"Oh? Oh, that… I must have forgotten…"
"I'm leaving right now!"
She never dated him again.
All the guys were changing into their gym clothes. Then Baldy walked in and opened his locker.
"How ya doing, pal?" I asked him.
"Oh, hello. Hank…"
"I've got a 7 a.m. English class. It really starts the day outright. Only they ought to call it Music Appreciation /."
"Oh yeah. Hamilton. I've heard of him. Hee hee hee…"
I walked over to him.
Baldy had unbuckled his pants. I reached over and yanked his pants down. Underneath were green striped pajamas. He tried to yank his pants back up but I was too strong for him.
"HEY, FELLOWS, LOOK! JESUS CHRIST, HERE'S A GUY WHO WEARS HIS PAJAMAS TO SCHOOL!"
Baldy was struggling. His face was florid. A couple of guys walked over and looked. Then I did the worst. I yanked his pajamas down.
"AND LOOK HERE! THE POOR FUCKER IS NOT ONLY BALD BUT HE DOESN'T HARDLY HAVE A COCK! WHAT IS THIS POOR EUCKER GOING TO DO WHEN HE CONFRONTS A WOMAN?"
Some big guy standing nearby said, "Chinaski, you're really a piece of shit!"
"Yeah," said a couple of other guys. "Yeah… yeah…" I heard other voices.
Baldy pulled his pants up. He was actually crying. He looked at the guys. "Well, Chinaski wears pajamas too! He was the guy who started me doing it! Look in his locker, just look in his locker!"
Baldy ran down to my locker and ripped the door open. He pulled all my clothing out. The pajamas weren't in there.
"He's hidden them! He's hidden them somewhere!"
I left my clothes on the floor and walked out on the field for roll call. I stood in the second row. I did a couple of deep knee bends. I noticed another big guy behind me. I'd heard his name around, Sholom Stodolsky.
"Chinaski," he said, "you're a piece of shit."
"Don't mess with me, man, I've got an edgy nature."
"Well, I'm messing with you."
"Don't push me too far, fat boy."
"You know the place between the Biology Building and the tennis courts?"
"I've seen it."
"I'll meet you there after gym."
"O.K.," I said.
I didn't show up. After gym I cut the rest of my classes and took the streetcars down to Pershing Square. I sat on a bench and waited for some action. It seemed a long time coming. Finally a Religionist and an Atheist got into it. They weren't much good. I was an Agnostic. Agnostics didn't have much to argue about. I left the park and walked down to 7th and Broadway. That was the center of town. There didn't seem to be much doing there, just people waiting for the signals to change so they could cross the street. Then I noticed my legs were starting to itch. I had left my pajamas on top of the locker. What a fucking lousy day it had been from beginning to end. I hopped a "W" streetcar and sat in the back as it rolled along carrying me back toward home.
51
I only met one student at City College that I liked, Robert Becker. He wanted to be a writer. "I'm going to learn everything there is to learn about writing. It will be like taking a car apart and putting it back together again."
"Sounds like work," I said.
"I'm going to do it."
Becker was an inch or so shorter than I was but he was stocky, he was powerfully built, with big shoulders and arms.
"I had a childhood disease," he told me. "I had to lay in bed one time for a year squeezing two tennis balls, one in each hand. Just from doing that, I got to be like this."
He had a job as a messenger boy at night and was putting himself through college.
"How'd you get your job?"
"I knew a guy who knew a guy."
"I'll bet I can kick your ass."
"Maybe, maybe not. I'm only interested in writing."
We were sitting in an alcove overlooking the lawn. Two guys were staring at me.
Then one of them spoke. "Hey," he asked me, "do you mind if I ask you something?"
"Go ahead."
"Well, you used to be a sissy in grammar school, I remember you. And now you're a tough guy. What happened?"
"I don't know."
"Are you a cynic?"
"Probably."
"Are you happy being a cynic?"
"Yes."
"Then you're not a cynic because cynics aren't happy!"
The two guys did a little vaudeville handshake act and ran off, laughing.
"They made you look bad," said Becker.
"No, they were trying too hard."
" Are you a cynic?"
"I'm unhappy. If I was a cynic it would probably make me feel better."
We hopped down from the alcove. Classes were over. Becker wanted to put his books in his locker. We walked there and he dumped them in. He handed me five or six sheets of paper.
"Here read this. It's a short story."
We walked down to my locker. I opened it and handed him a paper bag.
"Take a hit…"
It was a bottle of port. Becker took a hit, then I took one.
"You always keep one of these in your locker?" he asked.
"I try to."
"Listen, tonight's my night off. Why don't you come meet some of my friends?"
"People don't do me much good."
"These are different people."
"Yeah? Where at? Your place?"
"No. Here, I'll write down the address…" He began writing on a piece of paper.
"Listen, Becker, what do these people do?"
"Drink," said Becker. I put the slip into my pocket…
That night after dinner I read Becker's short story. It was good and I was jealous. It was about riding his bike at night and then delivering a telegram to a beautiful woman. The writing was objective and clear, there was a gentle decency about it. Becker claimed Thomas Wolfe as an influence but he didn't wail and ham it up like Wolfe did. The emotion was there but it wasn't spelled out in neon. Becker could write, he could write better than I could.
My parents had gotten me a typewriter and I had tried some short stories but they had come out very bitter and ragged. Not that that was so bad but the stories seemed to beg, they didn't have their own vitality. My stories were darker than Becker's, stranger, but they didn't work. Well, one or two of them had worked - for me - but it was more or less as if they had fallen into place instead of being guided there. Becker was clearly better. Maybe I'd try painting,
I waited until my parents were asleep. My father always snored loudly. When I heard him I opened the bedroom screen and slid out over the berry bush. That put me into the neighbor's driveway and I walked slowly in the dark. Then I walked up Longwood to 21st Street, took a right, then went up the hill along Westview to where the "W" car ended its route. I dropped my token in and walked to the rear of the car, sat down and lit a cigarette. If Becker's friends were anywhere as good as Becker's short story it was going to be one hell of a night.
Becker was already there by the time I found the Beacon Street address. His friends were in the breakfast nook. I was introduced. There was Harry, there was Lana, there was Gobbles, there was Stinky, there was Marshbird, there was Ellis, there was Dogface and finally there was The Ripper. They all sat around a large breakfast table. Harry had a legitimate job somewhere, he and Becker were the only ones employed. Lana was Harry's wife, Gobbles their baby was sitting in a highchair. Lana was the only woman there. When we were introduced she had looked right at me and smiled. They were all young, thin, and puffed at rolled cigarettes.
"Becker told us about you," said Harry. "He says you're a writer."
"I've got a typewriter."
"You gonna write about us?" asked Stinky.
"I'd rather drink."
"Fine. We're going to have a drinking contest. Got any money?" Stinky asked.
"Two dollars…"
"O.K., the ante is two dollars. Everybody up!" Harry said. That made eighteen dollars. The money looked good laying there. A bottle appeared and then shot glasses.
"Becker told us you think you're a tough guy. Are you a tough guy?"
"Yeah."
"Well, we're gonna see…"