“It’s too bad dogs can’t go to heaven,” said Frank.
“Why can’t they?”
“You gotta be baptized to go to heaven.”
“We ought to baptize him.”
“Think we should?”
“He deserves a chance to go to heaven.”
I picked him up and we walked into the church. We took him to the bowl of holy water and I held him there as Frank sprinkled the water on his forehead.
“I hereby baptize you,” said Frank.
We took him outside and put him back on the sidewalk again.
“He even looks different,” I said.
The dog lost interest and walked off down the sidewalk. We went back into the church, stopping first at the holy water, dipping our fingers into it and making the sign of the cross. We both kneeled at a pew near the confessional booth and waited. A fat woman came out from behind the curtain. She had body odor. I could smell her strong odor as she walked past. Her smell was mixed with the smell of the church, which smelled like piss. Every Sunday people came to mass and smelled that piss-smell and nobody said anything. I was going to tell the priest about it but I couldn’t. Maybe it was the candles.
“I’m going in,” said Frank.
Then he got up, walked behind the curtain and was gone. He was in there a long time. When he came out he was grinning.
“It was great, just great! You go in there now!”
I got up, pulled the curtain back and walked in. It was dark. I kneeled down. All I could see in front of me was a screen. Frank said God was back in there. I kneeled and tried to think of something bad that I had done, but I couldn’t think of anything. I just knelt there and tried and tried to think of something but I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to do.
“Go ahead,” said a voice. “Say something!”
The voice sounded angry. I didn’t think there would be any voice. I thought God had plenty of time. I was frightened. I decided to lie.
“All right,” I said. “I…kicked my father. I…cursed my mother…I stole money from my mother’s purse. I spent it on candy bars. I let the air out of Chuck’s football. I looked up a little girl’s dress. I kicked my mother. I ate some of my snot. That’s about all. Except today I baptized a dog.”
“You baptized a dog?”
I was finished. A Mortal Sin. No use going on. I got up to leave. I didn’t know if the voice recommended my saying some Hail Marys or if the voice didn’t say anything at all. I pulled the curtain back and there was Frank waiting. We walked out of the church and were back on the street.
“I feel cleansed,” said Frank, “don’t you?”
“No.”
I never went to confession again. It was worse than ten o’clock mass.
18
Frank liked airplanes. He lent me all his pulp magazines about World War I. The best was Flying Aces. The dog-fights were great, the Spads and the Fokkers mixing it. I read all the stories. I didn’t like the way the Germans always lost but outside of that it was great.
I liked going over to Frank’s place to borrow and return the magazines. His mother wore high heels and had great legs. She sat in a chair with her legs crossed and her skirt pulled high. And Frank’s father sat in another chair. His mother and father were always drinking. His father had been a flyer in World War I and had crashed. He had a wire running down inside one of his arms instead of a bone. He got a pension. But he was all right. When we came in he always talked to us.
“How are you doing, boys? How’s it going?”
Then we found out about the air show. It was going to be a big one. Frank got hold of a map and we decided to get there by hitch-hiking. I thought we’d probably never make it to the air show but Frank said we would. His father gave us the money.
We went down to the boulevard with our map and we got a ride right away. It was an old guy and his lips were very wet, he kept licking his lips with his tongue and he had on an old checkered shirt which he had buttoned to the throat. He wasn’t wearing a necktie. He had strange eyebrows which curled down into his eyes.
“My name’s Daniel,” he said.
Frank said, “This is Henry. And I’m Frank.”
Daniel drove along. Then he took out a Lucky Strike and lit it.
“You boys live at home?”
“Yes,” said Frank.
“Yes,” I said.
Daniel’s cigarette was already wet from his mouth. He stopped the car at a signal.
“I was at the beach yesterday and they caught a couple of guys under the pier. The cops caught them and threw them in jail. One guy was sucking the other guy off. Now what business is that of the cops? It made me mad.”
The signal changed and Daniel pulled away.
“Don’t you guys think that was stupid? The cops stopping those guys from sucking-off?”
We didn’t answer.
“Well,” said Daniel, “don’t you think a couple of guys have a right to a good blow job?”
“I guess so,” said Frank.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Where are you boys going?” asked Daniel.
“The air show,” said Frank.
“Ah, the air show! I like air shows! I’ll tell you what, you boys let me go with you and I’ll drive you all the way there.”
We didn’t answer.
“Well, how about it?”
“All right,” said Frank.
Frank’s father had given us admission and transportation money, but we had decided to save the transportation money by hitch-hiking.
“Maybe you boys would rather go swimming,” said Daniel.
“No,” said Frank, “we want to see the air show.”
“Swimming’s more fun. We can race each other. I know a place where we can be alone. I’d never go under the pier.”
“We want to go to the air show,” said Frank.
“All right,” said Daniel, “we’ll go to the air show.”
When we got to the air show parking lot we got out of the car and while Daniel was locking it Frank said, “RUN!”
We ran toward the admission gate and Daniel saw us running away.
“HEY, YOU LITTLE PERVERTS! COME BACK HERE! COME BACK!”
We kept running.
“Christ,” said Frank, “that son-of-a-bitch is crazy!”
We were almost at the admission gate.
“I’LL GET YOU BOYS!”
We paid and ran inside. The show hadn’t started yet but a large crowd was already there.
“Let’s hide under the grandstand so he can’t find us,” said Frank.
The grandstand was built of temporary planks for the people to sit on. We went underneath. We saw two guys standing under the center of the grandstand and looking up. They were about 13 or 14 years old, about two or three years older than we were.
“What are they looking at?” I asked.
“Let’s go see,” said Frank.
We walked over. One of the guys saw us coming.
“Hey, you punks, get out of here!”
“What are you guys looking at?” Frank asked.
“I told you punks to get out of here!”
“Ah, hell, Marty, let ’em have a look!”
We walked over to where they were standing. We looked up.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Hell, can’t you see it?” one of the big guys asked.
“See what?”
“It’s a cunt.”
“A cunt? Where?”
“Look, right there! See it?”
He pointed.
There was a woman sitting with her skirt bunched back underneath her. She didn’t have any panties on, and looking up between the planks you could see her cunt.
“See it?”
“Yeah, I see it. It’s a cunt,” said Frank.
“All right, now you guys get out of here and keep your mouths shut.”
“But we want to look at it a little longer,” said Frank. “Just let us look a little longer.”
“All right, but not too long.”
We stood there looking up at it.
“I can see it,” I said.
“It’s a cunt,” said Frank.
“It’s really a cunt,” I said.
“Yeah,” said one of the big guys, “that’s what it is.”
“I’ll always remember this,” I said.
“All right, you guys, it’s time to go.”
“What for?” asked Frank. “Why can’t we keep looking?”
“Because,” said one of the big guys, “I’m going to do something. Now get out of here!”
We walked off.
“I wonder what he’s going to do?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Frank, “maybe he’s going to throw a rock at it.”
We got out from under the grandstand and looked around for Daniel. We didn’t see him anywhere.
“Maybe he left,” I said.
“A guy like that doesn’t like airplanes,” said Frank.
We climbed up into the grandstand and waited for the show to begin. I looked around at all the women.
“I wonder which one she was?” I asked.
“I guess you can’t tell from the top,” said Frank.
Then the air show began. There was a guy in a Fokker doing stunts. He was good, he looped and circled, stalled, pulled out of it, skimmed the ground, and did an Immelman. His best trick consisted of a hook on each wing. Two red handkerchiefs were fastened to poles about six feet above the ground. The Fokker flew down, dipped a wing, and picked a handkerchief off the pole with the hook on its wing. Then it came around, dipped the other wing, and got the other handkerchief.
Then there were some sky-writing acts which were dull and some balloon races which were silly, and then they had something good—a race around four pylons, close to the ground. The airplanes had to circle the pylons twelve times and the one that finished first got the prize. The pilot was automatically disqualified if he circled above the pylons. The racing planes sat on the ground warming up. They were all built differently. One had a long slim body with hardly any wings. Another was fat and round, it looked like a football. Another was almost all wings and no body. Each was different and each was grandly painted. The prize for the winner was $100. They sat there warming up, and you knew you were really going to see something exciting. The motors roared like they wanted to tear away from the airplanes and then the starter dropped the flag and they were off. There were six planes and there was hardly room for them as they went around the pylons. Some of the flyers took them low, others high, some in the middle. Some went faster and lost ground rounding the pylons; others went slower and made sharper turns. It was wonderful and it was terrible. Then one of them lost a wing. The plane bounced along the ground, the engine shooting flame and smoke. It flipped over on its back and the ambulance and the fire truck came running up. The other planes kept going. Then the engine just exploded in another plane, came loose, and the remainder of the plane dropped down like something lost. It hit the ground and everything came apart. But a strange thing happened. The pilot just slid back the cockpit cowling and climbed out and waited for the ambulance. He waved to the crowd and they applauded like mad. It was miraculous.
Suddenly the worst happened. Two planes tangled wings while circling the pylons. They both spun down and crashed and both caught on fire. The ambulance and fire engine ran up again. We saw them pull the two guys out and put them on stretchers. It was sad, those two brave good guys, both probably crippled for life or dead.
That left only two planes, number 5 and number 2, going for the grand prize. Number 5 was the slim plane almost without wings and it was much faster than number 2. Number 2 was the football, he didn’t have much speed, but he made up a lot of ground on the turns. It didn’t help much. The 5 kept lapping the 2.
“Plane number 5,” said the announcer, “is now two laps ahead with two laps to go.”
It looked like number 5 was going to get the grand prize. Then he ran into a pylon. Instead of making the turn he just ran into the pylon and knocked the whole thing down. He kept going, straight down the field, lower and lower, the engine at full throttle, and then he hit the ground. The wheels hit and the plane bounced high into the air, flipped over, skidded along the ground. The ambulance and fire engine had a long way to go.
Number 2 just kept circling the three pylons that were left and the one fallen pylon and then he landed. He had won the grand prize. He climbed out. He was a fat guy, just like his airplane. I had expected a handsome tough guy. He had been lucky. Hardly anybody applauded.
To close the show they had a parachute contest. There was a circle painted on the ground, a big bullseye, and the one who landed the closest won. It seemed dull to me. There wasn’t much noise or action. The jumpers just bailed out and aimed for the circle.
“This isn’t very good,” I told Frank.
“Naw,” he said.
They kept coming down near the circle. More jumpers bailed out of the planes overhead. Then the crowd started oohing and ahhhing.
“Look!” said Frank.
One chute had only partially opened. There wasn’t much air in it. He was falling faster than the others. You could see him kicking his legs and working his arms, trying to untangle the parachute.
“Jesus Christ,” said Frank.
The guy kept dropping, lower and lower, you could see him better and better. He kept yanking at the cords trying to untangle the chute but nothing worked. He hit the ground, bounced just a bit, then fell back and was still. The half-filled chute came down over him.
They cancelled the remainder of the jumps.
We walked out with the people, still watching out for Daniel.
“Let’s not hitch-hike back,” I said to Frank.
“All right,” he said.
Walking out with the people, I didn’t know which was more exciting, the air race, the parachute jump that failed, or the cunt.
19
The 5th grade was a little better. The other students seemed less hostile and I was growing larger physically. I still wasn’t chosen for the homeroom teams but I was threatened less. David and his violin had gone away. The family had moved. I walked home alone. I was often trailed by one or two guys, of whom Juan was the worst, but they didn’t start anything. Juan smoked cigarettes. He’d walk behind me smoking a cigarette and he always had a different buddy with him. He never followed me alone. It scared me. I wished they’d go away. Yet, in another way, I didn’t care. I didn’t like Juan. I didn’t like anybody in that school. I think they knew that. I think that’s why they disliked me. I didn’t like the way they walked or looked or talked, but I didn’t like my father or mother either. I still had the feeling of being surrounded by white empty space. There was always a slight nausea in my stomach. Juan was dark-skinned and he wore a brass chain instead of a belt. The girls were afraid of him, and the boys too. He and one of his buddies followed me home almost every day. I’d walk into the house and they’d stand outside. Juan would smoke his cigarette, looking tough, and his buddy would stand there. I’d watch them through the curtain. Finally, they would walk off.
Mrs. Fretag was our English teacher. The first day in class she asked us each our names.
“I want to get to know all of you,” she said.
She smiled.
“Now, each of you has a father, I’m sure. I think it would be interesting if we found out what each of your fathers does for a living. We’ll start with seat number one and we will go around the class. Now, Marie, what does your father do for a living?”
“He’s a gardener.”
“Ah, that’s nice! Seat number two…Andrew, what does your father do?”
It was terrible. All the fathers in my immediate neighborhood had lost their jobs. My father had lost his job. Gene’s father sat on his front porch all day. All the fathers were without jobs except Chuck’s who worked in a meat plant. He drove a red car with the meat company’s name on the side.
“My father is a fireman,” said seat number two.
“Ah, that’s interesting,” said Mrs. Fretag. “Seat number three.”
“My father is a lawyer.”
“Seat number four.”
“My father is a…policeman…”
What was I going to say? Maybe only the fathers in my neighborhood were without jobs. I’d heard of the stock market crash. It meant something bad. Maybe the stock market had only crashed in our neighborhood.
“Seat number eighteen.”
“My father is a movie actor…”
“Nineteen…”
“My father is a concert violinist…”
“Twenty…”
“My father works in the circus…”
“Twenty-one…”
“My father is a bus driver…”
“Twenty-two…”
“My father sings in the opera…”
“Twenty-three…”
Twenty-three. That was me.
“My father is a dentist,” I said.
Mrs. Fretag went right on through the class until she reached number thirty-three.
“My father doesn’t have a job,” said number thirty-three.
Shit, I thought, I wish I had thought of that.
One day Mrs. Fretag gave us an assignment.
“Our distinguished President, President Herbert Hoover, is going to visit Los Angeles this Saturday to speak. I want all of you to go hear our President. And I want you to write an essay about the experience and about what you think of President Hoover’s speech.”
Saturday? There was no way I could go. I had to mow the lawn. I had to get the hairs. (I could never get all the hairs.) Almost every Saturday I got a beating with the razor strop because my father found a hair. (I also got stropped during the week, once or twice, for other things I failed to do or didn’t do right.) There was no way I could tell my father that I had to go see President Hoover.
So, I didn’t go. That Sunday I took some paper and sat down to write about how I had seen the President. His open car, trailing flowing streamers, had entered the football stadium. One car, full of secret service agents went ahead and two cars followed close behind. The agents were brave men with guns to protect our President. The crowd rose as the President’s car entered the arena. There had never been anything like it before. It was the President. It was him. He waved. We cheered. A band played. Seagulls circled overhead as if they too knew it was the President. And there were skywriting airplanes too. They wrote words in the sky like “Prosperity is just around the corner.” The President stood up in his car, and just as he did the clouds parted and the light from the sun fell across his face. It was almost as if God knew too. Then the cars stopped and our great President, surrounded by secret service agents, walked to the speaker’s platform. As he stood behind the microphone a bird flew down from the sky and landed on the speaker’s platform near him. The President waved to the bird and laughed and we all laughed with him. Then he began to speak and the people listened. I couldn’t quite hear the speech because I was sitting too near a popcorn machine which made a lot of noise popping the kernels, but I think I heard him say that the problems in Manchuria were not serious, and that at home everything was going to be all right, we shouldn’t worry, all we had to do was to believe in America. There would be enough jobs for everybody. There would be enough dentists with enough teeth to pull, enough fires and enough firemen to put them out. Mills and factories would open again. Our friends in South America would pay their debts. Soon we would all sleep peacefully, our stomachs and our hearts full. God and our great country would surround us with love and protect us from evil, from the socialists, awaken us from our national nightmare, forever…
Ham on Rye: A Novel Page 7