"What are they doing to him?" I asked Miss Ackerman.

"He's in the shower."

"And it makes him scream like that?"

"Yes."

"I'm worse off than he is."

"No, you're not."

I liked Miss Ackerman. I sneaked a look at her. Her face was round, she wasn't very pretty but she wore her nurse's cap in a perky manner and she had large dark brown eyes. It was the eyes. As she balled up some tissue to throw into the dispenser I watched her walk. Well, she was no Miss Gredis, and I had seen many other women with better figures, but there was something warm about her. She wasn't constantly thinking about being a woman.

"As soon as I finish your face," she said, "I will put you under the ultra-violet ray machine. Your next appointment will be the day after tomorrow at 8:30 a.m."

We didn't talk any more after that.

Then she was finished. I put on goggles and Miss Ackerman turned on the ultra-violet ray machine.

There was a ticking sound. It was peaceful. It might have been the automatic timer, or the metal reflector on the lamp heating up. It was comforting and relaxing, but when I began to think about it, I decided that everything that they were doing for me was useless. I figured that at best the needle would leave scars on me for the remainder of my life. That was bad enough but it wasn't what I really minded. What I minded was that they didn't know how to deal with me. I sensed this in their discussions and in their manner. They were hesitant, uneasy, yet also somehow disinterested and bored. Finally it didn't matter what they did. They just had to do something - anything - because to do nothing would be unprofessional.

They experimented on the poor and if that worked they used the treatment on the rich. And if it didn't work, there would still be more poor left over to experiment upon.

The machine signaled its warning that two minutes were up. Miss Ackerman came in, told me to turn over, re-set the machine, then left. She was the kindest person I had met in eight years.

32

The drilling and squeezing continued for weeks but there was little result. When one boil vanished another would appear. I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how ugly a person could get. I would look at my face in disbelief, then turn to examine all the boils on my back. I was horrified. No wonder people stared, no wonder they said unkind things. It was not simply a case of teen-age acne. These were inflamed, relentless, large, swollen boils filled with pus. I felt singled out, as if I had been selected to be this way. My parents never spoke to me about my condition. They were still on relief. My mother left each morning to look for work and my. father drove off as if he were working. On Saturdays people on relief got free foodstuffs from the markets, mostly canned goods, almost always cans of hash for some reason. We ate a great deal of hash. And bologna sandwiches. And potatoes. My mother learned to make potato pancakes. Each Saturday when my parents went for their free food they didn't go to the nearest market because they were afraid some of the neighbors might see them and then know that they were on the dole. So they walked two miles down Washington Boulevard, to a store a couple of blocks past Crenshaw. It was a long walk. They walked the two miles back, sweating, carrying their shopping bags full of canned hash and potatoes and bologna and carrots. My father didn't drive because he wanted to save gas. He needed the gas to drive to and from his invisible job. The other fathers weren't like that. They just sat quietly on their front porches or played horseshoes in the vacant lot.

The doctor gave me a white substance to apply to my face. It hardened and caked on the boils, giving me a plaster-like look. The substance didn't seem to help. I was home alone one afternoon, applying this substance to my face and body. I was standing in my shorts trying to reach the infected areas of my back with my hand when I heard voices. It was Baldy and his friend Jimmy Hatcher. Jimmy Hatcher was a good looking fellow and he was a wise-ass.

"Henry!" I heard Baldy calling. I heard him talking to Jimmy, Then he walked up on the porch and beat on the door. "Hey, Hank, it's Baldy! Open up!"

You damn fool, I thought, don't you understand that I don't want to see anybody?

"Hank! Hank! It's Baldy and Jim!"

He beat on the front door.

I heard him talking to Jim. "Listen, I saw him! I saw him walking around in there!"

"He doesn't answer."

"We better go in. He might be in trouble."

You fool, I thought, I befriended you. I befriended you when nobody else could stand you. Now, look at this!

I couldn't believe it. I ran into the hall and hid in a closet, leaving the door slightly open. I was sure they wouldn't come into the house. But they did. I had left the back door open. I heard them walking around in the house.

"He's got to be here," said Baldy. "I saw something moving in here…"

Jesus Christ, I thought, can't I move around in here? I live in this house.

I was crouched in the dark closet. I knew I couldn't let them find me in there.

I swung the closet door open and leaped out. I saw them both standing in the front room. I ran in there.

"GET OUT OF HERE, YOU SONS-OF-BITCHES!"

They looked at me.

"GET OUT OF HERE! YOU'VE GOT NO RIGHT TO BE IN HERE! GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE I KILL YOU!"

They started running toward the back porch.

"GO ON! GO ON, OR I'LL KILL YOU!"

I heard them run up the driveway and out onto the sidewalk. I didn't want to watch them. I went into my bedroom and stretched out on the bed. Why did they want to see me? What could they do? There was nothing to be done. There was nothing to talk about.

A couple of days later my mother didn't leave to go job hunting, and it wasn't my day to go to the L.A. County General Hospital. So we were in the house together. I didn't like it. I liked the place to myself. I heard her moving about the house and I stayed in my bedroom. The boils were worse than ever. I checked my airplane chart. The 1:20 p.m. flight was due. I began listening. He was late. It was 1:20 and he was still approaching. As he passed over I timed him as being three minutes late. Then I heard the doorbell ring. I heard my mother open the door.

"Emily, how are you?"

"Hello, Katy, how are you?"

It was my grandmother, now very old. I heard them talking but I couldn't make out what they were saying. I was thankful for that. They talked for five or ten minutes and then I heard them walking down the hall to my bedroom.

"I will bury all of you," I heard my grandmother say. "Where is the boy?"

The door opened and my grandmother and mother stood there.

"Hello, Henry," my grandmother said.

"Your grandmother is here to help you," my mother said. My grandmother had a large purse. She set it down on the dresser and pulled a huge silver crucifix out of it.

"Your grandmother is here to help you, Henry…"

Grandmother had more warts on her than ever before and she was fatter. She looked invincible, she looked as if she would never die. She had gotten so old that it was almost senseless for her to die.

"Henry," said my mother, "turn over on your stomach."

I turned over and my grandmother leaned over me. From the corner of my eye I saw her dangling the huge crucifix over me. I had decided against religion a couple of years back. If it were true, it made fools out of people, or it drew fools. And if it weren't true, the fools were all the more foolish.