The library was the most depressing place I went. I had run out of books to read. After a while I would just grab a thick book and look for a young girl somewhere. There were always one or two about. I'd sit three or four chairs away, pretending to read the book, trying to look intelligent, hoping some girl would pick me up. I knew that I was ugly but I thought if I looked intelligent enough I might have some chance. It never worked. The girls just made notes on their pads and then they got up and left as I watched their bodies moving rhythmically and magically under their clean dresses. What would Maxim Gorky have done under such circumstances?

At home it was always the same. The question was never asked until after the first few bites of dinner were partaken. Then my father would ask, "Did you find a job today?"

"No."

"Did you try anywhere?"

"Many places. I've gone back to some of the same places for the second or third time."

"I don't believe it."

But it was true. It was also true that some companies put ads in the papers every day when there were no jobs available. It gave the employment department in those companies something to do. It also wasted the time and screwed up the hopes of many desperate people.

"You'll find a job tomorrow, Henry," my mother would always say…

49

I looked for a job all summer and couldn't find one. Jimmy Hatcher caught on at an aircraft plant. Hitler was acting up in Europe and creating jobs for the unemployed. I had been with Jimmy that day when we had turned in our applications. We filled them out in similar fashion, the only difference being where it said Place of Birth, I put down Germany and he put down Reading, Pa.

"Jimmy got a job. He came from the same school and he's your age," said my mother. "Why couldn't you get a job at the aircraft plant?"

"They can tell a man who doesn't have a taste for work," said my father. "All he wants to do is to sit in the bedroom on his dead ass and listen to his symphony music!"

"Well, the boy likes music, that's something."

"But he doesn't do anything with it! He doesn't make it USEFUL!"

"What should he do?"

"He should go to a radio station and tell them he likes that kind of music and get a job broadcasting."

"Christ, it's not done like that, it's not that easy."

"What do you know? Have you tried it?"

"I tell you, it can't be done."

My father put a large piece of pork chop into his mouth. A greasy portion hung out from between his lips as he chewed. It was as if he had three lips. Then he sucked it in and looked at my mother. "You see, mama, the boy doesn't want to work."

My mother looked at me. "Henry, why don't you eat your food?"

It was finally decided that I would enroll at L.A. City College. There was no tuition fee and second-hand books could be purchased at the Go-op Book Store. My father was simply ashamed that I was unemployed and by going to school I would at least earn some respectability. Eli LaCrosse (Baldy) had already been there a term. He counseled me.

"What's the easiest fucking thing to take?" I asked him.

"Journalism. Those journalism majors don't do anything."

"O.K., I'll be a journalist."

I looked through the school booklet.

"What's this Orientation Day they speak of here?"

"Oh, you just skip that, that's bullshit."

"Thanks for telling me, buddy. We'll go instead to that bar across from campus and have a couple of beers."

"Damn right!"

"Yeah."

The day after Orientation Day was the day you signed up for classes. People were running about frantically with papers and booklets. I had come over on the streetcar. I took the "W" to Vermont and then took the "V" north to Monroe. I didn't know where everybody was going, or what I should do. I felt sick.

"Pardon me…" I asked a girl.

She turned her head and kept walking briskly. A guy came running by and I grabbed him by the back of his belt and stopped him.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing?" he asked.

"Shut up. I want to know what's going on! I want to know what to do!"

"They explained everything to you in Orientation."

"Oh…"

I let him go and he ran off. I didn't know what to do. I had imagined that you just went somewhere and told them you wanted to take Journalism, Beginning Journalism, and they'd give you a card with a schedule of your classes. It was nothing like that. These people knew what to do and they wouldn't talk. I felt as if I was in grammar school again, being mutilated by the crowd who knew more than I did. I sat down on a bench and watched them running back and forth. Maybe I'd fake it. I'd just tell my parents I was going to L.A. City College and I'd come every day and lay on the lawn. Then I saw this guy running along. It was Baldy. I got him from behind by the collar.

"Hey, hey. Hank! What's happening?"

"I ought to cream you right now, you little asshole!"

"What's wrong? What's wrong?"

"How do I get a fucking class? What do I do?"

"I thought you knew!"

"How? How would I know? Was I born with this knowledge inside of me, fully indexed, ready to consult when needed?"

I walked him over to a bench, still holding him by his shirt collar. "Now, lay it out, nice and clear, everything that needs to be done and how to do it. Do a good job and I might not cream you at this moment!"

So Baldy explained it all. I had my own Orientation Day right there. I still held him by the collar. "I'm going to let you go now. But some day I'm going to even this thing out. You're going to pay for fucking me over. You won't know when, but it's going to happen."

I let him go. He went running off with the rest of them. There was no need for me to worry or hurry. I was going to get the worst classes, the worst teachers and the worst hours. I strolled about leisurely signing up for classes. I appeared to be the only unconcerned student on campus. I began to feel superior.

Until my first 7 a.m. English class. It was 7:30 a.m. and I was hungover as I stood there outside the door, listening. My parents had paid for my books and I had sold them for drinking money. I had slid out of the bedroom window the night before and had closed the neighborhood bar. I had a throbbing beer hangover. I still felt drunk. I opened the door and walked in. I stood there. Mr. Hamilton, the English instructor, was standing before the class, singing, A record player was on, loud, and the class was singing along with Mr. Hamilton. It was Gilbert and Sullivan.

Now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navy…

I copied all the letters in a big round hand…

Now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navy…

Stick close to your desks and never go to sea…

And you all may be rulers of the Queen's Navy…

I walked to the rear of the class and found an empty seat. Hamilton walked over and shut off the record player. He was dressed in a black-andwhite pepper suit with a shirt-front of bright orange. He looked like Nelson Eddy. Then he faced the class, glanced at his wrist watch and addressed me:

"You must be Mr. Chinaski?"

I nodded.

"You are thirty minutes late."

"Yes."

"Would you be thirty minutes late to a wedding or a funeral?"

"No."

"Why not, pray tell?"

"Well, if the funeral was mine I'd have to be on time. If the wedding was mine it would be my funeral." I was always quick with the mouth. I would never learn.

"My dear sir," said Mr. Hamilton, "we have been listening to Gilbert and Sullivan in order to learn proper enunciation. Please stand up."

I stood up.

"Now, please sing, Stick close to your desks and never go to sea and you'll always be the ruler of the Queens Navy."

I stood there.