Read Online Run With the Hunted by Charles Bukowski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Bukowski
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He believed in it. Take the family, mix with God and Country, add the ten-hour day and you had what was needed.
I looked at my father, at his hands, his face, his eyebrows, and I knew that this man had nothing to do with me. He was a stranger. My mother was non-existent. I was cursed. Looking at my father I saw nothing but indecent dullness. Worse, he was even more afraid to fail than most others. Centuries of peasant blood and peasant training. The Chinaski bloodline had been thinned by a series of peasant-servants who had surrendered their real lives for fractional and illusionary gains. Not a man in the line who said, âI donât want a house, I want a thousand houses, now! â
He had sent me to that rich high school hoping that the rulerâs attitude would rub off on me as I watched the rich boys screech up in their cream-colored coupes and pick up the girls in bright dresses. Instead I learned that the poor usually stay poor. That the young rich smell the stink of the poor and learn to find it a bit amusing. They had to laugh, otherwise it would be too terrifying. Theyâd learned that, through the centuries. I would never forgive the girls for getting into those cream-colored coupes with the laughing boys. They couldnât help it, of course, yet you always think, maybe ⦠But no, there werenât any maybes. Wealth meant victory and victory was the only reality.
What woman chooses to live with a dishwasher?
Throughout high school I tried not to think too much about how things might eventually turn out for me. It seemed better to delay thinking â¦
Finally it was the day of the Senior Prom. It was held in the girlsâ gym with live music, a real band. I donât know why but I walked over that night, the two-and-one-half miles from my parentsâ place. I stood outside in the dark and I looked in there, through the wire-covered window, and I was astonished. All the girls looked very grown-up, stately, lovely, they were in long dresses, and they all looked beautiful. I almost didnât recognize them. And the boys in their tuxes, they looked great, they danced so straight, each of them holding a girl in his arms, their faces pressed against the girlâs hair. They all danced beautifully and the music was loud and clear and good, powerful.
Then I caught a glimpse of my reflection staring in at themâboils and scars on my face, my ragged shirt. I was like some jungle animal drawn to the light and looking in. Why had I come? I felt sick. But I kept watching. The dance ended. There was a pause. Couples spoke easily to each other. It was natural and civilized. Where had they learned to converse and to dance? I couldnât converse or dance. Everybody knew something I didnât know. The girls looked so good, the boys so handsome. I would be too terrified to even look at one of those girls, let alone be close to one. To look into her eyes or dance with her would be beyond me.
And yet I knew that what I saw wasnât as simple and good as it appeared. There was a price to be paid for it all, a general falsity, that could be easily believed, and could be the first step down a dead-end street. The band began to play again and the boys and girls began to dance again and the lights revolved overhead throwing shades of gold, then red, then blue, then green, then gold again on the couples. As I watched them I said to myself, someday my dance will begin. When that day comes I will have something that they donât have.
But then it got to be too much for me. I hated them. I hated their beauty, their untroubled youth, and as I watched them dance through the magic colored pools of light, holding each other, feeling so good, little unscathed children, temporarily in luck, I hated them because they had something I had not yet had, and I said to myself, I said to myself again, someday I will be as happy as any of you, you will see .
They kept dancing, and I repeated it to
I looked at my father, at his hands, his face, his eyebrows, and I knew that this man had nothing to do with me. He was a stranger. My mother was non-existent. I was cursed. Looking at my father I saw nothing but indecent dullness. Worse, he was even more afraid to fail than most others. Centuries of peasant blood and peasant training. The Chinaski bloodline had been thinned by a series of peasant-servants who had surrendered their real lives for fractional and illusionary gains. Not a man in the line who said, âI donât want a house, I want a thousand houses, now! â
He had sent me to that rich high school hoping that the rulerâs attitude would rub off on me as I watched the rich boys screech up in their cream-colored coupes and pick up the girls in bright dresses. Instead I learned that the poor usually stay poor. That the young rich smell the stink of the poor and learn to find it a bit amusing. They had to laugh, otherwise it would be too terrifying. Theyâd learned that, through the centuries. I would never forgive the girls for getting into those cream-colored coupes with the laughing boys. They couldnât help it, of course, yet you always think, maybe ⦠But no, there werenât any maybes. Wealth meant victory and victory was the only reality.
What woman chooses to live with a dishwasher?
Throughout high school I tried not to think too much about how things might eventually turn out for me. It seemed better to delay thinking â¦
Finally it was the day of the Senior Prom. It was held in the girlsâ gym with live music, a real band. I donât know why but I walked over that night, the two-and-one-half miles from my parentsâ place. I stood outside in the dark and I looked in there, through the wire-covered window, and I was astonished. All the girls looked very grown-up, stately, lovely, they were in long dresses, and they all looked beautiful. I almost didnât recognize them. And the boys in their tuxes, they looked great, they danced so straight, each of them holding a girl in his arms, their faces pressed against the girlâs hair. They all danced beautifully and the music was loud and clear and good, powerful.
Then I caught a glimpse of my reflection staring in at themâboils and scars on my face, my ragged shirt. I was like some jungle animal drawn to the light and looking in. Why had I come? I felt sick. But I kept watching. The dance ended. There was a pause. Couples spoke easily to each other. It was natural and civilized. Where had they learned to converse and to dance? I couldnât converse or dance. Everybody knew something I didnât know. The girls looked so good, the boys so handsome. I would be too terrified to even look at one of those girls, let alone be close to one. To look into her eyes or dance with her would be beyond me.
And yet I knew that what I saw wasnât as simple and good as it appeared. There was a price to be paid for it all, a general falsity, that could be easily believed, and could be the first step down a dead-end street. The band began to play again and the boys and girls began to dance again and the lights revolved overhead throwing shades of gold, then red, then blue, then green, then gold again on the couples. As I watched them I said to myself, someday my dance will begin. When that day comes I will have something that they donât have.
But then it got to be too much for me. I hated them. I hated their beauty, their untroubled youth, and as I watched them dance through the magic colored pools of light, holding each other, feeling so good, little unscathed children, temporarily in luck, I hated them because they had something I had not yet had, and I said to myself, I said to myself again, someday I will be as happy as any of you, you will see .
They kept dancing, and I repeated it to
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