ou
don't beg . . .
      Those  rich guys like to dart their cars in and out, swiftly,  sliding
up,  burning  rubber,  their cars glistening in the sunlight  as  the  girls
gathered  around.  Classes were a joke, they were  all  going  somewhere  to
college, classes were just a routine laugh, they got good grades, you seldom
saw them with books, you just saw them burning more rubber, gunning from the
curb  with  their cars full of squealing and laughing girls. I watched  them
with my 50 cents in my pocket. I didn't even know how to drive a car.
      Meanwhile  the  poor and the lost and the idiots  continued  to  flock
around me. I had a place I liked to eat under the football grandstand. I had
my  brown bag lunch with my two bologna sandwiches. They came around,  "Hey,
Hank, can I eat with you?"
     "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 <i>my</i> 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 <i>huge</i> 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. <i>Get</i>  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
<i>release!"</i> 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!"
     <i>"This</i> 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 <i>had</i> a good
body. But nobody would notice <i>that.</i> 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 <i>yours,</i> buddy!" I told him.
     "<i>What?</i>"
     "I said, 'Up <i>yours!</i>"
     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? <i>Park  it.</i>  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?"


      I tried to get Jim to pick a spot on the beach where there weren't too
many people. I felt normal standing there in my shirt but when I undressed I
was  exposed. I hated the other bathers for their unmarred bodies.  I  hated
all  the god-damned people who were sunbathing or in the water or eating  or
sleeping or talking or throwing beachballs. I hated their behinds and  their
faces  and their elbows and their hair and their eyes and their bellybuttons
and their bathing suits.
      I  stretched out on the sand thinking, I should have punched that  fat
son-of-a-bitch. What the hell did he know? Jim stretched out beside me.
     "What the hell," he said, "let's go swimming."
     "Not yet," I said.
      The  water was full of people. What was the fascination of the  beach?
Why  did people like the beach? Didn't they have anything better to do? What
chicken-brained fuckers they were.
      "Just  think,"  said Jim, "women go into the water and  they  piss  in
there."
     "Yeah, and you swallow it."
     '<i>
      </i>There would never be a way for me to live comfortably with people.
Maybe  I'd  become  a monk. I'd pretend to believe in  God  and  live  in  a
cubicle, play an organ and stay drunk on wine. Nobody would fuck with me.  I
could go into a cell for months of meditation where I wouldn't have to  look
at  anybody and they could just send in the wine. The trouble was, the black
robes  were  pure wool. They were worse than R.O.T.C. uniforms.  I  couldn't
wear them. I'd have to think of something else.
     "Oh, oh," said Jim.
     "What is it?"
     "There are some girls down there looking at us."
     "So what?"
     "They're talking and laughing. They might come down here."
     "Yeah?"
      "Yeah. And if they start coming over I'll warn you. When I do, turn on
your back."
     My chest had only a few boils and scars.
     "Don't forget," said Jim, "when I warn you, turn over on your back."
     "I heard you."
     I had my head down in my arms. I knew that Jim was looking at the girls
and smiling. He had a way with them.
     "Simple cunts," he said, "they're really stupid."
      Why  did  I  come here? I thought. Why is it always only a  matter  of
choosing between something bad and something worse?
     "Oh, oh, Hank, here they come!"
      I  looked up. There were five of them. I rolled over on my back.  They
walked up giggling and stood there. One of them said,
     "Hey, these guys are cute!"
     "You girls live around here?" Jim asked.
     "Oh yeah," one of them said, "we nest with the seagulls!"
     They giggled.
     "Well," said Jim, "we're eagles. I'm not sure we'd know what to do with
five seagulls."
     "How do birds do it anyhow?" one of them asked.
     "Damned if I know," Jim said, "maybe we can find out."
     "Why don't you guys come over to our blanket?" one of them asked.
     "Sure," Jim said.
      Three  of  the  girls had spoken. The other two had just  stood  there
pulling their bathing suits down over what they didn't want seen.
     "Count me out," I said.
      "What's  wrong with your friend?" asked one of the girls who had  been
covering her ass. Jim said, "He's strange."
     "What's wrong with him?" asked the last girl.
     "He's just strange," said Jim.
      He got up and walked off with the girls. I closed my eyes and listened
to the waves. Thousands of fish out there, eating each other. Endless mouths
and assholes swallowing and shifting. The whole earth was nothing but mouths
and assholes swallowing and shifting, and fucking.
      I rolled over and watched Jim with the five girls. He was standing up,
sticking  his chest out and showing off his balls. He didn't have my  barrel
chest  and  big  legs. He was slim and neat, with that black hair  and  that
little  nasty  mouth with perfect teeth, and his little round ears  and  his
long neck. I didn't have a neck. Not much of one, anyway. My head seemed  to
sit on my shoulders. But I was strong, and mean. Not good enough, the ladies
liked  dandies. If it wasn't for the boils and scars, though.  I'd  be  down
there now showing them a thing or two. I'd flash my balls for them, bringing
their dead air-headed minds to attention. Me, with my 50-cents-a-week life.
      Then  I  saw the girls leap up and follow Jim into the water. I  heard
them  giggling and screaming like mindless . . . what? No, they  were  nice.
They  weren't like grown-ups and parents. They laughed. Things  were  funny.
They weren't afraid to care. There was no sense to life, to the structure of
things. D, H. Lawrence had known that. You needed love, but not the kind  of
love  most  people used and were used up by. Old D, H. had known  something.
His  buddy Huxley was just an intellectual fidget, but what a marvelous one.
Better than G. B. Shaw with that hard keel of a mind always scraping bottom,
his  labored  wit finally only a task, a burden on himself,  preventing  him
from  really feeling anything, his brilliant speech finally a bore, scraping
the mind and the sensibilities. It was good to read them all though. It made
you  realize  that  thoughts  and words could  be  fascinating,  if  finally
useless.
      Jim  was  splashing water on the girls. He was the Water God and  they
loved him. He was the possibility and the promise. He was great. He knew how
to  do  it.  I had read many books but he had read a book that I  had  never
read.  He was an artist with his little pair of bathing trunks and his balls
and  his  wicked little look and his round ears. He was the best. I couldn't
challenge  him any more than I could have challenged that big son-of-a-bitch
in  the green coupe with the looker whose hair flowed in the wind. They both
had got what they deserved. I was just a 50-cent turd floating around in the
green ocean of life.
      I  watched them come out of the water, glistening, smooth- skinned and
young,  undefeated. I wanted them to want me. But never out  of  pity.  Yet,
despite  their  smooth untouched bodies and minds they  still  were  missing
something  because  they  were  as yet basically  untested.  When  adversity
finally  arrived in their lives it might come too late or too  hard.  I  was
ready. Maybe.
      I  watched Jim toweling off, using one of their towels. As I  watched,
somebody's  child, a boy of about four came along, picked up  a  handful  of
sand and threw it in my face. Then he just stood there, glowering, his sandy
stupid  little  mouth  puckered in some kind of victory.  He  was  a  daring
darling little shit. I wiggled my finger for him to come closer, come, come.
He stood there.
      "Little  boy," I said, "come here. I have a bag of candy-covered  shit
for you to eat."
      The fucker looked, turned and ran off. He had a stupid ass. Two little
pear-shaped buttocks wobbling, almost disjointed. But, another enemy gone.
      Then Jim, the lady killer, was back. He stood there over me. Glowering
also.
     "They're gone," he said.
      I  looked  down to where the five girls had been and sure enough  they
<i>were</i> gone.
     "Where did they go?" I asked.
     "Who gives a fuck? I've got the phone numbers of the two best ones."
     "Best ones for what?"
     "For <i>fucking,</i> you jerk!"
     I stood up.
     "I think I'll deck you, jerk!"
      His face looked good in the sea wind. I could already see him, knocked
down, squirming on the sand, kicking up his white- bottomed feet. Jim backed
off.
     "Take it easy. Hank. Look, you can have their phone numbers!"
     "Keep them. I don't have your god-damned dumb ears!"
     "O.K., O.K., we're friends, remember?"
      We  walked up the beach to the strand where we had our bicycles locked
behind someone's beach house. And as we walked along we both knew whose  day
it had been, and knocking somebody on their ass could not have changed that,
although  it  might have helped, but not enough. All the way  home,  on  our
bikes,  I  didn't  try to show him up as I had earlier. I  needed  something
more.  Maybe  I  needed that blonde in the green coupe with  her  long  hair
blowing in the wind.

        40
      R.O.T.C. (Reserve Officer Training Corps) was for the misfits. Like  I
said,  it  was either that or gym. I would have taken gym but I didn't  want
people to sec the boils on my back. There was something wrong with everybody
enrolled  in  R.O.T.C. It almost entirely consisted of guys who didn't  like
sports  or  guys  whose  parents forced them to take R.O.T.C.  because  they
thought  it  was  patriotic. The parents of rich  kids  tended  to  be  more
patriotic because they had more to lose if the country went under. The  poor
parents  were far less patriotic, and then often professed their  patriotism
only because it was expected or because it was the way they had been raised.
Subconsciously they knew it wouldn't be any better or worse for  <i>them</i>
if  the  Russians  or  the Germans or the Chinese or the  Japanese  ran  the
country,  especially  if  they had dark skin.  Things  might  even  improve.
Anyhow, since many of the parents of Chelsey High were rich, we had  one  of
the biggest R.O.T.C.'s in the city.
     So we marched around in the sun and learned to dig latrines, cure snake-
bite, tend the wounded, tie tourniquets, bayonet the enemy; we learned about
hand  grenades,  infiltration,  deployment of troops,  maneuvers,  retreats,
advances,  mental and physical discipline; we got on the firing range,  bang
bang,  and  we got our marksmen's medals. We had actual field maneuvers,  we
went  out  into  the woods and waged a mock war. We crawled on  our  bellies
toward each other with our rifles. We were very serious. Even I was serious.
There was something about it that got your blood going. It was stupid and we
all  knew it was stupid, most of us, but something clicked in our brains and
we really wanted to get involved in it. We had an old retired Army man, Col.
Sussex. He was getting senile and drooled, little trickles of saliva running
out  of  the  corners of his mouth and down, around and under his  chin.  He
never said anything. He just stood around in his uniform covered with medals
and  drew his pay from the high school. During our mock maneuvers he carried
around a clipboard and kept score. He stood on a high hill and made marks on
the  clipboard -- probably. But he never told us who won. Each side  claimed
victory. It made for bad feelings.
      Lt.  Herman Beechcroft was best. His father owned a bakery and a hotel
catering service, whatever that was. Anyhow, he was best. He always gave the
same speech before a maneuver.
      "Remember,  you  <i>must hate</i> the enemy! They want  to  rape  your
mother  and  sisters!  Do you want those monsters to rape  your  mother  and
sisters?"
      Lt.  Beechcroft  had  almost no chin at all.  His  face  dropped  away
suddenly  and  where the jaw bone should have been there was only  a  little
button.  We  weren't sure if it was a deformity or not. But  his  eyes  were
magnificent in their fury, large blue biaxing symbols of war and victory.
     "<i>Whitlinger!</i> "
     "Yes, sir!"
     "Would you want those guys raping your mother?"
     "My mother's dead, sir."
     "Oh, sorry . . . Drake."
     "<i>Yes, sir!</i>"
     "Would you want those guys raping your mother?"
     "<i>No, sir.</i>"
     "Good. Remember, this is <i>war'</i> We accept mercy but we do not give
mercy.  You  must hate the enemy. <i>Kill him!</i> A dead man  can't  defeat
you.  Defeat  is a disease! Victory writes history! NOW LET'S <i>GO</i>  GET
THOSE COCKSUCKERS!"
      We  deployed our line, sent out the advance scouts and began  crawling
through  the brush. I could see Col. Sussex on his hill with his  clipboard.
It  was  the Blues vs. the Greens. We each had a piece of colored  rag  tied
around our upper right arm. We were the Blues. Crawling through those bushes
was  pure  hell. It was hot. There were bugs, dust, rocks, thorns. I  didn't
know where I was.

      Our  squad  leader,  Kozak,  had  vanished  somewhere.  There  was  no
communication. We were fucked. Our mothers were going to get raped.  I  kept
crawling  forward, bruising and scratching myself, feeling lost and  scared,
but really feeling more the fool. All this vacant land and empty sky, hills,
streams,  acres and acres. Who owned it all? Probably the father of  one  of
the rich guys. We weren't going to capture anything. The whole place was  on
loan to the high school. NO SMOKING. I crawled forward. We had no air cover,
no  tanks,  nothing.  We were just a bunch of fairies out  on  a  half-assed
maneuver  without  food, without women, without reason. I stood  up,  walked
over and sat down with my back against a tree, put my rifle down and waited.
      Everybody was lost and it didn't matter. I pulled my arm band off  and
waited for a Red Cross Ambulance or something. War was probably hell but the
in-between parts were boring.
     Then the bushes cracked open and a guy leaped out and saw me. He had on
a  Green  arm band. A rapist. He pointed his rifle at me. I had no arm  band
on,  it was down in the grass. He wanted to take a prisoner. I knew him.  He
was  Harry Missions. His father owned a lumber company. I sat there  against
the tree.
     "Blue or Green?" he hollered at me.
     "I'm Mata Hari."
     "A spy! I take spies!"
      "Come  on,  cut  the shit, Harry. This is a game for  children.  Don't
bother me with your fetid melodrama."
      The  bushes cracked open again and there was Lt. Beechcroft.  Missions
and Beechcroft faced each other.
     "I hereby take you prisoner!" screamed Beechcroft at Missions.
      "I  hereby  take you prisoner!" screamed Missions at Beechcroft.  They
both  were  really nervous and angry, I could feel it. Beechcroft  drew  his
sabre. "Surrender or I'll run you through!"
      Missions grabbed his gun by the barrel. "Come over here and I'll knock
your god-damned head off!"
      Then  the  bushes cracked open everywhere. The screaming had attracted
both  the  Blues and the Greens. I sat against the tree while they mixed  it
up.  There was dust and scuffling and now and then the evil sound  of  rifle
stock  against skull. "Oh, Jesus! Oh, my God!" Some bodies were down. Rifles
were  lost. There were fist fights and headlocks. I saw two guys with  Green
arm  bands  locked  in  a  death-grip. Then Col. Sussex  appeared.  He  blew
frantically on his whistle. Spit sprayed everywhere. Then he ran  over  with
his  swagger stick and began beating the troops with it. He was good. It cut
like a whip and sliced like a razor.
     "Oh shit! I QUIT!"
     "No, <i>stop!</i> Jesus! Mercy!"
     "Mother!"
      The  troops  separated and stood looking at each  other.  Col.  Sussex
picked  up his clipboard. His uniform was unwrinkled. His medals were  still
in  place.  His cap sat at the correct angle. He flipped his swagger  stick,
caught it, and walked off. We followed.
      We climbed into the old army trucks with their ripped canvas sides and
tops  that  had brought us. The engines started and we drove off.  We  faced
each other on the long wooden benches. We had come out, all the Blues in one
of  the  trucks,  all the Greens in the other. Now we were  mixed  together,
sitting there, most of us looking down at our scuffed and dusty shoes, being
jiggled  this way and that, to the left, to the right, up and down,  as  the
truck  tires  hit  the  ruts in the old roads. We were  tired  and  we  were
defeated and we were frustrated. The war was over.

        41
      R.O.T.C. kept me away from sports while the other guys practiced every
day.  They  made the school teams, won their letters and got the  girls.  My
days were spent mostly marching around in the sun. All you ever saw were the
backs  of  some  guy's ears and his buttocks. I quickly became  disenchanted
with military proceedings. The others shined their shoes brightly and seemed
to  go  through maneuvers with relish. I couldn't see any sense in it.  They
were just getting shaped up in order to get their balls blown off later.  On
the  other  hand, I couldn't see myself crouched down in a football  helmet,
shoulder  pads laced on, decked out in Blue and White, #69, trying to  block
some  mean  son-of-a-bitch from across town, trying to move out  some  brute
with  tacos  on  his breath so that the son of the district  attorney  could
slant  off  left  tackle for six yards. The problem  was  you  had  to  keep
choosing  between one evil or another, and no matter what  you  chose,  they
sliced  a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. At the  age
of  25  most  people  were finished. A whole god-damned nation  of  assholes
driving  automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in  the  worst
way  possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded  them
most of themselves.
      I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I
was  going  to  escape. At least the others had some taste  for  life.  They
seemed  to  understand  something  that I didn't  understand.  Maybe  I  was
lacking.  It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get  away
from  them. But there was no place to go. Suicide? Jesus Christ,  just  more
work. I felt like sleeping for five years but they wouldn't let me.


      So there I was, at Chelsey High, still in the R.O.T.C., still with  my
boils. That always reminded me of how fucked up I was.


      It was a grand day. One man from each squad who had won the Manual  of
Arms  competition within his squad stepped into a long line where the  final
competition was to be held. Somehow I had won the competition in my squad. I
had no idea how. I was no hot shot.
      It was Saturday. Many mothers and fathers were in the stands. Somebody
blew  a bugle. A sword flashed. Commands rang out. Right shoulder arms! Left
shoulder  arms!  Rifles  hit shoulders, rifle butts hit  the  ground,  rifle
stocks slammed into shoulders again. Little girls sat in the stands in their
blue and green and yellow and orange and pink and white dresses. It was hot,
it was boring, it was insanity.
     "Chinaski, you are competing for the honor of our squadron!"
     "Yes, Corporal Monty."
      All  those little girls in the stands each waiting for her lover,  for
her  winner,  for her corporate executive. It was sad. A flock  of  pigeons,
frightened  by a piece of paper blown in the wind, flapped noisily  away.  I
yearned to be drunk on beer. I wanted to be anywhere but here.
      As each man made an error he dropped out of line. Soon there were six,
then  five,  then three. I was still there. I had no desire to win.  I  knew
that  I wouldn't win. I'd soon be out of it. I wanted to be out of there.  I
was  tired  and bored. And covered with boils. I didn't give cream-shit  for
what they were chasing. But I couldn't make an obvious error. Corporal Monty
would be hurt.
     Then there were just two of us. Me and Andrew Post. Post was a darling.
His  father was a great criminal lawyer. He was in the stands with his wife,
Andrew's  mother.  Post was sweating but determined. We both  knew  that  he
would win. I could feel the energy and all the energy was his.

      It's all right, I thought, he needs it, they need it. It's the way  it
works. It's the way it's meant to work.
     We went on and on, repeating various Manual of Arms maneuvers. From the
corner of my eye I saw the goal posts on the field and I thought, maybe if I
had tried harder I could have become a great football player.
      "ORDER!"  shouted the Commander and I ripped my bolt home.  There  had
been  only  one click. There had been no click to my left. Andrew  Post  had
frozen. A little moan rose from the grandstands.
      "ARMS!" the Commander finished and I completed the maneuver. Post  did
too but his bolt was open . . .


     The actual ceremony for the winner came some days later. Luckily for me
there  were other awards to be given. I stood and waited with the others  as
Col.  Sussex came down the line. My boils were worse than ever and as always
when I was wearing that itchy brown wool uniform the sun was up and hot  and
making  me conscious of every wool fiber in that son-of-a-bitching shirt.  I
wasn't much of a soldier and everybody knew it. I had won on a fluke because
I  hadn't cared enough to be nervous. I felt badly for Col. Sussex because I
knew  what he was thinking and maybe he knew what I was thinking:  that  his
peculiar type of devotion and courage didn't seem exceptional to me.
      Then  he  was standing right in front of me. I stood at attention  but
managed to sneak a peek at him. He had his saliva in good order. Maybe  when
he  was  pissed-off it dried up. In spite of the heat there was a good  west
wind  blowing. Col. Sussex pinned the medal on me. Then he reached  out  and
shook my hand.
     "Congratulations," he said. Then he smiled at me. And moved on. Why the
old fuck. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all . . .
      Walking  home I had the medal in my pocket. Who was Col. Sussex?  Just
some guy who had to shit like the rest of us. Everybody had to conform, find
a mold to fit into. Doctor, lawyer, soldier -- it didn't matter what it was.
Once in the mold you had to push forward. Sussex was as helpless as the next
man. Either you managed to do something or you st