"Get the fuck out of here! I'm not going to tell you twice!"
Enough of this kind had attached themselves to me already. I didn't much care for any of them: Baldy, Jimmy Hatcher, and a thin gangling Jewish kid, Abe Mortenson. Mortenson was a straight-A student but one of the biggest idiots in school. He had something radically wrong with him. Saliva kept forming in his mouth but instead of spitting on the ground to get rid of it he spit into his hands. I don't know why he did it and I didn't ask. I didn't like to ask. I just watched him and I was disgusted. I went home with him once and I found out how he got straight A's. His mother made him stick his nose into a book right away and she made him keep it there. She made him read all of his school books over and over, page after page. "He must pass his exams," she told me. It never occurred to her that maybe the hooks were wrong. Or that maybe it didn't matter. I didn't ask her.
It was like grammar school all over again. Gathered around me were the weak instead of the strong, the ugly instead of the beautiful, the losers instead of the winners. It looked like it was my destiny to travel in their company through life. That didn't bother me so much as the fact that I seemed irresistible to these dull idiot fellows. I was like a turd that drew flies instead of like a flower that butterflies and bees desired. I wanted to live alone, I felt best being alone, cleaner, yet I was not clever enough to rid myself of them. Maybe they were my masters: fathers in another form. In any event, it was hard to have them hanging around while I was eating my bologna sandwiches.
37
But there were some good moments. My sometime friend from the neighborhood, Gene, who was a year older than I, had a buddy, Harry Gibson, who had had one professional fight (he'd lost). I was over at Gene's one afternoon smoking cigarettes with him when Harry Gibson showed up with two pairs of boxing gloves. Gene and I were smoking with his two older brothers, Larry and Dan.
Harry Gibson was cocky. "Anybody want to try me?" he asked. Nobody said anything. Gene's oldest brother, Larry, was about 22. He was the biggest, but he was kind of timid and subnormal. He had a huge head, he was short and stocky, really well-built, but everything frightened him. So we all looked at Dan who was the next oldest, since Larry said, "No, no I don't want to fight." Dan was a musical genius, he had almost won a scholarship but not quite. Anyhow, since Larry had passed up Harry's challenge, Dan put the gloves on with Harry Gibson.
Harry Gibson was a son-of-a-bitch on shining wheels. Even the sun glinted off his gloves in a certain way. He moved with precision, aplomb and grace. He pranced and danced around Dan. Dan held up his gloves and waited. Gibson's first punch streaked in. It cracked like a rifle shot. There were some chickens in a pen in the yard and two of them jumped into the air at the sound. Dan spilled backwards. He was stretched out on the grass, both of his arms spread out like some cheap Christ.
Larry looked at him and said, "I'm going into the house." He walked quickly to the screen door, opened it and was gone.
We walked over to Dan. Gibson stood over him with a little grin on his face. Gene bent down, lifted Dan's head up a bit. "Dan? You all right?"
Dan shook his head and slowly sat up.
"Jesus Christ, the guy's carrying a lethal weapon. Get these gloves off me!"
Gene unlaced one glove and I got the other. Dan stood up and walked toward the back door like an old man. "I'm gonna lay down…" He went inside.
Harry Gibson picked up the gloves and looked at Gene. "How about it, Gene?"
Gene spit in the grass. "What the hell you trying to do, knock off the whole family?"
"I know you're the best fighter, Gene, but I'll go easy on you anyhow."
Gene nodded and I laced on his gloves for him. I was a good glove man.
They squared off. Gibson circled around Gene, getting ready. He circled to the right, then he circled to the left. He bobbed and he weaved. Then he stepped in, gave Gene a hard left jab. It landed right between Gene's eyes. Gene backpedaled and Gibson followed. When he got Gene up against the chicken pen he steadied him with a soft left to the forehead and then cracked a hard right to Gene's left temple. Gene slid along the chicken wire until he hit the fence,.then he slid along the fence, covering up. He wasn't attempting to fight back. Dan came out of the house with a piece of ice wrapped in a rag. He sat on the porch steps and held the rag to his forehead. Gene retreated along the fence. Harry got him in the corner between the fence and the garage. He looped a left to Gene's gut and when Gene bent over he straightened him with a right uppercut. I didn't like it. Gibson wasn't going easy on Gene like he'd promised. I got excited.
"Hit that fucker back, Gene! He's yellow! Hit him!"
Gibson lowered his gloves, looked at me and walked over.
"What did you say, punk?"
"I was rooting my man on," I said. Dan was over getting the gloves off Gene.
"Did I hear something about being 'yellow'?"
"You said you were going to go easy on him. You didn't. You're hitting him with every shot you've got."
"You callin' me a liar?"
"I'm saying you don't keep your word."
"Come on over and put the gloves on this punk!"
Gene and Dan came over and began putting the gloves on me.
"Take it easy on this guy, Hank," Gene said. "Remember he's all tired out from fighting us."
Gene and I had fought barefisted one memorable day from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. Gene had done pretty good. I had small hands and if you have small hands you've cither got to be able to hit hard as hell or else be some kind of a boxer. I was only a little of each. The next day my entire upper body was purple with bruises and I had two fat lips and a couple of loose front teeth. Now I had to fight the guy who had just whipped the guy who had whipped me.
Gibson circled to the left, then the right, then he moved in on me. I didn't see the left jab at all. I don't know where it caught me hut I went down from the left jab. It hadn't hurt but I was down. I got up. If the left could do that what would the right do? I had to figure something out.
Harry Gibson began to circle to the left, my left. Instead of circling to my right like he expected, I circled to my left. He looked surprised and as we came together I looped a wild left which caught him high and hard on the head. It felt great. If you can hit a guy once, you can hit him twice.
Then we were facing each other and he came straight at me. Gibson got me with the jab hut as it hit me I ducked my head down and to one side as quickly as I could. His right swung around over the top, missing. I moved into him and clinched, giving him a rabbit punch. We broke and I felt like a pro.
"You can take him, Hank!" yelled Gene.
"Go get him, Hank!" yelled Dan.
I rushed Gibson and tried a right lead. I missed and his left cross flashed on my jaw. I saw green and yellow and red lights, then he dug a right to my belly. It felt like it went through to my backbone. I grabbed him and clinched. But I wasn't frightened, for a change, and that felt good.
"I'll kill you, you fucker!" I told him.
Then it was just head-to-head, no more boxing. His punches came fast and hard. He was more accurate, had more power, yet I was landing some hard shots too and it made me feel good. The more he hit me the less I felt it. I had my gut sucked in, I liked the action. Then Gene and Dan were between us. They pulled us apart.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Don't stop this thing! I can take his ass!"
"Cut the shit, Hank," said Gene. "Look at yourself."
I looked down. The front of my shirt was dark with blood and there were splotches of pus. The punches had broken open three or four boils. That hadn't happened in my fight with Gene.
"That's nothing," I said. "That's just bad luck. He hasn't hurt me. Give me a chance and I'll cut him down."
"No, Hank, you'll get an infection or something," said Gene.
"All right, shit," I said, "cut the gloves off me!"
Gene unlaced me. When he got the gloves off I noticed that my hands were trembling, and also my arms to a lesser extent. I
put my hands in my pockets. Dan took Harry's gloves off. Harry looked at me. "You're pretty good, kid."
"Thanks. Well, I'll see you guys…"
I walked off. As I walked away I took my hands out of my pockets. Then up the-driveway, just at the sidewalk, I stopped, pulled out a cigarette and stuck it into my mouth. When I tried to strike a match my hands were trembling so much I couldn't do it. I gave them a wave, a real nonchalant wave, and walked away.
Back at the house I looked at myself in the mirror. Pretty damn good. I was coming along.
I took off my shirt and threw it under the bed. I'd have to find a way to clean the blood off. I didn't have many shirts and they'd notice a missing one right away. But for me, it had finally been a successful day, and I hadn't had too many of those.
38
Abe Mortenson was had enough to be around but he was just a fool. You can forgive a fool because he only runs in one direction and doesn't deceive anybody. It's the deceivers who make you feel had. Jimmy Hatcher had straight black hair, fair skin, he wasn't as big as I was but he kept his shoulders back, dressed better than most of us, and he had a way of getting along with anybody he felt like getting along with. His mother was a bar maid and his father had committed suicide. Jimmy had a nice smile, perfect teeth, and the girls liked him even though he didn't have the money the rich guys had. I would always see him talking to some girl. I don't know what he said to them. I didn't know what any of the guys said to any of them. The girls were impossibly out of reach for me and so I pretended that they didn't exist.
But Hatcher was another matter. I knew he wasn't a fairy but he kept hanging around.
"Listen, Jimmy, why do you follow me around? I don't like anything about you."
"Ah, come on. Hank, we're friends."
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
He even got up once in English class and read an essay called
"The Value of Friendship," and while he was reading it he kept glancing at me. It was a stupid essay, soft and standard, but the class applauded when he finished, and I thought, well, that's what people think and what can you do about it? I wrote a counter-essay called, "The Value of No Friendship At All." The teacher didn't let me read it to the class. She gave me a "D."
Jimmy and Baldy and I walked home together from high school each day. (Abe Mortenson lived in the other direction so that saved us from having to walk with him.) One day we were walking along and Jimmy said, "Hey, let's go to my girlfriend's house. I want you to meet her."
"Ah, balls, fuck that," I said.
"No, no," said Jimmy, "she's a nice girl. I want you to meet her. I've finger-fucked her."
I'd seen his girl, Ann Weatherton, she was really beautiful, long brown hair and large brown eyes, quiet, and with a good figure. I'd never spoken to her but I knew she was Jimmy's girl. The rich guys had tried to hit on her but she ignored them. She looked like she was first-rate.
"I've got the key to her house," said Jimmy. "We'll go there and wait for her. She's got a late class."
"Sounds dull to me," I said.
"Ah, come on, Hank," said Baldy. "you're just going to go home and whack-off anyhow."
"That's not always without its own merits," I said.
Jimmy opened the front door with his key and we walked in. A nice clean little house. A small black and white bulldog ran up to Jimmy, wagging its stub tail.
"This is Bones," said Jimmy. "Bones loves me. Watch this!"
Jimmy spit in the palm of his right hand and grabbed Bones' penis and began rubbing it.
"Hey, what the fuck you doing?" asked Baldy.
"They keep Bones on a leash in the yard. He never gets any. He needs release!" Jimmy worked away.
Bones' penis got disgustingly red, a thin, long string of dripping inanity. Bones began making whimpering sounds. Jimmy looked up as he worked away. "Hey, you wanna know what our song is? I mean, Ann's song and my song? It's 'When the Deep Purple Falls Over Sleepy Garden Walls."'
Then Bones was making it. The sperm spurted out and on the carpet. Jimmy stood up and with the sole of his shoe rubbed the come down into the nap of the carpet.
"I'm gonna fuck Ann one of these days. It's getting close. She says she loves me. And I love her too, I love her god-damned cunt."
"You prick," I told Jimmy, "you make me sick."
"I know you don't mean that, Hank," he said. Jimmy walked into the kitchen. "She's got a nice family. She lives here with her father, mother and brother. Her brother knows I am going to fuck her. He's right. But there's nothing he can do about it because I can beat the shit out of him. He's nothing. Hey, watch this!"
Jimmy opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a bottle of milk. At our place we still had an icebox. The Weathertons were obviously a well-off family. Jimmy pulled out his cock and then peeled the cardboard cap off the bottle and put his cock in there.
"Just a little, you know. They'll never taste it but they'll be drinking my piss…"
He pulled his cock out, capped the bottle, shook it, and then placed it hack in the refrigerator.
"Now," he said, "here's some jello. They are going to eat jello for dessert tonight. They are also going to eat…" He took the bowl of jello out and held it and then we heard a key in the front door and the front door opening. Jimmy quickly put the jello back into the refrigerator and closed the door. Then Ann walked in. Into the kitchen.
"Ann," said Jimmy, "I want you to meet my good friends, Hank and Baldy."
"Hi!"
"Hi!"
"Hi!"
"This one's Baldy. The other guy is Hank."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"I've seen you guys around campus."
"Oh yeah," I said, "we're around there. And we've seen you too."
"Yeah," said Baldy.
Jimmy looked at Ann. "You all right, baby?"
"Yes, Jimmy, I've been thinking about you."
She moved toward him and they embraced, then they were kissing. They were standing right in front of us as they were kissing. Jimmy was facing us. We could see his right eye. It winked.
"Well," I said, "we've got to get going."
"Yeah," said Baldy.
We walked out of the kitchen, through the front room and out of there. We walked down the sidewalk toward Baldy's place.
"That guy's really got it made," said Baldy.
"Yeah," I said.
39
One Sunday Jimmy talked me into going to the beach with him. He wanted to go swimming. I didn't want to he seen wearing swimming trunks because my hack was covered with boils and scars. Outside of that, I had a good body. But nobody would notice that. I had a good chest and great legs but nobody would see that.
I here was nothing to do and I didn't have any money and the guys didn't play in the streets on Sunday. I decided that the beach belonged to everybody. I had a right, my scars and boils weren't against the law.
So we got on our bikes and started out. It was fifteen miles. That didn't bother me. I had the legs.
I breezed with Jimmy all the way to Culver City. Then I gradually began to pedal faster. Jimmy pumped, trying to keep up. I could see him getting winded. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, held out the pack to him. "Want one, Jim?"
"No… thanks…"
"This beats shooting birds with a beebee gun," I told him. "We ought to do this more often!"
I began pumping harder. I still had plenty of reserve strength.
"This really gets it," I told him. "This beats whacking-off!"
"Hey, slow up a little!"
I looked back at him. "There's nothing like a good friend to go biking with. Come on, friend!"
Then I gave it all I had and pulled away. The wind was blowing in my face. It felt good.
"Hey, wait! WAIT, GOD DAMN IT!" yelled Jimmy. I started laughing and really opened up. Soon Jim was half-a- block back, a block, two blocks. Nobody knew how good I was, nobody knew what I could do. I was some kind of miracle. The
sun tossed yellow everywhere and I cut through-it, a crazy knife on wheels. My father was a beggar in the streets of India but all the women in the world loved me…
I was traveling at full speed as I reached the signal. I shot through inside the row of waiting cars. Now even the cars were back there behind me. But not for long. A guy and his girl in a green coupe pulled up and drove alongside me.
"Hey, kid!"
"Yeah?" I looked at him. He was a big guy in his twenties with hairy arms and a tattoo.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he asked me. He was trying to show off in front of his girl. She was a looker, her long blond hair blowing in the wind.
"Up yours, buddy!" I told him.
" What? "
"I said, 'Up yours! "
I gave him the finger. He kept driving along beside me.
"You gonna take shit off that kid, Nick?" I heard his girl ask him.
He kept driving along beside me.
"Hey, kid," he said, "I didn't quite hear what you said. Would you mind saying that again?"
"Yeah, say that again," said the looker, her long blond hair blowing in the wind. That pissed me. She pissed me.
I looked at him. "All right, you want trouble? Park it. I'm trouble."
He zoomed ahead of me about half a block, parked, and swung the door open. As he got out I swung wide around him almost into the path of a Chevy who gave me the horn. As I swung around into a side street I could hear the big guy laughing.
After the guy was gone I wheeled back onto Washington Boulevard, went a few blocks, got off the bike and waited for Jim on a bus stop bench. I could see him coming along. When he pulled up I pretended that I was asleep.
"Come on, Hank! Don't give me that shit!"
"Oh, hello, Jim. You here?"
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