Cynicism Continued: Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski

Book Review
Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski
First Published in 1982
This Edition Published in 2002 by Ecco (HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.)

Another masterpiece from Charles Bukowski, not much unlike his earlier novel, Post Office. In a thinly disguised autobiography, Bukowski recounts his life from early childhood through his (short-lived) college days. There is no doubt that Bukowski's cynicism grew out of poverty, rejection by his parents and peers, and his raw intelligence. That cynicism is conveyed masterfully in both the story and dialogue.

Early Childhood...

"Is this Henry, Jr.?"
"Yes."
"He just stares. He's so quiet."
"That's the way we want him."
"Still water runs deep."
"Not with this one. The only thing that runs deep with him are the holes in his ears."

********

He was no longer there. I became aware of the litte window again and the mirror. There was the razor strop hanging from the hook, long and brown and twisted, I couldn't bend over to pull my pants or my shorts and I walked to the door, awkwardly, my clothes around my feet. I opened the bathroom door and there was my mother standing in the hall.
"It wasn't right," I told her. "Why didn't you help me?"
"The father," she said, "is always right."

********

Jr. High....

During our walkes home Baldy had told me about his father. He had been a dotor, a successful surgeon, but he had lost his license because he was a drunk. ...
I went to a barrel and took a long one. Then we went up the cellar stairway. When we were out, Baldy's father was still sitting in his chair.
"Your boys been in the winde cellar, eh?"
"Yes," said Baldy.
"Starting a little early, aren't you?"
We didn't answer. We awalked over to the boulevard and Baldy and I went into a store which sold chewing gum. We bought several packs of it and stuck it into our mouths. He was worred about his mother finding out. I wasn't worried about anything. We sat on a park bench and chewed the gum, and I thought, well, now I have found something, I have found something that is going to help me, for a long long time. The park grass looked greener, the park benches looked better, and the flowers were trying harder. Maybe that stuff wasn't good for surgeons but anybody who wanted to be a surgeon, there was something wrong with them in the first place.

**********

Of course, after that we never studied our homework, and that was all right until the day Mr. Stanhope gave us our first examination.
"Shit," said Peter Mangalore out loud, "what are we going to do?"
Peter was the guy with the 10-incher soft.
"You'll never have to work for a living," sad the guy who looked like Jack Dempsey. "This is our problem."
"Maybe we ought to burn the school down," said Red Kirkpatrick.
"Shit,," said a guy from the back of the room, "every time I get an 'F' when my father pulls out one of my fingernails."
We all looked at our examination sheets. I thought about my father. Then I thought about Lilly Fischman. Lilly Fischman, I thought, you are a whore, a nevil woman, wiggling your body in fornt of us and singing like that, you swill send us all to hell.
Stanhope was watching us.
"Why isn't anybody writing? Why isn't any body answering the questions? Does everybody have a pencil?"
"Yeah, yeah, we all got pencils," one of the guys said.
Lilly sat up in front,right by Mr. Stnahope's desk. We saw her open the biology textbook and look up the answer to the first question. That was it. We all opened up our textbooks. Stnahope just sat there and watched us. He didn't know what to do. He began to sputter. He sat there a good five minutes, then he jumped up. He ran back and forth up and down the center aisle of the room.
"What are you people doing? Close those textbooks? Close those texbooks!"
As he ran byy, the sutdens would close their books only to open them again when he had run past.
Baldy was in the seat next to mine, laughing. "He's an asshole! Oh, what an old asshole!"
I felt a little sorry for Stnahope but it was either him or me. Stnahope stood behind his desk and screamed, "All textbooks must be closed or I will flunk the entire class!"
Then Lilly Fischman stood up. She pulled her skirt up and yanked at one of her silk stockings. She adjusted the garter, we saw white flesh. Then she pulled at ande adjusted the other stocking. Such a sight we had never seen, nor had Stanhope ever seen anything like it. Lilly sat down and we all finished the exam with our textbooks open. Stanhope sat behind his desk, utterly defeated.

*********

High School...

He pushed the electric needle into my back. I was being drilled. The pain was immense. It filled the room. I felt the blood run down my back. Then he pulled the needle out.
"Now we're going to get another one," said the doctor.
He jammed the needle into me. Then he pulled it out and jammed it into a third boil. Two other men had walked in and were standing there watching. They were probably doctors. The needle went into me again.
"I never saw anybody go under the needle like that," said one of the men.
"He gives no sign at all," said the other man.
"Why don't you guys go out and pinc some nurse's ass?" I asked them.
"Look son, you can't talk to us like that!"
The needle dug into me. I didn't answer.
"The boy is evidently very bitter..."
"Yes, of course, that's it."
The men walked out.
"Those are fine professional men." said my doctor. "It's not good of you to abuse them."
"Just go ahead and drill," I told him. ...
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 coforting 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 elave scars on me for the reaminder 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 disucssions and in their manner. They were hesitant, uneasy, yet also somewhow disinterested and bored. Finally it didn't matter what they did. The y 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 dind'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.

*********

R.O.T.C. kept me away from sports while the other guys practiced every day... I quickly became disenchanted with military proceedings. The others shined their shoes brightly and weemed to go through maneuvers with relish. I couldn't see any sense in it. They were just getting shaped up in order to get their balls blown off later... The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there wan nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.

*********

Walking home I had the medal in my pocket. Who was Col. Sussex? Just some guy who had to shit like the rest of us. Everybody had to conform, find a mold to fit into. Doctor, lawyer, soldier--it didn't matter what it was. Once in the mold you hadto push forward. Sussex was as helpless as the next man. Either you managed to do something or you starved in the streets.

*********

Post High School

I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn't particularly want money. I didn't know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one dind't have to do anything. The thought of someplace where one didn't have to do anything. The thought of being something didn't only appall me, it scikened me. The thought of being a lawyer or a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go sompelace to work every day and to return. It was impossible. To do thinkgs, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother's Day...was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep.

*********

Post College

I poured Becker another wine.
"The problem is," he said, "that there's not much time to write."
"You still want to be a writer?"
"Sure. How about you?"
"Yeah," I said, "but it's pretty hopeless."
"You mean you're not good enough?"
"No, they're not good enough."
"What do you mean?"
"You read the magazines? The 'Best Short Stories of the Year' books? There are at least a dozen of them."
"Yeah, I read them..."
"You read The New Yorker? Harper's? The Atlantic?"
"Yeah..."
"This is 1940. They're still publishing 19th Century stuff, heavy, labored, pretentous. You either get a headache reading the stuff or you fall alseep."
"What's wrong?"
"It's a trick, it's a con, a little inside game."
"Sounds like you've been rejected."
"I knew I would be. Why waste the stamps? I need wine."
"I'm going to break through," said Becker. "You'll see my books on the library shelves one day."
"Let's not talk about writing."
"I've read your stuff," said Becker. "You're too bitter and you hate everything."
"Let's not talk about writing."
"Now you take Thomas Wolfe..."
"God damn Thomas Wolfe! He sounds like an old woman on the telephone!"
"O.K., who's your boy?"
"James Thurber."
"All that upper-middle-class folderol..."
"He knows everyone is crazy."
"Thomas Wolfe is of the earth..."
"Only assholes talk about writing..."
"You calling me an asshole?"
"Yes..."
I poured him another wine and myself another wine. ...
I caught him unexpectedly with a right that landed behind his ear. The glass flew out of his hand and he staggered across the room. Becker was apowerful man, much stronger than I was. He hit the edge of the dresser, turned, and I landed another straight right to the side of his face. He staggered over near the window which was opened and I was afraid to hit him then because he might fall into the street.