Read Online The Road to Los Angeles by John Fante - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Fante
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American scene. My purpose here is not the gathering of money but the gathering of material for my forthcoming book on California fisheries. My income of course is much larger than what I shall make here. But that, I suppose, is a matter of no great consequence at the moment, none at all."
"No," he said. "The pay is twenty-five cents an hour."
"It doesn't matter. Five cents or twenty-five. Under the circumstances, it doesn't matter in the least. Not at all. I am, as I say, a writer. I interpret the American scene. I am here to gather material for my new work."
"Oh for Christ's sake!" the girl said, turning her back. "For the love of God get him out of here."
"I don't like Americans in my crew," Shorty said. "They don't work hard like the other boys."
"Ah," I said. "That's where you're wrong, sir. My patriotism is universal. I swear allegiance to no flag."
"Jesus," the girl said.
But she was ugly. Nothing she could possibly say would ever disturb me. She was too ugly.
"Americans can't stand the pace," Shorty said. "Soon as they get a bellyful they quit."
"Interesting, Mr Naylor." I folded my arms and settled back on my heels. "Extremely interesting what you say there. A fascinating sociological aspect of the canning situation. My book will go into that with great detail and footnotes. I'll quote you there. Yes, indeed."
The girl said something unprintable. Shorty scraped a bit of pocket sediment from a plug of tobacco and bit off a hunk. It a large bite, filling his mouth. He was scarcely listening to me, I could tell by the scrupulous way he chewed the tobacco. The girl had seated herself at the desk, her hands folded before her. We both turned and looked at one another. She put her fingers to her nose and pressed them. But the gesture didn't disturb me. She was far too ugly.
"Do you want the job?" Shorty said.
"Yes, under the circumstances. Yes."
"Remember: the work is hard, and don't expect no favors from me either. If it wasn't for your uncle I wouldn't hire you, but that's as far as it goes. I don't like you Americans. You're lazy. When you get tired you quit. You fool around too much."
"I agree with you perfectly, Mr Naylor. I agree with you thoroughly. Laziness, if I may be permitted to make an aside, laziness is the outstanding characteristic of the American scene. Do you follow me?"
"You don't have to call me Mister. Call me Shorty. That's my name."
"Certainly, sir! But by all means, certainly! And Shorty, I would say, is a most colorful sobriquet — a typical Americanism. We writers are constantly coming upon it."
This failed to please him or impress him. His lip curled. At the desk the girl was mumbling. "Don't call me sir, neither," Shorty said. "I don't like none of that high-toned crap."
"Take him out of here," the girl said.
But I was not in the least disturbed by the remarks from one so ugly. It amused me. What an ugly face she had! It was too amusing for words. I laughed and patted Shorty on the back. I was short, but I towered over this small man. I felt great - like a giant.
"Very amusing, Shorty. I love your native sense of humor. Very amusing. Very amusing indeed." And I laughed again. "Very amusing. Ho, ho, ho. How very amusing."
"I don't see nothing funny," he said.
"But it is! If you follow me."
"The hell with it. You follow me."
"Oh, I follow you, all right. I follow."
"No," he said. "I mean, you follow me now. I'll put you in the labeling crew."
As we walked through the back door the girl turned to watch us go. "And stay out of here!" she said. But I paid no attention at all. She was far too ugly.
We were inside the cannery works. The corrugated iron building was like a dark hot dungeon. Water dripped from the girders. Lumps of brown and white steam hung bloated in the air. The green floor was slippery from fish oil. We walked across a long room where Mexican and Japanese women stood before tables gutting mackerel with fish knives. The women were
"No," he said. "The pay is twenty-five cents an hour."
"It doesn't matter. Five cents or twenty-five. Under the circumstances, it doesn't matter in the least. Not at all. I am, as I say, a writer. I interpret the American scene. I am here to gather material for my new work."
"Oh for Christ's sake!" the girl said, turning her back. "For the love of God get him out of here."
"I don't like Americans in my crew," Shorty said. "They don't work hard like the other boys."
"Ah," I said. "That's where you're wrong, sir. My patriotism is universal. I swear allegiance to no flag."
"Jesus," the girl said.
But she was ugly. Nothing she could possibly say would ever disturb me. She was too ugly.
"Americans can't stand the pace," Shorty said. "Soon as they get a bellyful they quit."
"Interesting, Mr Naylor." I folded my arms and settled back on my heels. "Extremely interesting what you say there. A fascinating sociological aspect of the canning situation. My book will go into that with great detail and footnotes. I'll quote you there. Yes, indeed."
The girl said something unprintable. Shorty scraped a bit of pocket sediment from a plug of tobacco and bit off a hunk. It a large bite, filling his mouth. He was scarcely listening to me, I could tell by the scrupulous way he chewed the tobacco. The girl had seated herself at the desk, her hands folded before her. We both turned and looked at one another. She put her fingers to her nose and pressed them. But the gesture didn't disturb me. She was far too ugly.
"Do you want the job?" Shorty said.
"Yes, under the circumstances. Yes."
"Remember: the work is hard, and don't expect no favors from me either. If it wasn't for your uncle I wouldn't hire you, but that's as far as it goes. I don't like you Americans. You're lazy. When you get tired you quit. You fool around too much."
"I agree with you perfectly, Mr Naylor. I agree with you thoroughly. Laziness, if I may be permitted to make an aside, laziness is the outstanding characteristic of the American scene. Do you follow me?"
"You don't have to call me Mister. Call me Shorty. That's my name."
"Certainly, sir! But by all means, certainly! And Shorty, I would say, is a most colorful sobriquet — a typical Americanism. We writers are constantly coming upon it."
This failed to please him or impress him. His lip curled. At the desk the girl was mumbling. "Don't call me sir, neither," Shorty said. "I don't like none of that high-toned crap."
"Take him out of here," the girl said.
But I was not in the least disturbed by the remarks from one so ugly. It amused me. What an ugly face she had! It was too amusing for words. I laughed and patted Shorty on the back. I was short, but I towered over this small man. I felt great - like a giant.
"Very amusing, Shorty. I love your native sense of humor. Very amusing. Very amusing indeed." And I laughed again. "Very amusing. Ho, ho, ho. How very amusing."
"I don't see nothing funny," he said.
"But it is! If you follow me."
"The hell with it. You follow me."
"Oh, I follow you, all right. I follow."
"No," he said. "I mean, you follow me now. I'll put you in the labeling crew."
As we walked through the back door the girl turned to watch us go. "And stay out of here!" she said. But I paid no attention at all. She was far too ugly.
We were inside the cannery works. The corrugated iron building was like a dark hot dungeon. Water dripped from the girders. Lumps of brown and white steam hung bloated in the air. The green floor was slippery from fish oil. We walked across a long room where Mexican and Japanese women stood before tables gutting mackerel with fish knives. The women were
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