Ham On Rye

47

The first three or four days at Mears-Starbuck were identical. In fact, similarity was a very dependable thing at Mears-Starbuck. The caste system was an accepted fact. There wasn't a single salesclerk who spoke to a stockclerk outside of a perfunctory word or two. And it affected me. I thought about it as I pushed my cart about. Was it possible that the salesclerks were more intelligent than the stockclerks? They certainly dressed better. It bothered me that they assumed that their station meant so much. Perhaps if I had been a salesclerk I would have felt the same way. I didn't much care for the other stockclerks. Or the salesclerks.

Now, I thought, pushing my cart along, I have this job. Is this to be it? No wonder men robbed banks. There were too many demeaning jobs. Why the hell wasn't I a superior court judge or a concert pianist? Because it took training and training cost money. But I didn't want to be anything anyhow. And I was certainly succeeding.

I pushed my cart to the elevator and hit the button. Women wanted men who made money, women wanted men of mark. I low many classy women were living with skid row bums? Well, I didn't want a woman anyhow. Not to live with. How could men live with women? What did it mean? What I wanted was a cave in Colorado with three-years' worth of foodstuffs and drink. I'd wipe my ass with sand. Anything, anything to stop drowning in this dull, trivial and cowardly existence.

The elevator came up. The albino was still at the controls.

"Hey, I hear you and Mewks made the bars last night!"

"He bought me a few beers. I'm broke."

"You guys get laid?"

"I didn't."

"Why don't you guys take me along next time? I'll show you how to get some snatch."

"What do you know?"

"I've been around. Just last week I had a Chinese girl. And you know, it's just like they say."

"What's that?"

We hit the basement and the doors opened.

"Their snatch doesn't run up and down, it runs from side to side."

Ferris was waiting for me.

"Where the hell you been?"

"Home gardening."

"What did you do, fertilize the fuchsias?"

"Yeah, I drop one turd in each pot."

"Listen, Chinaski…"

"Yes?"

"The punchlines around here belong to me. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Well, get this. I've got an order here for Men's Wear."

He handed me the order slip.

"Locate these items, deliver them, obtain a signature and return."

Men's Wear was run by Mr. Justin Phillips, Jr. He was well- bred, he was polite, around twenty-two. He stood very straight, had dark hair, dark eyes, breeding lips. There was an unfortunate absence of cheekbones but it was hardly noticeable. He was pale and wore dark clothing with beautifully starched shirts. The salesgirls loved him. He was sensitive, intelligent, clever. He was also just a bit nasty as if some forebear had passed down that right to him. He had only broken with tradition once to speak to me.

"It's a shame, isn't it, those rather ugly scars on your face?"

As I rolled my cart up to Men's Wear, Justin Phillips was standing very straight, head tilted a bit, staring, as he did most of the time, looking off and up as if he was seeing things we were not. He saw things out there. Maybe I just didn't recognize breeding when I saw it. He certainly appeared to be above his surroundings. It was a good trick if you could do it and get paid at the same time. Maybe that's what management and the salesgirls liked. Here was a man truly too good for what he was doing, but he was doing it anyhow.

I rolled up. "Here's your order, Mr. Phillips."

He appeared not to notice me, which hurt in a sense, and was a good thing in another. I stacked the goods on the counter as he stared off into space, just above the elevator door.

Then I heard golden laughter and I looked. It was a gang of guys who had graduated with me from Chelsey High. They were trying on sweaters, hiking shorts, various items. I knew them by sight only, as we had never spoken during our four years of high school. The leader was Jimmy New hall. He had been the halfback on our football team, undefeated for three years. His hair was a beautiful yellow, the sun always seemed to be highlighting parts of it, the sun or the lights in the schoolroom. He had a thick, powerful neck and above it sat the face of a perfect boy sculpted by some master sculptor. Everything was exactly as it should be: nose, forehead, chin, the works. And the body likewise, perfectly formed. The others with Newhall were not exactly as perfect as he was, but they were close. They stood around and tried on sweaters and laughed, waiting to go to U.S.C. or Stanford.

Justin Phillips signed my receipt. I was on my way back to the elevator when I heard a voice:

"HEY, Ski! Ski, YOU LOOk GREAT IN YOUR LITTLE OUTFIT!"

I stopped, turned, gave them a casual wave of the left hand.

"Look at him! Toughest guy in town since Tommy Dorsey!"

"Makes Gable look like a toilet plunger."

I left my wagon and walked back. I didn't know what I was going to do. I stood there and looked at them. I didn't like them, never had. They might look glorious to others but not to me. There was something about their bodies that was like a woman's body. They were soft, they had never faced any fire. They were beautiful nothings. They made me sick. I hated them. They were part of the nightmare that always haunted me in one form or another.

Jimmy Newhall smiled at me. "Hey, stockboy, how come you never tried out for the team?"

"It wasn't what I wanted."

"No guts, eh?"

"You know where the parking lot on the roof is?"

"Sure."

"See you there…"

They strolled out toward the parking lot as I took my smock off and threw it into the cart. Justin Phillips, Jr. smiled at me, "My dear boy, you are going to get your ass whipped."

Jimmy Newhall was waiting, surrounded by his buddies.

"Hey, look, the stockboy!"

"You think he's wearing ladies' underwear?"

Newhall was standing in the sun. He had his shirt off and his undershirt too. He had his gut sucked in and his chest pushed out. He looked good. What the hell had I gotten into? I felt my underlip trembling. Up there on the roof, I felt fear. I looked at Newhall, the golden sun highlighting his golden hair. I had watched him many times on the football field. I had seen him break off many 50 and 60 yard runs while I rooted for the other team,

Now we stood looking at each other. I left my shirt on. We kept standing. I kept standing.

Newhall finally said, "O.k., I'm going to take you now." He started to move forward. Just then a little old lady dressed in black came by with many packages. She had on a tiny green felt hat.

"Hello, boys!" she said.

"Hello, ma'am."

"Lovely day…"

The little old lady opened her car door and loaded in the packages. Then she turned to Jimmy Newhall.

"Oh, what a fine body you have, my boy! I'll bet you could be Tarzan of the Apes!"

"No, ma'am," I said. "Pardon me, but he's the ape and those with him are his tribe."

"Oh," she said. She got into her car, started it and we waited as she backed out and drove off.

"O.K., Chinaski," said Newhall, "all through school you were famous for your sneer and your big god-damned mouth. And now I'm going to put the cure on you!"

Newhall bounded forward. He was ready. I wasn't quite ready. All I saw was a backdrop of blue sky and a flash of body and fists. He was quicker than an ape, and bigger. I couldn't seem to throw a punch, I only felt his fists and they were rock hard. Squinting through punched eyes I could see his fists, swinging, landing, my god, he had power, it seemed endless and there was no place to go. I began to think, maybe you are a sissy, maybe you should be, maybe you should quit.