Launcelot, nervously wiping the foam from his face, “head to toes. Completely.”

  “I say! Most irregular. Well, what does he want?”

  “He wants audience with you, my liege. It seems he’s done ole Cholmondesley in.”

  “Cholmondesley?”

  “With an axe, your grace. A purple axe. He says he’ll do the same to us all if we don’t send a challenger to fight hi
m in fair battle.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, he—he’s—twenty feet tall.”

  “Twenty! Oh, I say! Ghastly business! Who’ve we got crazy enough to fight him? How about you, Launcelot?”

  “Oh, no, my liege. Cut my finger last night peeling potatoes. The pain is beastly.”

  “Rotten luck, old chap. Well,” he addressed the knights of the round table, “there’s a big purple idiot outside who’s looking for a fight. Who’s game?”

  Then up spake Sir Bushwack, a sturdy youth with a broad beam and a low center of gravity: “Where is the bloke? I’m not afraid, even if he is twenty feet taII!” Sir Bushwack had been drinking.

  Then spake King Arthur to Sir Launcelot, telling him to bid the knight enter. And Launcelot did this, and the horns sounded, and in staggered a tremendous giant, perhaps four feet in height, dragging behind him a ten-foot purple axe. He had a vast quantity of purple hair which fell down over his eyes, and was clad in purple armor, and his feet in purple sneakers. He led a noble steed, also purple, which resembled a cross between a Shetland pony and an armadillo.

  King Arthur whispered to Launcelot, “I thought you said he was twenty feet tall.”

  “That’s what he told me, your majesty.”

  “That’s what he what? Why you …”

  The rest of King Arthur’s tirade was drowned out by the purple giant, who was bellowing in a mighty voice:

  “Okay, I can beat any man in the house! I ain’t scared of nobody ‘cause you’re all … “ he hiccoughed “ … chicken to fight me! Come on, who’s first?”

  Up spake Sir Bushwack, shouting, “I challenge thee, Sir Knight!” The purple knight laughed. “Look what’sh challenging me! You slob, I can,—hic—can lick you with, —hic—one hand tied behind my back! Come ahead!” Then did the purple knight pick up the purple axe and begin to whirl it about his head, faster and faster. Sir Bushwack waddled up dubiously with sword in hand, feebly attempted to parry, then quickly retreated. The purple knight stood and laughed.

  “Chicken, all of you! Scared to fight me! Har! Har!”

  Suddenly, the horns sounded and into the hall rushed a very brave and manly knight, Sir Stupid.

  “I say!” he shouted to all and sundry, “Old Fotheringay’s run amok! He and his horse fell into that newly-pressed grape juice up at the distillery, and …”.

  Then he caught sight of the purple knight and stopped short. King Arthur started to laugh hysterically, spilling beer hither and yon.

  “I say, old Fotheringay’s gone and fallen into the wine vat! Old Fotheringayl Haw, Haw, Haw! Old Fotheringay’s got high on grape juice! Haw! In the still of the knight!”

  Old Fotheringay stood digesting this in silence. Then slowly he began to chuckle and whirl that axe.

  “Oh, oh,” Sir Stupid whispered to Arthur, “here he goes!” With a savage yell, Old Fotheringay charged the Round Table, swinging his axe. In an instant, the hall became the scene of a free-for-all. The purple knight was in the thick of the whole mess, smashing furniture, beer kegs, and anything else that happened to be in his way. The hall resounded with the clanging of swords, the splintering of wood, and the demonaical chuckling of the purple knight. In the midst of the noise and confusion, Sir Stupid buttonholed Bushwack.

  “Noble knight,” he said, “art thou truly dedicated to thy leige?”

  “Yes.”

  “And wouldst thou suffer discomfort to rid thy liege of this menace?”

  “Surely,” Sir Bushwack said absently, as he ducked a flying beer mug.

  “That’s all I wanted to know! Fotheringay! You feeble-minded halfwit cretin! Over here!”

  Infuriated, the purple knight whirled toward Sir Stupid and raised his axe. Sir Stupid lifted the protesting Bushwack and hurled him bodily at Fotheringay. There was a loud, splintering smash as the purple knight went down, and then all was silent, except for the gurgling of beer from a shattered keg. Sir Stupid stood over the horizontal Fotheringay.

  “Now, thou proud knight,” roared Sir Stupid triumphantly, “now what hast thou to say?”

  Slowly, the purple knight looked up and sneered. “CHICKEN,” he said.

  Essays

  A Journey Into The Mind of Watts

  By Thomas Pynchon

  June 12, 1966

  Los Angeles

  The night of May 7, after a chase that began in Watts and ended some 50 blocks farther north, two Los Angeles policemen, Caucasians, succeeded in halting a car driven by Leonard Deadwyler, a Negro. With him were his pregnant wife and a friend. The younger cop (who’d once had a complaint brought against him for rousing some Negro kids around in a more than usually abusive way) went over and stuck his head and gun in the car window to talk to Deadwyler. A moment later there was a shot; the young Negro fell sideways in the seat, and died. The last thing he said, according to the other cop, was, “She’s going to have a baby.”

  The coroner’s inquest went on for the better part of two weeks, the cop claiming the car had lurched suddenly, causing his service revolver to go off by accident; Deadwyler’s widow claiming that it was cold-blooded murder and that the car had never moved. The verdict, to no one’s surprise, cleared the cop of all criminal responsibility. It had been an accident. The D.A. announced immediately that he thought so, too, and that as far as he was concerned the case was closed.

  But as far as Watts is concerned, it’s still very much open. Preachers in the community are urging calm—or, as others are putting it: “Make any big trouble, baby, The Man just going to come back in and shoot you, like last time.” Snipers are sniping but so far not hitting much of anything. Occasional fire bombs are being lobbed at cars with white faces inside, or into empty sports models that look as if they might be white property. There have been a few fires of mysterious origin. A Negro Teen Post—part of the L.A. poverty war’s keep-them-out-of-the- streets effort—has had all its windows busted, the young lady in charge expressing the wish next morning that she could talk with the malefactors, involve them, see if they couldn’t work out the problem together. In the back of everybody’s head, of course, is the same question: Will there be a repeat of last August’s riot?

  An even more interesting question is: Why is everybody worrying about another riot—haven’t things in Watts improved any since the last one? A lot of white folks are wondering. Unhappily, the answer is no. The neighborhood may be seething with social workers, data collectors, VISTA volunteers and other assorted members of the humanitarian establishment, all of whose intentions are the purest in the world. But somehow nothing much has changed. There are still the poor, the defeated, the criminal, the desperate, all hanging in there with what must seem a terrible vitality.

  The killing of Leonard Deadwyler has once again brought it all into sharp focus; brought back longstanding pain, reminded everybody of how very often the cop does approach you with his revolver ready, so that nothing he does with it can then really be accidental; of how, especially, at night, everything can suddenly reduce to a matter of reflexes: your life trembling in the crook of a cop’s finger because it is dark, and Watts, and the history of this place and these times makes it impossible for the cop to come on any different, or for you to hate him any less. Both of you are caught in something neither of you wants, and yet night after night, with casualities or without, these traditional scenes continue to be played out all over the south-central part of this city.

  Whatever else may be wrong in a political way—like the inadequacy of the Great Depression techniques applied to a scene that has long outgrown them; like old-fashioned grafter’s glee among the city fathers over the vast amounts of poverty-war bread that Uncle is now making available to them—lying much closer to the heart of L.A.‘s racial sickness is the co-existence of two very different cultures: one white and one black.

  While the white culture is concerned with various forms of systematized folly—the economy of the area in fact depending on it—the black culture is stuck pretty much with basic
realities like disease, like failure, violence and death, which the whites have mostly chosen—and can afford—to ignore. The two cultures do not understand each other, though white values are displayed without let-up on black people’s TV screens, and though the panoramic sense of black impoverishment is hard to miss from atop the Harbor Freeway, which so many whites must drive at least twice every working day. Somehow it occurs to very few of them to leave at the Imperial Highway exit for a change, go east instead of west only a few blocks, and take a look at Watts. A quick look. The simplest kind of beginning. But Watts is country which lies, psychologically, uncounted miles further than most whites seem at present willing to travel.