Run With the Hunted (10 page)

I was a bibliophile, albeit a

disenchanted

one

and this

and the world

shaped me.

I lived in a plywood hut

behind a roominghouse

for $3.50 a

week

feeling like a

Chatterton

stuffed inside of some

Thomas

Wolfe.

my greatest problem was

stamps, envelopes, paper

and

wine,

with the world on the edge

of World War II.

I hadn't yet been

confused by the

female, I was a virgin

and I wrote from 3 to

5 short stories a week

and they all came

back

from
The New Yorker, Harper's
,

The Atlantic Monthly
.

I had read where

Ford Madox Ford used to paper

his bathroom with his

rejection slips

but I didn't have a

bathroom so I stuck them

into a drawer

and when it got so stuffed with them

I could barely

open it

I took all the rejects out

and threw them

away along with the

stories.

still

the old L.A. Public Library remained

my home

and the home of many other

bums.

we discreetly used the

restrooms

and the only ones of

us

to be evicted were those

who fell asleep at the

library

tables—nobody snores like a

bum

unless it's somebody you're married

to.

well, I wasn't
quite
a

bum.
I
had a library card

and I checked books in and

out

large

stacks
of them

always taking the

limit

allowed:

Aldous Huxley, D. H. Lawrence,

e.e. cummings, Conrad Aiken, Fyodor

Dos, Dos Passos, Turgenev, Gorky,

H.D., Freddie Nietzsche,

Schopenhauer,

Steinbeck,

Hemingway,

and so

forth …

I always expected the librarian

to say, “you have good taste, young

man …”

but the old fried and wasted

bitch didn't even know who she

was

let alone

me.

but those shelves held

tremendous grace: they allowed

me to discover

the early Chinese poets

like Tu Fu and Li

Po

who could say more in one

line than most could say in

thirty or

a hundred.

Sherwood Anderson must have

read

these

too.

I also carried the Cantos

in and out

and Ezra helped me

strengthen my arms if not

my brain.

that wondrous place

the L.A. Public Library

it was a home for a person who had had

a

home of

hell

BROOKS TOO BROAD FOR LEAPING

FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD

POINT COUNTER POINT

THE HEART IS A LONELY HUNTER

James Thurber

John Fante

Rabelais

de Maupassant

some didn't work for

me: Shakespeare, G. B. Shaw,

Tolstoy, Robert Frost, F. Scott

Fitzgerald

Upton Sinclair worked better for

me

than Sinclair Lewis

and I considered Gogol and

Dreiser complete

fools

but such judgments come more

from a man's

forced manner of living than from

his reason.

the old L.A. Public

most probably kept me from

becoming a

suicide

a bank

robber

a

wife-

beater

a butcher or a

motorcycle policeman

and even though some of these

might be fine

it is

thanks

to my luck

and my way

that this library was

there when I was

young and looking to

hold
on to

something

when there seemed very

little

about.

and when I opened the

newspaper

and read of the fire

which

destroyed the

library and most of

its contents

I said to my

wife: “I used to spend my

time

there …”

THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER

THE DARING YOUNG MAN ON THE FLYING TRAPEZE

TO HAVE AND HAVE NOT

YOU CAN'T GO HOME AGAIN.

 

I made practice runs down to skid row to get ready for my future. I didn't like what I saw down there. Those men and women had no special daring or brilliance. They wanted what everybody else wanted. There were also some obvious mental cases down there who were allowed to walk the streets undisturbed. I had noticed that both in the very poor and very rich extremes of society the mad were often allowed to mingle freely. I knew that I wasn't entirely sane. I still knew, as I had as a child, that there was something strange about myself. I felt as if I were destined to be a murderer, a bank robber, a saint, a rapist, a monk, a hermit. I needed an isolated place to hide. Skid row was disgusting. The life of the sane, average man was dull, worse than death. There seemed to be no possible alternative. Education also seemed to be a trap. The little education I had allowed myself had made me more suspicious. What were doctors, lawyers, scientists? They were just men who allowed themselves to be deprived of their freedom to think and act as individuals. I went back to my shack and drank …

Sitting there drinking, I considered suicide, but I felt a strange fondness for my body, my life. Scarred as they were, they were mine. I would look into the dresser mirror and grin: if you're going to go, you might as well take eight, or ten or twenty of them with you …

It was a Saturday night in December. I was in my room and I drank much more than usual, lighting cigarette after cigarette, thinking of girls and the city and jobs, and of the years ahead. Looking ahead I liked very little of what I saw. I wasn't a misanthrope and I wasn't a misogynist but I liked being alone. It felt good to sit alone in a small space and smoke and drink. I had always been good company for myself.

Then I heard the radio in the next room. The guy had it on too loud. It was a sickening love song.

“Hey, buddy!” I hollered, “turn that thing down!”

There was no response.

I walked to the wall and pounded on it.

“I SAID, ‘TURN THAT FUCKING THING DOWN!'”

The volume remained the same.

I walked outside to his door. I was in my shorts. I raised my leg and jammed my foot into the door. It burst open. There were two people on the cot, an old fat guy and an old fat woman. They were fucking. There was a small candle burning. The old guy was on top. He stopped and turned his head and looked. She looked up from underneath him. The place was very nicely fixed-up with curtains and a little rug.

“Oh, I'm sorry …”

I closed their door and went back to my place. I felt terrible. The poor had a right to fuck their way through their bad dreams. Sex and drink, and maybe love, was all they had.

I sat back down and poured a glass of wine. I left my door open. The moonlight came in with the sounds of the city: juke boxes, automobiles, curses, dogs barking, radios … We were all in it together. We were all in one big shit pot together. There was no escape. We were all going to be flushed away.

A small cat walked by, stopped at my door and looked in. The eyes were lit by the moon: pure red like fire. Such wonderful eyes.

“Come on, kitty …” I held my hand out as if there were food in it. “Kitty, kitty …”

The cat walked on by.

I heard the radio in the next room shut off.

I finished my wine and went outside. I was in my shorts as before. I pulled them up and tucked in my parts. I stood before the other door. I had broken the lock. I could see the light from the candle inside. They had the door wedged closed with something, probably a chair.

I knocked quietly.

There was no answer.

I knocked again.

I heard something. Then the door opened.

The old fat guy stood there. His face was hung with great folds of sorrow. He was all eyebrows and mustache and two sad eyes.

“Listen,” I said, “I'm very sorry for what I did. Won't you and your girl come over to my place for a drink?”

“No.”

“Or maybe I can bring you both something to drink?”

“No,” he said, “please leave us alone.”

He closed the door.

I awakened with one of my worst hangovers. I usually slept until noon. This day I couldn't. I dressed and went to the bathroom in the main house and made my toilet. I came back out, went up the alley and then down the stairway, down the cliff and into the street below.

Sunday, the worst god-damned day of them all.

I walked over to Main Street, past the bars. The B-girls sat near the doorways, their skirts pulled high, swinging their legs, wearing high heels.

“Hey, honey, come on in!”

Main Street, East 5th, Bunker Hill. Shitholes of America.

There was no place to go. I walked into a Penny Arcade. I walked around looking at the games but had no desire to play any of them. Then I saw a Marine at a pinball machine. Both his hands gripped the sides of the machine, as he tried to guide the ball with body-English. I walked up and grabbed him by the back of his collar and his belt.

“Becker, I demand a god-damned rematch!”

I let go of him and he turned.

“No, nothing doing,” he said.

“Two out of three.”

“Balls,” he said, “I'll buy you a drink.”

We walked out of the Penny Arcade and down Main Street. A B-girl hollered out from one of the bars, “Hey, Marine, come on in!”

Becker stopped. “I'm going in,” he said.

“Don't,” I said, “they are human roaches.”

“I just got paid.”

“The girls drink tea and they water your drinks. The prices are double and you never see the girl afterward.”

“I'm going in.”

Becker walked in. One of the best unpublished writers in America, dressed to kill and to die. I followed him. He walked up to one of the girls and spoke to her. She pulled her skirt up, swung her high heels and laughed. They walked over to a booth in a corner. The bartender came around the bar to take their order. The other girl at the bar looked at me.

“Hey, honey, don't you wanna play?”

“Yeah, but only when it's my game.”

“You scared or queer?”

“Both,” I said, sitting at the far end of the bar.

There was a guy between us, his head on the bar. His wallet was gone. When he awakened and complained, he'd either be thrown out by the bartender or handed over to the police.

After serving Becker and the B-girl the bartender came back behind the bar and walked over to me.

“Yeh?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeh? What ya want in here?”

“I'm waiting for my friend,” I nodded at the corner booth.